By the time the hyperspace jump abruptly ended, Han no longer doubted that General Bel Iblis had clearly suspected an ambush would be set along the ferry route for the destroyers.
It wasn't for nothing that he had insisted the main force move behind the forward detachment.
Lando, standing on the bridge beside Han, gave a low, expressive whistle when he saw what reality had prepared for them.
Three Interdictor-class Star Destroyers, supported by the same number of Venator-class Star Destroyers.
Han had no doubt that each of those warships had one or two escort ships apiece.
Standard tactics—ones he'd had plenty of chances to watch in the past.
His gut sank.
Hutt Venators…
Those were problems not only because of their vast starfighter complements, but also because they were clearly carrying ion cannons—the kind that had drunk a lot of blood last year.
And like icing on the cake—a Punisher-class Super Star Destroyer with a screen of escort corvettes.
But now, in the interstellar void, almost the entirety of General Solo's fleet was present.
The MC90, Galactic Traveler, accompanied by eight MC80 Liberty Star Cruisers, supported by eight MC40a light cruisers, six Nebulon-B escort frigates, and three Quasar Fire-class escort carriers, not long ago off the ways at SoroSuub and handed over to the Alliance only recently.
They had arrived with Admiral Eclipse's squadron at Lantilles a few days earlier.
Along with other starships transferred by the Sullustans to strengthen the allied fleet.
And all of that—not to mention the squadrons flying outside the mother ships as escorts—materialized in realspace ten minutes after the dozen Imperial-class Star Destroyers that had been sent from Lantilles in the first echelon.
One couldn't envy the fate of the watch crews aboard those ships right now—all the destroyers were drifting like dead metal through space on inertia.
At least there were only a couple of watches on each captured ship—a ferry crew.
Along with the fact that all the destroyers had undergone crew-reduction modernizations, the number of casualties was reduced proportionally.
And around them, transport shuttles were already swarming—spewed from the main hangar of the Super Star Destroyer.
Off to the side, the starfighter battle between both sides was already boiling—so the destroyers had managed to launch their fighters.
The enemy intended to take the ships by boarding action, which was why they hadn't destroyed them—they had disabled them with ion cannons instead.
"Battle stations," Han ordered. "Priority targets are the Venators. If we can't destroy them, then at least shut down their ion cannons. Contact the pilots who are still alive—have them fall back to our ships for rotation. Every asset we have will be needed to win."
The best thing to do right now was to take those flying ion cannons out of action.
Then—deal with the interdiction destroyers.
They were only forty to fifty units from the Alliance flotilla and were tempting targets.
But the Venators were more dangerous.
In fact, every single one of Han's ships was already pouring fire into them.
Then—throw everything at the Interdictors and hit them hard while the Punisher stayed close to its trophies.
Given its size and engine power, it would take time for it to reach relatively open space and bring its guns to bear against Han's starships.
"Star cruisers, in groups of four, move on the Interdictors," Han ordered. "All MC40a and Nebulons—attack Venators designated targets Two and Three. Support our starfighters if necessary. Quasar Fires stay with us—we're attacking Venator Target One."
"Acknowledged, sir!" barked the commander of the Galactic Traveler, relaying the orders to the other captains.
"Looks like the Venators have already fired," Lando commented immediately.
"Everything's fine, thanks a lot," Solo replied. "Life is beautiful and full of surprises."
Calrissian was clearly taken aback and toned it down.
"All right, I didn't mean anything by it," he muttered. "But I don't like this."
"Neither do I," Solo answered.
"I may be saying a blasphemous thing, but it looks like Bel Iblis used those destroyers as bait," Calrissian said carefully, glancing at his friend. "He knew perfectly well we'd be attacked, and he sent you in as a second echelon."
"Long-range comms are being jammed."
Well then. Now there was no doubt at all who they were fighting.
A Super Star Destroyer.
Venators with ion cannons.
Interdictors blocking long-range communications.
Grand Admiral Thrawn's beloved tactic—loathsome and nauseating over the last year.
Lure into a trap.
Cut off communications with reinforcements.
Disable ships with ion cannons and capture them—then add them to his fleet.
As if the Dominion hadn't already had enough of the hundreds of Star Destroyers it had taken from the New Republic three months ago!
Or had Pellaeon somehow learned about their plans involving sectors of the Tion Cluster and the coming strike at Kessel?
If so, then yes—logically, seize the ships as quickly as possible, before they could turn the situation around.
And from Bel Iblis's point of view—it was logical too.
Draw out the Dominion forces for the capture of Star Destroyers and finally give them the beating they'd been waiting for.
Han waved a hand toward the holographic starfield in the middle of the command deck, around which officers—mostly Mon Calamari—had clustered with grim faces.
They were so absorbed by the display that they had no attention left for anything else.
"It's war."
"Tell that to Wedge," Calrissian said, aggrieved. "And to the guys on those destroyers." He gestured toward the dozen immobilized ships over which the Guardian hung like a mother bird over chicks. "They don't have much time to hold out. Not to mention that there—" Calrissian jabbed a finger toward the central viewport "—is a Hutt Punisher! Armed to the teeth and ready for a fight! Think the boys aboard her will be disappointed if they get to blow something up?"
"No, I think things are hard for everyone right now."
"Witty," Lando grimaced. "And there's no need to remind anyone that we're probably dealing with the same Punisher that smashed Admiral Ackbar's fleet out in the back end of the galaxy. And back then, they say, it wasn't in the best condition. Now—" Calrissian pointed at the Super Star Destroyer gleaming with its hull—"it's repaired, and it clearly wouldn't mind letting its gunners have some fun. And the targets are our ships."
"N-nn… first, calm down. Back then Ackbar was up against Thrawn—and that alone is a weapon of mass destruction. Now he's fighting in a different world. So it's not as bad as it might seem at first glance. We still have some time." Han pointed at the Venators turning toward the squadrons of E-wings and K-wings. "Looks like they didn't expect a second echelon of our ships behind the destroyers."
Han fell silent.
"And second?"
"No idea," Solo sighed. "There's a thought spinning around—seems like it might even be a good one—but I can't shape it."
"Yeah," Calrissian muttered. "I don't like any of this."
His stomach rumbled as if Ewoks were holding a holiday in there, putting on party hats, but Solo carefully kept a carefree expression.
He couldn't show his people that the enemy had truly put them in serious trouble.
After all, Han had gone up against Iron Fist and Razor's Kiss with far fewer forces.
And won.
Not just on points.
"No one likes it, buddy," Han admitted. "If I'd known the Punisher was going to roll out against us, I'd have brought a bigger club. You and Chewie will help a lot if you take the Millennium Falcon and help deal with their starfighters—I've got a feeling there'll be a lot of them."
"And I was planning to rest today," Calrissian said without much humor, but he still headed toward the exit from the bridge.
Han gave a pale smile.
But he did it so that none of the sentients around him could see his expression or hear his words.
"We'll rest in the afterlife," he promised.
***
"Targets identified," Captain Pellaeon reported. "That's General Solo's Galactic Traveler. Escort: eight MC80 Liberty Star Cruisers, eight MC40a light cruisers, six Nebulon-B-class escort frigates, three Quasar Fire-class escort carriers. Roughly ten X-wing squadrons in free flight. Their targets have been localized—they're attacking all the Dragons."
"They're learning, Captain," Grand Admiral Thrawn noted in an everyday tone, without even changing his posture. "It is hoped our objective-control assets are recording the capabilities of their ships?"
"Yes, sir," Pellaeon confirmed. "Spy droids and all available scanners are set to collect information on the enemy's new starship. And all the others as well."
"Good," Thrawn said. "We will need all that data to develop the most optimal and effective methods of countering the enemy."
"Yes, sir."
"Be so kind, Captain," the Grand Admiral continued, "prepare our emergency launch engines for use and recall our interceptors into the Guardian's hangars. Three minutes for rotation and routine servicing. Launch the Scimitars for free hunting. Light cruisers—destroy them. Escort frigates—deprive them of mobility. And give the order to ready the assault gunboats. Send identical orders to the commanders of our destroyers—but their deadline is two minutes. Calculate a micro-jump to the central group and enter the coordinates into the nav computer. I want the Guardian, upon joining the central group, to execute attack pattern Tartar."
Which meant: come out of hyperspace "above" the enemy ships' heads.
The Supreme Commander-in-Chief sat in his chair, watching the situation unfolding off the Guardian's bow at a range of a hundred units, with genuine interest.
"Yes, sir," Pellaeon agreed. "The enemy's priority targets are the Venators."
"Because of their main battery," Thrawn agreed. "But pay attention to our opponents' maneuvers—they are pulling their star cruisers toward the Interdictors."
"They intend to disable our gravity tethers," the commander of the Guardian identified at once.
"And again—correct," Thrawn nodded, agreeing with the assessment. "This is a double attack aimed at eliminating our advantage. If it succeeds, we will lose the ability to disable their starships with the Dragons' ion cannons, and we will be unable to hold them in place. The calculation is based on the time the Guardian needs to reach confident-kill range. General Solo intends to deprive us of additional forces—our Dragons and Interdictors—so he can throw all his forces into an attack on the Guardian. He intends to win this battle—the numerical advantage is on his side. That way, he will not only destroy our formation, but also save from capture those twelve destroyers whose decks have already been boarded by a landing party of the 501st Legion's stormtroopers. Without doubt, the wager is on small craft. As always."
"You believe General Solo commands the enemy fleet?" Pellaeon asked.
"Yes," Thrawn replied. "Judge for yourself. A double attack is a lottery—with fairly decent chances of failure. It is an adventurous risk only Corellians take. In fact, this entire operation was also devised by a Corellian—another one: our old acquaintance, General Bel Iblis. The strategic concept is interesting and wholly adventurous, indicating the enemy's experience with this kind of attack. The tactical execution, however, is cruder. The division of forces is reckless. And it completely repeats Solo's attack on Warlord Zsinj's Iron Fist two years ago. The changes made to it are minimal."
"But then he split his fleet while searching for Zsinj's fleet," Pellaeon reminded him.
"Yes," Thrawn agreed. "The real attack was made by one third of the fleet. And it was successful only because Zsinj had the burden of defending the incomplete Razor's Kiss. Solo did not understand that. He decided to repeat his success. By throwing his forces into an attack on two directions, Solo leaves no reserves of large ships. His goal is to inflict maximum damage right now. By the way, Captain, issue the order: commanders of our destroyers and their escort corvettes—prepare to execute a micro-jump in two minutes. Everyone except the central group. The Guardian is to repeat the same order, but with a one-minute delay after our ships reach position. Any pilots who do not make the stated time are to set course for the central group."
Thrawn meant the pair—Dragon and Interdictor—that sat off the Guardian's bow.
And toward which General Solo's flagship was advancing, supported by escort frigates.
"Yes, sir," Pellaeon acknowledged the orders. "Should I order our boarding parties recalled from the destroyers?"
Alliance troops would certainly try to storm the Guardian—and additional troops would not be unwelcome.
"Under no circumstances, Captain," Grand Admiral Thrawn answered in a tone as though discussing repair work at some remote outpost. "We will not abandon our trophies. Moreover—we will take new ones. Do you understand how?"
Pellaeon ran the Supreme Commander-in-Chief's orders through his head, one after another.
Then he looked at the tactical scheme.
Estimated what would happen when the orders were executed in sequence.
An involuntary crooked grin appeared on the commander of the Guardian's face—the one his original used to favor in the past.
"Yes, sir," he answered. "I understand."
"In that case," the Grand Admiral fixed him with his burning gaze, "command. This will be simple."
"Yes, sir."
Captain Pellaeon moved to supervise execution of the orders.
The Grand Admiral's plan, as always, was simple—and elegant.
The Guardian had no intention of playing modest in this battle, and soon its guns would open fire on the enemy.
Alliance forces would do best to prepare for the fact that they were about to be crushed without mercy.
***
Major Creb yanked his craft around and managed to rake the cockpit hull of an X-wing, which immediately filled with smoke.
Then, catching the enemy in a turn, he put precise fire into the fighter, turning it into a burst of flame.
It took him only a couple of moments to understand what exactly was being shown on the scanners.
Sensors confirmed that of the nine X-wings that had set out to take his life, four were already gone.
Creb had three to his name; his ever-present wingman had handled the fourth.
As the techs sometimes joked: "All kills by Avenger Squadron should be credited to Major Creb."
True, at the moment the joke was no longer relevant—the mission mattered most.
The enemy fighter complement that had managed to launch before the Star Destroyers were disabled was not small.
But it was inferior in quality.
The fact they had managed to get almost all their fighters up—twenty-four squadrons out of forty, spread across the dozen destroyers—indicated they had been able to exploit only the advantage of the standing duty squadrons.
By common Imperial practice, half an air wing remained at combat readiness during an interstellar transit.
The Alliance built its military regulations on doctrines tested over decades.
Including in pilot training.
Shooting them down one after another, Creb saw that the enemy craft flew intermediate aerobatic patterns mostly by rote—rather crudely and slowly.
Step by step.
Which spoke to a lack of practice.
And that, in turn, suggested that Creb's pilots were not fighting seasoned professionals, but young replacements.
For the most part.
And that allowed them to rather quickly cut off the enemy's attempts to counterattack and to break up their attacks.
Therefore, for now it could be said that, cut off from the Star Destroyers—and thus unable to interfere with the boarding of the disabled ships—the Alliance pilots would soon be wiped out.
He was certain of that until new enemy ships appeared in the battlespace.
And within a minute of their arrival, the ten squadrons remaining from the first echelon of the Alliance began to retreat from their slaughter zone under the protection of the newcomers.
And there were many of them.
Especially fighters.
"Guardian OCC to Avenger Leader," came the dispatcher's voice. "Interceptors are being recalled to the flagship. You are assigned pursuit of the enemy. Be ready for a micro-jump."
"Avenger Leader to Guardian OCC. Understood."
The updated orders were passed to the other eleven pilots.
The TIE Avengers began the chase.
And they didn't care in the slightest that they'd been left without additional cover and were outnumbered by nearly ten to one.
An order had been given.
It had to be carried out.
Creb picked up movement—two crutches were trying to get away, lagging noticeably behind the main group.
Together with his wingman, the squadron leader went after the retreating ships, firing precise bursts.
He destroyed one bomber without the enemy offering the slightest resistance; the second—scarred, with black scorch marks on its armor—was still determined to flee.
His wingman engaged.
The enemy evaded the first burst and then exploded, which greatly surprised the young major, who knew his wingman had missed.
But at the same time he noticed that he himself had fired—the enemy had entered his firing envelope and reflexes had taken over.
Far ahead, one of the Dragons with an Interdictor—the central group of the trap—was trading fire with the newly arrived Alliance forces pressing in on them.
The Dominion could not exploit the Venator's main-battery advantage because the ship had been caught off guard already while pulling away from the firing position from which it and its two sister ships had ioned the dozen enemy Star Destroyers half an hour earlier.
After that, the enemy ships continued moving in a straight line, obeying inertia in vacuum, until they were caught one by one and slowed by the Guardian's tractor beams.
Which then landed assault teams of droids and stormtroopers aboard to secure the trophies.
To fire its ion cannon, the Venator in the central group had to make a one-hundred-eighty-degree turn—which it was trying to do.
At the same time it was laying down broadside barrages against the new type of Mon Calamari warship advancing on it.
MC90.
A ship on which Dominion Intelligence had no technical data yet.
Now the Guardian's recording systems were busy capturing and analyzing this ship's capabilities.
And after some time, Headquarters would issue an advisory to the regular fleet on countermeasures against the Alliance's new ship.
Just as it already had with the newest enemy K-wings—many of which the Dominion had captured some time ago.
The turbolasers of the Venator and the supporting Interdictor clearly did not do serious damage to the Alliance flagship star cruiser's deflector shields.
Nor did the defending TIE interceptors and other small craft from the air wings of both Dominion destroyers.
Of the three groups, the central one was the only one that had not recalled its fighters to the hangars.
Which meant it was part of the larger plan.
A blinding flash erupted in the Venator's bow, splitting the ship in two.
His helmet's light filters did their job, and Creb saw the cause.
The enemy had destroyed the ship's ion cannon, triggering a detonation of the reactors tied into it.
In an instant, the Interdictor was left alone, pinned from multiple sides by enemy ships.
And all Major Creb and his pilots could do right now was reduce the number of retreating enemy pilots.
Well. That task was within his capabilities.
Aiming carefully, the major detonated a blade-wing with a precise shot, then launched two shaped-charge missiles with active homing heads at especially nimble X-wings.
No more strutting through interstellar space for them.
***
"Dragon-Eleven reports that compartment integrity and the primary structure are critically compromised. The ship is unresponsive, a series of internal explosions is being registered. The ion cannon's destruction by shaped-charge missiles from the Millennium Falcon and proton torpedoes from the Galactic Traveler led to an energy spike in the auxiliary reactors and an explosion."
Grand Admiral Thrawn, as if spellbound, watched a tiny but growing bright speck; soon the Mon Calamari flagship's streamlined lines would be recognizable.
"A critical design flaw," the Supreme Commander-in-Chief replied, not leaving the all-consuming calm that spread around him like a protective field. "As I said, the enemy has grown smarter. They have developed tactics to counter our Sunburn Project ships. Inform the commander of Dragon-Eleven to focus on saving the surviving crew. The air wing and escorts of both ships must concentrate on the defense of the Interdictor."
"Understood, sir," Pellaeon said, shaking his head in frustration. "The Guardian's emergency launch engines are ready, sir. Other detachments report their fighters are back aboard."
"Good," the Grand Admiral said in the same tone. "Have both detachments already made contact with the enemy?"
"In two minutes, Alliance fighters will be within the effective envelope of the destroyers' artillery and their escorts."
"They will not," the Grand Admiral objected, stroking the ysalamir. "Navigators—compute jump coordinates for both detachments in accordance with their positions. I want them to appear, in a minute and a half, to the left and right relative to the enemy's lead detachment."
"Yes, sir. Targeting?"
"Interdictors—fire on General Solo's flagship," Thrawn ordered. "Venators—disable the Quasar Fires. We will still need those ships in the future."
"It will be done, Grand Admiral."
"One more thing, Captain," the Grand Admiral said. "Launch the Scimitars. Have them occupy General Solo's light cruisers for a time. Let them use a tactic our opponents know well."
"Hit-and-run?" the commander of the Super Star Destroyer asked, just to be safe.
"Exactly, Captain," Thrawn replied.
"The enemy will figure out what's happening rather quickly," the commander of the Guardian warned.
"The more humiliating their defeat will be," the Grand Admiral answered, unperturbed.
***
There was triumph in Lando's voice:
"Han! We blew up their Hutt Venator! We finally finished off their Hutt 'big gun'!"
A Wookiee roar came over the channel.
"Only they've still got two," Han muttered, watching on the tactical display as the Mon Calamari–designed starships closed with two other enemy groups.
Strangely, those groups didn't retreat.
But they clearly were preparing to.
They laid down heavy suppressive fire against Han's light cruisers, ignoring the MC80s.
The enemy didn't touch the bigger "brothers," apparently deciding the MC40a shields would be weaker.
Weaker, sure.
But not by much.
"Hutt!" Calrissian's joy turned to anger. "Their corvettes stripped our deflectors and fried our guns!"
"Fall back to the Traveler!" Solo ordered.
Don't let Lando get the Falcon killed, he thought grimly, continuing to study the battlespace.
And then, on the tactical hologram, four light cruisers in one detachment vanished.
Solo blinked, thinking it was a hallucination.
But when he opened his eyes, he understood it was much worse.
The Galactic Traveler's computer no longer registered the presence of ANY MC40a light cruisers at all.
And the six Nebulons were transmitting distress signals—their engines had been disabled by proton torpedoes.
The main forces—aside from their own fighters—that could deal with the TIE-series machines hated by Alliance pilots had simply disappeared.
As if they had dissolved.
As had two Venators, two Interdictors, and four other ships—escort corvettes of the Star Destroyers.
"What in the Hutt?" Solo swore.
And then, near the Galactic Traveler, eight new contacts appeared.
"A micro-jump," it hit Han.
The MC90 shuddered.
Through its entire hull.
The deck buckled underfoot, bridge lights flickered and died, several panels of interior plating tore loose from the ceiling and landed among the watchstanders.
Han jerked to his feet.
"What happened?"
A stupid question, because he knew the answer himself.
The commander of the Galactic Traveler was silent.
One of the decorative plating panels had punched through a sentient's skull, sending the Mon Calamari into unconsciousness.
With utterly unpredictable odds of survival—or of retaining his mind.
"Ships from two enemy detachments performed a micro-jump and emerged on our port and starboard beams," the executive officer reported. "We are under concentrated fire from three sides."
They had been played with Grand Admiral Thrawn's familiar joke again.
The central Interdictor-class Star Destroyer's gravity tethers had been used to yank eight other ships out of hyperspace.
And those ships had emerged close enough to immediately, upon reversion to realspace, deliver direct-fire artillery strikes into the Galactic Traveler.
Thus bypassing the eternal curse of ships crossing the light barrier.
Blinded sensors and radiation buildup on the hull prevented electronic targeting—and standard defense with deflectors.
The enemy didn't need that.
They fired point-blank.
And the Galactic Traveler's gunners, caught unprepared, were only now snapping out of it—shifting their focus from the Interdictor they had been battering to the new targets.
And the Interdictor hadn't suffered much at all, truth be told.
Its shields held, and two escort corvettes and twelve full-strength TIE interceptor squadrons (two from the Interdictor itself, and ten—like one of the corvettes—"inheritance from the Venator") were calmly absorbing the удар from the starfighters of the Galactic Traveler and the three escort carriers.
But the retreating fighters of the first echelon would soon arrive, and then the Star Destroyer would be ringed and destroyed.
And the other two groups were supposed to уничтожить the rest of the ships!
After which Han could offer the enemy on the Super Star Destroyer either to retreat—and flee to safety.
Or to enter the fight and guaranteed lose.
Only something told him that right now the roles—his and the Dominion's—were switching.
And the prey was him personally.
Because the arriving Star Destroyers brought not only four more corvettes, but also two dozen squadrons of TIE interceptors!
And that wasn't even counting the enormous quantity of turbolasers and other artillery aboard those ships.
"The enemy is turning the Venators on us!"
"Correction! They're targeting the Quasar Fires!"
An idea appeared in his head—and finalized: how to turn the situation to their advantage.
"All star cruisers!" Han shouted. "Prepare to jump to hyperspace."
"Course, sir?"
"Doesn't matter!" Solo snapped. "Copy their maneuver! Use gravity tethers as the braking method!"
That maneuver needed a small amount of time.
The Interdictor-class Star Destroyers that had left their previous positions were no longer covering a huge volume of space with artificial gravity anomalies.
Which meant the eight star cruisers could execute the exact same maneuver, without worrying about jump precision and without overly complex navigation computations.
They just had to hold out for a short time.
And not be turned into a heap of scrap by the moment reinforcements arrived.
Or until the Super Star Destroyer finally fought its way free of the ring of trophies and came to help.
They just had to stand for about a minute, until the star cruisers turned their bows toward the growing tragedy.
***
"Guardian OCC to Avenger Leader," the dispatcher's voice came again in the squadron commander's helmet.
Major Creb squeezed the trigger, and green energy beams punched through the remnants of the pursued X-wing's deflector field.
Then tore open its fusion drive engines.
As thanks for such jewel-like work, the Alliance fighter ripped apart.
A tiny flash to the right marked the death of another enemy pilot.
His wingman was performing his combat task perfectly too.
"Avenger Leader, Guardian OCC. Go ahead."
"Upon readiness, jump to point seven-nine-four," the dispatcher ordered. "Deviation is unacceptable. Secure the zone. Free hunting is authorized within a radius of ten units from the end-of-micro-jump point."
Creb oriented immediately, understanding that the dispatcher meant the space in the upper echelon relative to the Interdictor of the central group.
And it was completely empty right now.
Dominion fighters were driving the pressing enemy away from the ship and from the Star Destroyers of the other detachments that had come to support it, holding them at the mid-perimeter around the Interdictor.
Not forgetting, as they did so, to rake the enemy starships with their broadside guns.
"Understood, Guardian OCC," Major Creb reported, switching to squadron frequency. "Cease current order execution. Prepare for micro-jump to assigned coordinates…"
***
"All Scimitars have struck the light cruisers, disabled the escort frigates, and returned to their bases," Captain Pellaeon reported. "Rotation in progress. Interceptors and assault gunboats are ready to launch on first order."
"Excellent," I said, allowing myself a slight smile. "Activate emergency launch engines, Captain. Maximum acceleration."
"Aye, sir!"
The Guardian shuddered through its entire hull.
The many engines that existed only so that the ship could raise to a higher orbit in a stable position—rather than make revolutions around a celestial body—began slowly lifting the Super Star Destroyer "upward."
And acceleration from the main drives effectively turned a sheer "vertical" climb into an angled ascent.
Thanks to it, the Guardian cleared the surrounding Star Destroyers in a matter of seconds, despite its size and its relatively modest sublight speed compared to those same Imperial-class hulls.
"The Guardian has taken the upper echelon, sir," a report came up from the pit. "Space is clear."
"Jump computed!"
"Coordinates entered into the nav computer."
"Avenger Squadron has arrived precisely at the designated jump point!"
"All systems ready for transition."
And now we were objectively "above" the battle between the Dominion and the Alliance straight ahead on the course line.
"The enemy star cruisers have executed their maneuver and are preparing to jump to hyperspace toward the central group!"
"Tell the Interdictor: cut the gravity tethers the moment the enemy enters hyperspace."
The distance between the central group and the enemy star cruisers' current position was roughly one hundred and fifty units.
It would take some time to cross that gap.
Significantly less than what an Imperial-class Star Destroyer needed for a similar jump.
All because the Liberties had a more modern first-class nav computer.
And the Imperials—like the whole Imperial Starfleet, which we inherited—had second-class computers.
Disabling the gravity-well generators also took time.
Equal to pressing one key on the enemy's control console.
The Mon Calamari star cruisers' icons vanished from the tactical hologram, racing to aid General Solo.
"Excellent," I said, scratching the ysalamir's tiny nose. "Execute the jump, Captain. Time to surprise the enemy."
***
The major shattered another enemy starfighter, rolled away to avoid ramming his Avenger into the cloud of debris.
Then immediately threw the yoke the other way, slipping off the line of fire of an E-wing that had come out head-on.
The enemy began to bank into a turn to finish the Dominion pilot, but—obviously due to inexperience—forgot that Dominion pilots flew in pairs.
The wingman slashed the enemy craft, stripping its energy shielding.
Just as Creb inverted his Avenger, let the enemy shoot into his forward deflector, and with dead calm put a burst from his cannons straight into the target.
The "E" blossomed into a familiar fireball.
The major slid his craft aside, then shifted to cover the wingman's tail.
A few K-wings, realizing they were left without cover, tried to break apart in sync and run.
But they didn't have the speed for that kind of maneuver.
Creb caught one of the fleeing craft in his sights while his wingman handled the second.
Laser cannons drilled through the bomber's plating.
Return fire stripped the last of Creb's deflectors, but the pilot had already launched a shaped-charge missile.
The homing warhead streaked after its victim.
And scattered the clumsy ship into the finest fragments.
Creb leveled out, compensated the energy draw by redirecting it into restoring deflector shields.
The full battlespace opened up before him: the enemy's three escort carriers, turned into dead tubs, were drifting helplessly, unable to maneuver.
A lone MC90 snapped back frantically at five large ships.
Its deflectors were still managing the increased load, but the enemy refused to retreat.
Even though a moment earlier the gravity-well generators had been shut down and the exit from the system was open.
All it had to do was turn its stern to the enemy, pass the disabled escort carriers, and accelerate for a jump.
Perhaps the enemy still hadn't understood what had happened.
To be honest, the major himself didn't quite understand why command would make such a grand gesture and let the enemy escape.
But that was command's plan.
Not his level.
If it had to be done, then it had to be done.
His task was to shoot down the enemy in a specific region of space above the Interdictor's hull.
In order to…
Suddenly, the situation above the major changed.
Where only a moment ago there had been starfield, cold hull metal appeared.
And that metal began to vomit fire.
A lot of fire.
Because too much metal had arrived.
***
"Han!" Calrissian's voice came over the channel. "Chewie and I fixed the drives and weapons. Ready to get back into the fight!"
"Wait!" Han barked into the comlink. "Better check everything again! There's enough work for everyone here."
"But—"
Not listening to his friend, the Corellian cut the comlink.
"What in the Hutt is happening?"
It seemed this question would soon become rhetorical.
At least—in the context of this battle.
Because several extremely unpleasant and maddening incidents had happened all at once.
Trying to tie them together…
Better not—one could go insane.
The Mon Calamari star cruisers had jumped into hyperspace.
And they would be here any second.
That would help.
Because if it didn't, then they'd have to abandon the damaged ships and leave this hostile corner of space…
"The Super Star Destroyer is gone!" the exec reported.
"What do you mean, 'gone'?" Han frowned, stunned. "Kid, that's a nineteen-kilometer embodiment of tyranny—just looking at it can make you piss yourself. That's millions of tons of metal. A thing like that doesn't just vanish!"
He turned sideways to the central viewport to look at the frightened sensor operator.
"Sir, but I'm telling the truth…"
"And I'm telling you—" Han looked at the tactical display mounted opposite him.
Where he could plainly see the large hologram showing the enemy flagship's location.
"Kid, open your eyes," Solo advised. "There it is. Better patch me through to the star cruisers! What in the Hutt is taking them so long—did they stop for a snack?"
Then he caught something odd out of the corner of his eye.
The black sky, sprinkled with star smudges, had gone uniform.
Which was strange in interstellar space.
Unless…
Solo slowly turned his head.
Looked straight ahead.
Swallowed.
Blinked.
Pinched his thigh.
Blinked again.
"You've got to be kidding…" was all he managed, staring into the gaping hangar of the Super Star Destroyer.
Which was frozen at a distance of only fifty units.
And was releasing hordes of interceptors and assault gunboats.
Not to mention that it had opened fire with every weapon.
And launched anti-ship missiles.
***
"Fire only aimed shots," I ordered, watching the Guardian's turbolasers begin to tear at the MC90's deflectors.
Like a pack of predators that had seen weakened prey.
The Super Star Destroyer, not known for its cruising speed, paraded past General Solo's flagship.
The two ships traded broadside salvos.
The Guardian's deflectors absorbed the shots and barely noticed the slight inconvenience.
On the Galactic Traveler, several sections of hull plating were ripped away.
And on some decks, holes punched clean through.
Flames lashed out from the ruptures.
Vast areas were depressurized, and real fountains of fire burst outward, licking at the remaining Mon Calamari plating.
And then went out almost at once as soon as the oxygen ran out.
But the ship's guns and launchers did not cease their work.
The Galactic Traveler began a turn—slow and senseless—presenting a flank that the Guardian had not yet battered to the hurricane of fire.
My flagship's gunners corrected that oversight.
Credit where it's due—the Mon Calamari built their ship well.
The starship endured a full Guardian broadside, suffering only that its port side melted, turning into a black fused mass, punctuated by sparks from severed wiring, streams of venting air, and debris.
Then the ship was covered by a missile salvo.
A blinding flare blossomed in the central section, and fire began to consume the dying ship.
Several Alliance fighters that had still been holding nearby scattered in different directions.
An "escort" of Dominion small combat machines immediately tucked in after them.
"One more salvo," I ordered.
The Guardian's gunners did not keep me waiting.
A wave of white-green fire tore away from the Super Star Destroyer and rushed toward its tempting target.
Another bright flash—and the most modern product of the shipyards of Dac began to break apart.
The bow section, the hangar module, the engine block, hundreds of smaller fragments—each of them no smaller than a corvette, and some a cruiser.
"Now we are finished," I said, rising from my chair and carefully scooping the ysalamir up under its belly. "Captain Pellaeon, finish off anyone who resists. If needed, I'll be in my quarters."
"Aye, sir," the commander of my flagship Super Star Destroyer replied evenly.