The Darkness Within 2: The Republic's Vengeance [Closed/IC]

[Terudel]

Vere Island, Roulande, Relesent System
11th Selene (11th October), 1500 Hours (Roulande Time), 1506 AGW

Celmar was waiting when Michael and Sojan returned. The humanoid bodies weren’t. “Were my orders perhaps unclear?” Sojan asked. His voice was calm, but Michael could hear the quiet threat beneath it.

So, clearly, could Celmar. “I’m sorry, my sirs, I’m sorry,” he said, his throat working, his hands twitching nervously on the top of the bar. “They had weapons. I had none. I protested, but I couldn’t stop them.”

“Perhaps you should have protested more vigorously,” Michael suggested. He focused on the man’s throat, stretching out to give it just the slightest hint of a squeeze. Celmar’s eyes bulged, his hands grabbing futilely at the tight grip on his throat.

“Sirs, please—I beg you.”

“Calm yourself,” Sojan said. His hand moved a few millimetres in Michael’s direction. A suggestion. Possibly an order. No matter. Michael had already planned for it to be a small, harmless lesson. The man knew too much to be killed outright. He released the grip, watching as the bartender seemed to collapse a little. “Who were they?” he asked. “More humanoids?”

Celmar nodded a jerky motion. “Those humanoids?” Michael added, nodding toward the three who had come in during their absence and were now sitting around a back table, nervously watching the newcomers out of the corners of their eyes. “No, not them,” Celmar said.

“Others.”

“Fortunately, the absence of the bodies is of little importance,” Sojan said. “I had already seen what I needed. We shall go back to the ship, Michael.”

“Wait,” Celmar said as the Admiral turned to leave. “That’s it? You’re just leaving us?”

“Did you expect we would stay?” Sojan asked.

“What about us?” Celmar asked. “What if they come back?” Sojan shook his head.

“I do not believe they will.”

“And if you’re wrong?”

Sojan’s eyes narrowed, his face hardening. It was an expression Michael had seen on him once, a long time ago. An expression that spoke of imminent death.

“Because you’re leaving a pretty big mess behind,” Celmar persisted. “We’re the ones who have to stay and—”


He broke off, his eyes going wide, as Michael once again squeezed his throat to silence. “You have been given your answer,” the Dark Lord rumbled. Celmar’s head bobbed up and down in a hasty nod, his eyes still wide. Michael held him another moment, then released his grip. “We depart?” he asked Sojan.

“We depart,” Sojan said. Like his expression, his voice also spoke of death. “Come. We have work to do.”

Aboard Sojan's Personal Freighter, near the orbit of Roulande, Relesent System
1th Selene (1th October), 1600 Hours (Roulande Time), 1506 AGW

The first part of the return trip was spent in silence, Michael piloting the freighter, Sojan gazing at his datapad. From the shifting reflections of light on Sojan’s face, it was clear he was sifting through his artwork collection.

They had left Roulande’s atmosphere and Michael had laid in the vector back to the Liberation when Sojan finally set the datapad aside. “Well?” Michael asked.

“I believe I have gained some insights,” the Admiral said. “First, let us discuss the scenario on Roulande. I presume you have reached some conclusions?”

“I have,” Michael said. “I believe it was Tara who was on the planet.”

In the brief time Michael had spent with Sojan, he’d never sensed the Admiral’s emotions register as more than small and brief flickers against the orderly array of his mind. The flicker he sensed now was also small and brief. But it was definitely there.

“I suspected that too, but did not know for certain,” Sojan said.

Michael’s fingers twitched, his eyes and his mind focusing on Sojan’s collar. Some pressure on his throat, as Michael had done with the bartender, would bring some things into their proper perspective. He resisted the temptation. Yanu’Kai clearly still considered Sojan a useful tool. More important, the Admiral had knowledge that Michael needed.

So let him play games. Let him even think Michael a simpleton, if that brought them to Yanu’Kai’s disturbance and the end of this mission. Better still, Michael would prove that he wasn’t as far behind Sojan as the Admiral perhaps thought. “You will speak of it in the proper time,” Michael warned.

“So what now, Michael?”

“Once we reach the Liberation, we go to Idylle. That idiot commander of yours did not send a reconnaissance team before departing. Commander Juno sent me a report stating that Colonel Jaygini was far displeased with Ainz Mythos. I have asked Commander Juno to send the message to Riflona. Ten dreadnaughts and hundreds of battlecruisers are to be sent to Idylle. We will show Mythos how to liberate a planet.”

Sojan smiled inside. “Well, it only proves that even at a lower rank, he is still incapable. A further demotion, perhaps?”

Michael glowered. “An execution, perhaps, Admiral. Good soldiers are going to die because of his incompetence. I do not see the reason for your hesitation to kill him. We both know he is practically useless in these situations.”

“We need to examine him further,” Sojan said. “For now, I will demote him to Junior Lieutenant in the Grand Navy.”

“Enough is enough, Sojan. He puts lives on the line and yet you allow him to stay within the safe boundaries of the Navy. Transfer him over to the Army. Demote him further to Corporal. There, he will learn proper tactics. And maybe, some discipline.”

Sojan pursed his lips for about three seconds before letting out a sigh. “Alright. I hope you know what you are doing, Michael.”

Michael raised an eyebrow in silence.

[Terudel]

Aboard Commando Class Prowler Obelisk Tempo, Orbit of Idylle, Relesent System
11th Selene (11th October), 1930 Hours (Idylle Time), 1506 AGW

“Brace yourselves,” came the Obelisk Tempo pilot’s voice over the comm. He tried to sound calm, but tension tightened his words.

The blast wave slammed into the side of the Obelisk Tempo, knocking it sidewise, carrying it along for tens of kilometres, and causing it to list sharply. Ainz and Ireegn, seated, tried their best to hold their position, but the four members of the crew were thrown hard against the bulkhead. A wall-mounted comp station spit sparks. An alarm rang. The cabin lights blinked, browned, and failed, casting the cabin in darkness and silencing the alarm.

Backup power returned light to the cabin. “One moment, Lieutenant Commander,” the pilot said through a crackling comm. The engines came back online and the pilot righted the ship.

The crew once more took their stations, never uttering a word. Ainz looked out one of the viewports, saw hundreds of pods and ships floating in space, many without power, and thousands if not millions of pieces of debris cast into space like so much flotsam by the explosion and subsequent blast wave. Most of the ships spun or flew toward the planet of Idylle, but some flew toward the rebel ships blockading the planet. The rest just spiralled out into space.

“Deflectors are down, Lieutenant Commander, but engines are operable.”

“Continue on to Idylle,” Ireegn said.

“We’ll arrive shortly,” the pilot answered.

“Very good, Captain,” replied Ireegn.

Ainz stared out one of the small viewports at the millions of pieces of debris, the whole of it as dense as an asteroid field. Each bit of metal goaded his anger. The rebels would be made to pay.

“Treachery never goes unpunished, my dear,” Ireegn said, as though reading his mind. Ainz heard an undertone of menace in his lover’s tone. He turned, thinking to ask what his lover meant, but before he could, he saw impending danger.

“They are coming,” Ireegn said, her voice as soft and gelid as a cold breeze.

The pilot’s voice came over the comm. “Lieutenant Commander, it appears a Republic escort ship is heading toward us on an attack vector. She’s not answering hails.”

“She is hostile,” Ireegn said over the comm. “Destroy her.”

Ainz would take no chances with Ireegn’s safety. He stood and started for the cockpit.

Ainz threw open the cockpit hatch, and the wail of alarms poured out in a gush. The attacking ship was not visible through the viewport. In the distance, he saw the glow of starfighter fire.

“She’s behind us,” one of the pilots said, not to Ainz but to the copilot. “Guns are gone. The deflectors are holding.”

Green beams passed over the ship, catching an escape pod in front of them and to starboard, vaporising it. Ainz clutched the sides of the hatch to maintain his balance. Another round of fire from the escort ship knifed over the Obelisk Tempo. A second shot caught the Obelisk Tempo’s wing and caused it to buck. The pilot turned the ship hard to port, half turning, and the escort whizzed past them, passing close enough that Ainz caught a glimpse of the escort’s pilots: Rebels. The Obelisk Tempo’s pilot cursed as he weaved at speed through the dispersing but still-dense debris field from the destruction. He pulled up hard on the stick, but he was too slow. A piece of stray superstructure slammed into the Obelisk Tempo with a boom and put a web of cracks in the cockpit’s large viewport. Ainz had seen enough. He took two strides forward and with one hand disconnected the pilot’s seat straps, while with the other he lifted him from his seat and heaved him aside. “Leave,” Ainz said, and took the pilot’s seat. To the copilot, he added, “You, too.”

The copilot disconnected from his seat, wide-eyed, helped the pilot to his feet, and both hustled out of the cabin. Both were puzzled as they were informed that Ainz had been demoted to Corporal, but Ainz could care less. At a glance Ainz took in the data provided by the instrument panel. The escort was closing for another round of fire. With the Obelisk Tempo’s weapons non-operational, Ainz focused on evasion for the moment. Using the debris to his advantage, he swung the ship hard to port, then stern, then back again, changing altitude throughout, wheeling through the floating pieces of the debris. Cannon fire from the escort sprayed space with beams of blue, but it went wide and high, striking debris and pods. Ainz let them close a bit, then slammed hard on the reverse thrusters, throwing him forward in his seat, and immediately reengaged the engines. The momentary stop had been enough. The escort streaked past and over him. He gave chase instantly, inverting the ship as he did. The ship was not armed, true, but Ainz was not without weapons.

Ainz sensed the danger a fraction of a second before the rebel flew the escort ship into the Obelisk Tempo. He slammed on the stick hard right and back, but the Obelisk Tempo was not as manoeuvrable as before and responded too slowly.

The escort slammed into the Obelisk Tempo’s belly and set it to spinning, aft over bow, the stars and planet in the viewport whirling past in a maddening spiral. Metal groaned and alarms screamed, but only for a moment before the Obelisk Tempo lost all power. Ainz sat in the pilot’s seat, holding a dead stick in a dark cockpit. Space through the viewport was a dizzying panorama of shifting images: Idylle, debris from destroyed ships, pods, the blockade, stars. Idylle grew bigger with each rotation of the Obelisk Tempo. The ship was falling toward the planet. Motion flashed into Ainz’s field of view for a moment: the escort ship. It still had power but was heavily damaged from the collision. It spiralled toward Idylle, smoking, burning, coming in at too steep an angle; it would break up in the atmosphere.

He focused not on the churning perspective through the viewport, but on the fixed point of the instrument panel. Calm, he tried to reactivate emergency power, but without success. He rarely had to call on the mechanical talent he’d possessed since childhood, but it would serve him well now. He had only a short time before the ship hit the planet’s atmosphere. And if it hit while spinning out of control, they’d burn up. He set about redirecting all latent battery power in the ship to the thrusters. He needed only a few moments of thrust to straighten the ship, then rudder control for the re-entry. His fingers moved quickly over the instrumentation. Idylle grew larger with each passing moment. A memory stabbed him, as sharp as a blade.

He’d floated alone in an escape pod over Idylle once, spinning high over its surface, after crashing a cruiser into a rebel control ship.

He pushed the recollection aside and focused on his task. In moments, he’d redirected enough power from backup batteries for at least a few seconds of thruster operation. He did not hesitate. He looked out the viewport and activated the thrusters. The ship’s spin slowed and its angle flattened. Another quick burn stopped the spin altogether, and the Obelisk Tempo was on a path that would at least allow for re-entry. And he still had a small amount of battery power left. Behind him, the door to the cockpit slid open and Ireegn walked over.

“The ship is nearly powerless,” Ainz said. “I will get us down, though.”

“No doubt,” Ireegn said, and sat in the copilot’s seat. “We have been in situations like this before, you and I.”

Ainz said nothing, though his mind turned to a battle over Ceris.

Idylle filled the viewport as the ship descended.

The ship hit the atmosphere too sharply and skipped and bounced, the metal shrieking under the stress. He burned the thrusters for a fraction of a second, righted the angle of approach, and reduced the jarring bumps to mere vibrations. Flames from the friction of atmospheric entry sheathed the ship. Fire surrounded them. Fire.

El-Carim.

Mandy.

He used his ever-present anger to burn away the memories, but the charred husks of the past clung to the forefront of his consciousness.

Ilatha.

He rarely allowed himself to think her name. His rage slipped his control and he squeezed the control stick so hard it cracked. His breath came hard, fast, loud.

He felt Ireegn’s eyes on him, always on him, the weight of them, the questions they carried. He knew Ireegn could see into him, through him.

“You are troubled, my dear,” Ireegn said, her voice calm while the ship screamed through Idylle’s stratosphere.

“No, I’m not,” Ainz said. Ainz focused to exorcise the past from his mind. He focused on the now, on safely landing a ship that was almost entirely without power. He channelled the remaining battery power to the in-atmosphere emergency rudder and used it to make their angle of approach shallower. He realised that there must have been ships falling out of the sky all across the planet, hundreds of them. He saw several tall buildings too.

The ship careened straight for it, held in gravity’s unrelenting grip. The ground rose up at the ship as if the craft had been shot out of a blaster. He was still at too steep an angle, but the rudder controls barely responded, even to his strength. He managed to lower the in-atmosphere emergency flaps, and they helped flatten out the approach. The buildings filled the viewport entirely, under it, over it, like flying over an ocean of concrete.

“Prepare for impact,” he said, but of course his lover had already strapped herself in.

[Terudel]

Aboard Omega Class Star Destroyer Liberation, Approaching orbit of Idylle, Relesent System
11th Selene, (11th October) 2200 Hours (Idylle Time), 1506 AGW

“There,” Helysa said, pointing out the Liberation’s main viewport. “That planet right there.”

“I see it,” Sojan said calmly. Calmly, but Helysa could sense the grimness beneath the words.

From behind them came a set of heavy footsteps. “We have arrived?” Michael asked.

“Yes,” Sojan said. “Have we arrived on time?”

Michael stopped beside Sojan, his long cloak settling around his shoulders, and for a moment he stared out the viewport in silence. Or at least, Helysa assumed he was staring out the viewport. Maybe he was afraid of what was coming. Mentally, she slapped herself across the cheek. Stop that. It was rumoured the Dark Lord could read people’s thoughts, and that was not a thought she wanted him to know about.

Michael stirred. “Yes,” he said. “They are there.”

“Excellent,” Sojan murmured. “I had hoped the rebels would believe we were unaware of the blockade but Ainz had already given their position. Can you tell where precisely did the Obelisk Tempo land?”

“Not from this distance,” Michael said. “We shall need to move closer.”

“Commodore?” Sojan asked.

“Velocity unchanged, sir,” Helysa reported. “Do you want the drive activated?”

Sojan eyed the distant planet. “Not yet,” he said. “Let us close the distance a bit more before we announce our presence.”

“Those ships,” Michael said, raising a hand to point out the viewport. “What are they doing?”

“What they have done before,” Sojan said. “They are waiting for us to strike.”

For another moment Michael was silent. “That makes no sense.”

“On the contrary, it makes perfect sense,” Sojan said, his voice dark. “We have already seen their goal of closing off this region to easy and rapid hyperspace travel. The gravity projectors are effective, but they are costly and have only limited range and lifetime. Far more efficient in the long run to move moon or planetary-sized masses into hyperlanes, where they will continue to disrupt travel for decades or centuries to come. It’s the perfect way to cut our supplies in the region.”

“How is this achieved?” Michael asked. For once, even the Dark Lord sounded awed. Helysa guessed that didn’t happen very often. “What is their technology?”

“I do not know,” Sojan said.

Michael rumbled in his throat. “Whatever it is, I have no doubt it will fall to turbolaser fire.”

“I agree,” Sojan agreed. “But not yet.”

Helysa smiled to herself. Of course, not yet. There was nothing Sojan valued more than information and knowledge. He would absolutely not attack until he figured out a way to infiltrate a team into the network of ships surrounding the planet and collect the rebels’ secrets.

“What are you waiting for?” Michael demanded.

Helysa mentally shook her head. They were waiting for Sojan to come up with his infiltration plan, of course.

“The weapon they are moving still endangers the planet,” Sojan said. “We must wait until they have given it escape velocity.”

Helysa frowned. Endangering Idylle…but surely that wouldn’t matter if Sojan was simply sneaking into the enemy fleet. Was he actually thinking —?

“Clear, sir,” an officer confirmed. “Escape velocity achieved. The weapon can no longer impact the surface.”

“Stand by to attack,” Sojan said. “Commodore, is my ship ready?”

“It is, sir,” Helysa said, feeling the universe tilting a little around her. When he’d ordered her to prepare the Liberation for combat, she’d assumed it was merely a contingency plan in case his real plan was somehow disrupted. Did this mean that simply wading in and destroying the rebel forces was his real plan?

“Activate all systems,” Sojan ordered.

“Activating all systems, sir,” Helysa repeated, looking over at the status board. Lights were rapidly turning from orange to green as the systems that had been on standby while the Liberation drifted unseen toward the planet came back to life. “Combat readiness in twenty seconds.”

Sojan nodded. “Michael, I will need to know as soon as possible in which ships the hostages are located.”

The twenty seconds had passed, and the Liberation had lit its thrusters and was driving toward the distant rebel ships before Michael answered. “A small number are located aboard the ships. Two, perhaps three. One of them is Glenn. The rest are on the planet.”

“Understood,” Sojan said. “Commodore Helysa, you will initiate an attack on the rebel forces. Michael, I request a favour: that you assign the Canardian Guards and a squad of troopers from the 31st Battalion to accompany me to the surface.”

“What of your duties to the Liberation?” Michael countered.

“Commodore Helysa is more than capable of handling the assault,” Sojan said. “Commodore, the enemy response to your attack will most likely be to launch multiple counterattacks from—”

“Precise orders to the commodore are unnecessary, Admiral,” Michael interrupted. “You will remain aboard the Liberation and lead the attack.”

“Michael—”

“I will take the 31st Battalion to Idylle,” Michael continued. “You will deal with the ships, Admiral Sojan. I will deal with the planet together with Fang Hook.”

For a moment Sojan was silent. Then he inclined his head. “Very well,” he said. “Prepare your troopers. The battle now begins.”

[Terudel]

Rebel Base 9, Lurod, Idylle, Relesent System
12th Selene, (12th October) 0300 Hours (Idylle Time), 1506 AGW

The communications centre buzzed with the sound of orders, but behind them was the low background murmur of collective disbelief. The air smelled of sweat, of distress.

“What is happening up there?” a lieutenant asked.

“Status on the Obelisk Tempo?” asked another.

“Republic fighters, now? How many?”

Gaz moved from station to station through the tumult, taking in facts, issuing orders, and doing his best to look as if he were trying to rescue the men he actually wanted dead, and in control of events that had long ago outrun him. He had no confirmation that the Obelisk Tempo had been destroyed, only that it had disappeared from scans. The same was true of Michael Spencer’s shuttle. Both were hopeful signs, but he dared not actually hope. He realized he was breathing fast. His uniform felt too tight, the walls seemed too close, the ceiling too low.

“Sir, are you all right?”

“What? Of course, yes. Yes. Carry on, Lieutenant.” But he wasn’t all right. He wouldn’t be all right until he knew Fang Hook, Michael, and Ainz were dead.

“Escape pods are landing all over the western hemisphere of the planet sir,” said another lieutenant. “We’re getting thousands of distress signals. Search and rescue is prioritising rescue grids but, sir, this is overwhelming. They don’t have enough personnel. They’ll be at this for days.”

“Disposition of Spencer’s shuttle or the Obelisk Tempo?”

“Nothing yet, sir.”

Gaz nodded, at once relieved and terrified. If he had somehow succeeded, his next challenge would be to concoct a believable enough cover story to exculpate himself. Cherilyn wanted them alive.

But first he needed to ensure that Fang Hook, Michael and Ainz were dead.

Gaz felt the encrypted comlink vibrate against his chest, an irritating insect that wouldn’t stop pestering him. He tried to ignore it, but the annoying hail continued. He stepped out of the communications centre and into an adjacent office. “This is Gaz,” he said tightly.

“Listen carefully and do not interrupt,” said Ilatha’s voice. “Both ships are down, but I can’t confirm that either is destroyed. I have a trajectory on Michael’s ship—”

“What about the other one?”

“I told you not to interrupt, Gaz.”

Gaz’s jaw clenched so tightly around his anger that he wondered if he’d ever be able to open it again. Ilatha went on: “You’re going to tell the Communications Outpost that an incoming Republic escort ship is carrying wounded VIPs from the Liberation. They are to lower their shields and receive this ship. Do you understand?”

Gaz didn’t even bother to ask how Ilatha knew about a classified installation hidden in the planet’s equatorial verdure. Every time Gaz spoke to Ilatha, the Kalee said things that made his head swim. She seemed one or two steps ahead of Gaz’s thinking at every turn. “I can’t do that.”

“You must. That station’s satellite relays need to be destroyed.”

“To what end? It’ll do nothing…”

“We’ll hack the communications systems afterwards, have them send a jamming signal.”

The implications settled on Gaz. “You’ll fog the whole net, disrupt communications for the whole planet.”

“I know. Communication will be line of sight only. And that’s what I need. We think Michael and Fang Hook are alive but stranded.”

Gaz’s heart was a sledgehammer on his ribs. “We haven’t received a distress call.” He whispered, “Why do you think they’re alive? If they crashed…”

“Because we’ve seen what Michael can do, Gaz, and a crash isn’t going to kill him. We’re going to have to stuff a blaster in his face and pull the trigger to be sure. We bring down communications and they’re isolated. Cherilyn will not find out about our plan. That’ll give us time, and we’ll use it to hunt them down.”

Gaz didn’t miss the use of the collective pronoun, and he supposed it was warranted. Gaz was a traitor, the same as Ilatha. Given all he’d done, he might as well have been a member of Ilatha’s Overthrow Tara movement. He’d be treated the same way if he were caught.

He realized he was pacing, and his agitation was drawing eyes through the transparent glass that walled his office. He took a breath to steady himself, stopped pacing, and turned his back to the glass. “How do you know where they are?”

“I don’t know for certain,” Ilatha admitted. “I have a search zone. But it’s large. That’s why I need the extra time.”

Gaz’s mind turned to Ainz. “The second ship. You said it was down. How do you know?”

“My people saw it. That’s all I can say for certain.”

Sweat ran in rivulets down Gaz’s sides. “Well, I need you to say more, Ilatha.” He dropped his voice to an even lower whisper. “Ainz was on it. I need him to stay on it. Do you understand?”

“I do,” Ilatha said. “Odds are he’s dead, Gaz. His ship was dark and life support was down. We kill Michael and Fang Hook, and this mess is clean. You can fabricate a story regarding it later on.”

“I need to be sure,” Gaz said. “I need the trajectory for Ainz’s ship. Send it to me.”

“I can’t spare any resources to search another landing zone.”

“I’ll check on it myself!” Gaz snapped. “Just send me the damn data.”

“Fine. Good,” Ilatha said, in the tone one used when addressing an incensed child. Gaz found it infuriating. “Here it comes.”

Gaz’s comlink lit up as it received the data. “It’s through,” he said.

“Then do what I asked and do it now,” Ilatha said.

Gaz smoothed his hair and gathered what he could of his composure. “I’ll alert the base.”

“Good hunting, Gaz,” Ilatha said. Gaz couldn’t quite bring himself to wish Ilatha the same.

[Terudel]

Rebel Base 9, Lurod, Idylle, Relesent System
12th Selene, (12th October) 0450 Hours (Idylle Time), 1506 AGW

The secret entrance into the rebel base was narrow and cramped. Michael didn’t even slow down, but slashed out a larger opening with his blade as he strode through it. Fang Hook slipped around in front of him as the squad from the 31st Battalion filed into the service level, moving into a vanguard position ahead of Michael and the rest of the squad.

There were no defenses or other hindrances down here. Michael found it odd and had a feeling that they were walking into a trap. Or maybe that was what he wanted. “Ahead,” he ordered the troops, picking up his pace. Whoever this rebel leader was—whatever he was—he’d promised Sojan he would bring him back. And no group of rebel soldiers was going to stop him.

The trapdoor that was their goal was just ahead, its ladder still sticking out. At an order from Michael, Fang Hook stepped to his side to let him pass, then watched as he ignited his saber and stabbed upward into the material, digging a circle into and through it. He finished his cut, holding the plug in place long enough to move out of its way before releasing it to crash to the ground. The ladder still hung precariously at the edge of the hole. But Michael clearly wasn’t in the mood to do this the slow way. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to use his inner Kalee abilities. Fang Hook felt something invisible wrap around him, and a second later found himself flying upward through the hole. He got a glimpse of dark, half-ruined equipment and storage boxes scattered around a large, high-ceilinged room—

He jerked sideways as a last-second twitch by Michael sent him past the opening and dropped him onto the solid floor. He keyed in his scanners, noting at least a dozen hot spots of hidden enemies as a trooper flew up and landed on the other side of the hole.

And as another trooper flew up behind them, his heavy gun cradled in his arms, and landed beside Fang Hook, the entire room erupted into a blaze of blue-edged lightning bolts.

Fang Hook ducked to the side, feeling a sudden tingling in his skin as one of the bolts barely missed him. A second later he staggered off balance as something small and hard slammed into his armour. No idea where the projectile shot had come from; the lightning weapon, in contrast, marked a clear path back to the gunner.

Fang Hook sent a volley of blasterfire to that point as another lightning bolt lashed out, this one targeting Michael. Fang Hook shifted his aim toward that shot’s origin and again returned fire.

That latter shot went wide as another pair of impacts jolted against his chest and shoulder. Some kind of pellet weapons, apparently, which his armour was fortunately strong enough to block.

He snarled under his breath. Whoever was running the defense here knew what he was doing. The lightning weapons were hard to aim, but had the capacity to do serious damage if they hit. The pellet guns didn’t do much damage, but they came out of nowhere and could keep the troopers off balance, impeding their ability to stay clear of the more dangerous weapons.

In addition, the lightning flashes briefly overloaded the troopers’ targeting sensors, making the pellet gunners that much harder to spot and eliminate. And then, with a dramatic flourish that never failed to send a shiver up Fang Hook’s back, he was there.
Instantly the weapons shifted aim. But to no avail. The gray armour shrugged off the lightning flashes with ease, and Fang Hook could barely see the small twitches caused by the pellet impacts. The figure strode forward like something out of dark myth, heading toward the nearest pile of rusted machinery, a spot Fang Hook’s sensors had tagged as the hiding place of at least four of the attackers.

From dark shadows far to the rear of the main battle floor, half a dozen rebel troopers burst into view. The figure stopped, saber raised, as if daring the rebels to attack. For a couple of seconds they fired almost aimlessly; and then, as if at a silent order, they swarmed forward.

Layered with the pellet guns and the lightning weapons, it was a strategy the rebels probably assumed was unbeatable.
Only they’d forgotten something. They’d forgotten that there was a squad of troopers along. Troopers who were good at evasion and counterattack. Troopers who also had enhanced sensors in their helmets. Troopers who had known this exact moment would be coming.

The first wave of rebels reached their target, and the dark shadow erupted in multiple splotches of gray as the insects delivered their payloads and died. On Fang Hook’s heads-up display seven hazy red marks appeared, the locations where the swarms had appeared—seemingly from nowhere. “Targets marked,” he said. “Take them.”

The entire chamber lit up as the troopers opened fire, concentrating everything on the rebel troopers.

The next wave of rebels splattered themselves and died. Fang Hook looked carefully around, feeling the impacts of the pellets, knowing that the lightning guns would soon open fire again. With the 31st Battalion troopers pinned down, and the greatest threat fully encased in stone, the rebels no doubt felt confident of victory.

They’d forgotten that Michael had already seen their attack. They’d perhaps not realized that Michael was himself a master tactician.

The lightning guns were beginning to open fire once more when Michael appeared from below, for real this time. He stepped forward, holding his saber, and walked so convincingly across the chamber and into the rebels’ trap.

Someone hidden among the machinery gave a startled-sounding shout. But it was too late. Even as the lightning weapons shifted their full fury to Michael, he strode toward them, deflecting the bolts into the ceiling as he used his Kalee strength to twist their weapons off target, hurling his saber to bring down sections of machinery onto the enemy, grabbing anyone who came into view and throwing them into the rapidly diminishing number of lightning bolts.

“Find the prisoners,” Michael said to the troopers. He turned to Fang Hook and said, “Both of us will head to the main control centre of this base. I have a feeling someone we need is in there.”

[Terudel]

Rebel Base 9, Lurod, Idylle, Relesent System
12th Selene, (12th October) 0545 Hours (Idylle Time), 1506 AGW

At the end of a long, dark corridor, Michael stopped to look back. The walls reflected the meagre light projected by his saber and he saw the horde enter the far end of the tunnel. The beat of their armoured boots was loud.

Michael was prepared to meet them all, slaughter every one of them then and there, but Fang Hook’s voice from up the corridor pulled him around. “Come, Michael!”

He deactivated his saber, turned, and hurried forward.

When he reached his Fang’s side, he voiced his thoughts.

“Yes,” Fang Hook agreed. “The rebel troops are herding us—unintentionally, I think.”

“Herding us to where?” Michael asked.

“We’ll soon know,” Fang Hook said. “I think we should prepare ourselves.”

They hustled through the corridor, which had finally started to narrow.

“There’s light ahead,” Fang Hook said. “Look!”

Michael saw it, a dim glow coming through a circular opening about a metre and a half in diameter. Soon the corridor gave way to a large opening. They stood in the opening, five metres up on the wall of the control centre. Clusters of panels covered the place but there were no personnel manning it. Michael was puzzled but he had no time to think.

More troops were running towards them. Fang Hook looked at Michael and shrugged.

“We’re going kill them all,” Michael said, igniting his saber.

Fang Hook cackled, drew his own saber, and activated the yellow blade.

The rebels swarmed forward, hundreds of them, firing shots at the two.

Michael rushed forward, blade held high. He ducked and sidestepped, and with a crosscut severed the head of a rebel. Crushing the skull under his boot, he used his free arm to propel the headless body into a trio of troopers behind it, pushing them back.

Michael turned to see whether Fang Hook was there but he was nowhere to be seen. Feeling danger behind, he spun and lopped off the two legs of another rebel that was poised to impale him through the back with a spear. He ended the rebel’s squeals of pain by driving his blade through the abdomen of his enemy.

Michael looked ahead to see Fang Hook, surrounded by a dozen or more rebel troopers, spinning, whirling, leaping, his saber moving so fast it blurred. He moved with preternatural speed, his blade stabbing and slashing and severing. He was laughing, the familiar cackle somehow audible above the sounds of the horde.

But then a score or more of rebels rushed at him at once from all sides, spears in hand. Michael reacted quick and leapt, flipping midair, and landed hard atop one of the rebel troopers. The trooper bucked, and Michael drove his blade down through the trooper’s back, killing him. Michael continued to slash his blade across, killing several troopers in the process.

“Fang Hook!” he shouted, still unable to see his friend in the press of the troopers. And then he saw him. A fire yellow blade slashed across more bodies, severing all of it.

Michael ran towards Fang Hook’s side. They took position back-to-back.

“Michael,” Fang Hook responded, and chuckled. “Enjoyable, no? Did you think I would die there?”

“I did, but only for a moment.”

“You underestimate my abilities,” Fang Hook replied.

As if on command, the rebels surged toward them from all sides. As one, Michael and Fang Hook channelled their strengths and soon, both of them were covered in gore in their unbridled ability to kill.

“That was too easy,” Fang Hook commented.

“We got to hurry,” Michael said. “I think the rebel commander knows we are here.”

Rebel Base 9, Lurod, Idylle, Relesent System
12th Selene, (12th October) 0630 Hours (Idylle Time), 1506 AGW

The vast semi sphere of the monitor bloomed with battle. Sophisticated sensor algorithms compressed the combat that sprawled throughout the orbit of Idylle: cruisers hundreds of kilometres apart, exchanging fire at near lightspeed, appeared to be practically hull-to-hull, joined by pulsing cables of flame. Turbolaser blasts became swift shafts of light that shattered into prismatic splinters against shields, or bloomed into miniature supernovae that swallowed ships whole. The invisible gnat-clouds of starfighter dogfights became a gleaming dance of shadow moths at the end of Idylle’s brief spring. Within that immense curve of computer-filtered carnage, the only furnishing was one lone chair, cantered in an expanse of empty floor. This was called the General's Chair, just as this room was called the General's Quarters.

“General Gaz, Michael and Fang Hook have arrived.”

“Yes.” Gaz had seen them through the monitor. “Drive them toward me.”

“General, I must express once more my objections-”

Gaz turned. “Your objections have been noted already, Captain. Leave them to me.”

“But driving them to you also sends them directly toward Supreme Leader Glenn himself. Why does he remain on this base at all? He should be hidden. He should be guarded. We should have had him out of Idylle hours ago!”

“Matters are so,” Gaz said, “because Tara wishes them so; should you desire to press your objections, please feel at liberty to take them up with her.”

“I, ah, don't believe that will be necessary . . .”

“Very well, then. Confine your efforts to preventing support troops from coming. Without their reinforcements to back them up, they are no danger to me. And may I suggest that you devote some attention to protecting this base? Having it destroyed with both you and me here might put something of a cramp in the war effort, don't you think?”

“It is already being done, General. Do you wish to observe the progress of the two? I can feed the security monitors onto this channel.”

“Thank you, Captain. That will be welcome.”

“Gracious as ever, General. Ray out.”

Gaz allowed himself a near-invisible smile. His inviolable courtesy-the hallmark of a true aristocrat-was effortless, yet somehow it seemed always to impress the common rabble. As well as those with the intellect of common rabble, regardless of accomplishment or station: like, for example, that repulsive Ray.

He sighed. Ray had his uses; not only was he an able field commander, but he would soon make a marvellous scapegoat upon whom to hang every atrocity of this sadly necessary war. Someone had to take that particular fall, and Ray was just the man for the job. It certainly would not be Gaz. This was, in fact, one purpose of the cataclysmic battle in the orbit of Idylle. But not the only one.
The blue-scanned image before him now became miniatures of Michael and Fang Hook as he had seen them so many times before: shoulder-to-shoulder, sabers whirling as they enthusiastically dismantled trooper after trooper after trooper. Feeling as if they were winning, while in truth they were being chivvied exactly where Gaz wanted them to go. Such children they were. Gaz shook his head.

It was almost too easy.

Gaz watched with clinical distaste as the blue-scanned images of Michael and Fang Hook engaged in a preposterous farce-chase, pursued by rebel troopers into and out of turbolift pods that shot upward and downward and even sideways.
gaz straightened and for the first time looked Glenn in the eyes. Glenn Scheinred, Supreme Leader of Idylle, sat in the General's Chair, shackled to it at the wrist and ankle.

Gaz bowed to him. “I’ll kill them both soon.”

Glenn replied, “They are here. You underestimate them. You will fall today!”

Rebel Base 9, Lurod, Idylle, Relesent System
12th Selene, (12th October) 0700 Hours (Idylle Time), 1506 AGW

Inside a turbolift pod, Gaz watched hologram images of Michael and Fang Hook cautiously pick their way down the curving stairs from the entrance balcony to the main level of the General's Quarters.

“General.” On the intraship comm, Ray sounded actively concerned. “Damage to this base is becoming severe. Thirty percent of automated weapons systems are down, and we may soon lose all of it.”

Gaz nodded judiciously to himself, frowning down at the translucent blue ghosts slinking toward Glenn. “Sound the retreat for the entire strike force, Captain, and prepare the escape ship. Once the two are dead, I will join you on the hangar.”

“As you wish, General. Ray out.”

“Indeed you are, you vile creature,” Gaz muttered to the dead comlink. “Out of luck, and out of time.”

He cast the comlink aside and ignored its clatter across the deck. He had no further use for it. Let it be destroyed along with Ray, those repulsive bodyguards of his, and the rest of the base. He nodded to the two troopers that flanked him. One opened the lift door and they marched through, pivoting to take positions on either side. Gaz straightened his cloak of shimmering armour and strode grandly into the half-dark lift lobby. In the pale emergency lighting, the door to the General's Quarters still smouldered where those two idiotic peasants had lsabered it; to pick his way through the hole would risk getting his trousers scorched. Gaz sighed and gestured, and the opalescent wreckage of the door silently slid itself out of his way. He certainly did not intend to fight the two with his pants on fire.

Michael slid along the bank of chairs on one side of the immense situation table that dominated the centre of the General's Quarters' main room; Fang Hook mirrored him on the opposite side.

A stark shadow against that backdrop of carnage: the silhouette of one tall chair. Michael caught Fang Hook's eye across the table and nodded toward the dark shape ahead. Fang Hook replied with a hand signal for approach with caution, and added the signal for be ready for action. Michael's mouth compressed. Like he needed to be told. After all the trouble they'd had with the turbolifts, anything could be up here by now. The place could be full of rebel troopers, for all they knew. The lights came back on. Michael froze. The dark figure in the chair-it was Glenn, and there were no troopers to be seen. Glenn looked bad. He was exhausted, and in pain.

Glenn looked frightened. Michael didn't know what to say. He couldn't imagine what to say. All he could imagine was what the rebels must have done to put fear on the face of this brave good man. And that imagining ignited a sizzle in his blood that drew his face tight and clouded his heart.

If Fang Hook was struck by any similar distress, it was invisible. With his customary grave courtesy, he inclined his head. “Glenn,” he said, a calmly respectful greeting as though they had met by chance on Senate Building in Dieusia.

Glenn's only response was a tight murmur. “Michael, behind you-!”

Michael didn't turn. He didn't have to.

“This,” he murmured to Glenn, and to himself, “is not a problem.”

The voice that spoke from the entrance balcony was an elegant basso with undernotes of oily resonance.

Gaz Yin’s voice.

“Fang Hook. Michael Spencer. Gentlemen —a term I use in its loosest possible sense —you are my prisoners.”

Now Michael didn't have any troubles at all.

The entrance balcony provided an appropriate angle —far above the two, looking down upon them —for Gaz to make final assessments before beginning the farce.

Like all true farce, the coming denouement would proceed with remorseless logic from its ridiculous premise: that Gaz could ever be overcome by these two. What a pity his lover Cherilyn couldn't have joined them today; he had no doubt she would have enjoyed the coming show. Gaz had always preferred an educated audience. At least Glenn was here, shackled within the great chair at the far end of the room.

Michael gave Gaz only his back, but his blade was already out and his tall, lean frame stood frozen with anticipation: so motionless he almost seemed to shiver. Pathetic. It was an insult to call this guy a Dark Lord at all. Fang Hook, now —he was something else entirely: a classic of his obsolete kind. He simply stood gazing calmly up at Gaz and the rebel troopers that flanked him, hands open, utterly relaxed, on his face only an expression of mild interest.

“Get help!” The edge of panic in Glenn’s hoarse half whisper sounded convincing even to Gaz. “You must get help. Neither of you is any match for a skilled swordsman!”

Now Michael turned, meeting Gaz's direct gaze for the first time ever. His reply was clearly intended as much for Gaz as for Glenn. “Tell that to Assonah.”

With a flourish, Gaz cast his cloak back from his right shoulder, clearing his sword arm —which he used to gesture idly at the pair of troopers still on the entrance balcony above. “Now please, gentlemen. Must I order the troopers to open fire? That becomes so untidy, what with blaster bolts bouncing about at random. Little danger to the three of us, of course, but I should certainly hate for any harm to come to Glenn.”

Fang Hook moved toward him with a slow, hypnotic grace, as though he floated on an invisible repulsor plate. “Why do I find that difficult to believe?”

Michael mirrored him, swinging wide toward Gaz's flank.

“I bear Supreme Leader Glenn no ill will, fool. He is not a warrior, whereas you and your friend here are both. It is only an unfortunate accident of history that he has chosen to side with you idiots against Tara.”

“You are the idiot here,” Michael replied.

“The Supreme Leader is a civilian. You and Fang Hook, on the other hand, are legitimate military targets. It is up to you whether you will accompany me as captives or corpses.”

“Now, there's a coincidence,” Fang Hook replied dryly as he swung around Gaz to place him precisely between Michael and himself. “You face the identical choice.”

Gaz gave the slightest glance of concern over his shoulder, distracted for half an instant, and Michael just couldn't wait anymore. He sprang, saber angled for the kill.

Fang Hook leapt from Gaz's far side in perfect coordination —and they met in midair, for Gaz was no longer between them. Michael looked up just in time to glimpse the bottom of Gaz's leather boot as it came down on his face and smacked him tumbling toward the floor.

While effortlessly deflecting a rain of yellow-streaking cuts from Fang Hook, Gaz felt Michael moving towards him at great speed, prepared to slash his blade across.

Gaz neatly sidestepped, cutting at the Michael's leg, yet Michael's blade met the cut as he passed and he managed to sweep his blade behind his head to slap aside the casual thrust Gaz aimed at the back of his neck —but his clumsy charge had put him in Fang Hook's path, so that Fang Hook had to roll over his partner's head. Directly at Gaz's upraised blade. Fang Hook drove a slash at the green blade while he pivoted in the air, and again Gaz sidestepped so that now it was Fang Hook in Michael's way.

“Really,” Gaz said, “this is pathetic.”

It was a simple matter of countering their tactics, which were depressingly straightforward; Michael was the swift one, whooshing here and there like a spastic hawk-bat while Fang Hook was moving step by step, cutting off the angles, clumsy but relentlessly dogged as he tried to chivvy Gaz into a corner. Gaz laughed to himself, knowing that the fate of this duel was already decided.

[Terudel]

Rebel Base 9, Lurod, Idylle, Relesent System
12th Selene, (12th October) 0745 Hours (Idylle Time), 1506 AGW

“You better be careful Gaz,” Michael said. “You see, we have the advantage. Two against one. So far, you don’t impress me.”

Gaz looked at him and laughed. “Really? We’ll see about that.”

He leaned into a thrust at Fang Hook's gut that Fang Hook deflected with a rising parry, bringing them chest-to-chest, blades flaring, locked together with a handbreadth from each other's throats. “Your moves are too slow, Fang Hook. Too predictable. You'll have to do better.”

Fang Hook's response to this friendly word was to regard him with a twinkle of gentle amusement in his eye. “Very well, then,” Fang Hook said, and shot straight upward over Gaz's head so fast it seemed he'd vanished.

And in the space where Fang Hook's chest had been was now only the red lightning of Michael's blade driving straight for Gaz’s heart. Only a desperate whirl to one side made what would have been a smoking hole in his chest into a line of scorch through his cloak.

Gaz thought, What?

He threw himself spinning up and away from the two to land on the situation table, disengaging for a moment to recover his composure —that had been entirely too close —but by the time his boots touched down, Fang Hook was there to meet him, blade weaving through a defensive velocity so bewilderingly fast that Gaz dared not even try a strike; he threw a feint toward Fang Hook's face, then dropped and spun in a reverse ankle-sweep. But not only did Fang Hook easily overleap this attack, Gaz nearly lost his own foot to a slash from Michael who had again come out of nowhere and now carved through the table so that it collapsed under Gaz's weight and dumped the Rebel General unceremoniously to the floor.

Michael slammed his following strike down so hard that the shock of deflecting it buckled Gaz's elbows. Gaz threw himself into a back roll that brought him to his feet and Fang Hook's blade was there to meet his neck. Only a desperate whirling slash-block, coupled with a wheel kick that caught Fang Hook on the thigh, bought him enough time to leap away again, and when he touched down, Michael was already there.

The first overhand chop of Michael's blade slid off Gaz's instinctive guard. The second bent Gaz's wrist. The third flash of red forced Gaz's green blade so far to the inside that his own saber scorched his shoulder, and Gaz was forced to give ground. Gaz felt himself blanch. Where had this come from? Michael came on, mechanically inexorable, impossibly powerful, each step a blow and each blow a step. Gaz backed away as fast as he dared; Michael stayed right on top of him. Gaz's breath went short and hard. He no longer tried to block Michael's strikes but only to guide them slanting away; he could not meet Michael strength-to-strength.

It was time to alter his own tactics. He dropped low and spun into another reverse ankle-sweep, only to find himself again facing the wheel of yellow lightning that was Fang Hook's blade.

Gaz decided that the comedy had ended. Now it was time to kill. He drove a series of flashing thrusts toward Fang Hook's legs to draw him into a flipping overhead leap so that Gaz could burn through his spine from kidneys to shoulder blades, and this image, this plan, was so clear in Gaz's mind that he almost failed to notice that Fang Hook met every one of his thrusts without so much as moving his feet, staying perfectly centred, perfectly balanced, blade never moving a millimetre more than was necessary, deflecting without effort, riposting with flickering strikes.

Gaz found himself having a sudden, unexpected, overpowering, and entirely distressing bad feeling about this . . .

His farce had suddenly, inexplicably, spun from humorous to deadly serious and was tumbling rapidly toward terrifying. Realisation burst through Gaz's consciousness like the blossoming fireballs of dying ships in the orbit of the planet: this pair of fools had somehow managed to become entirely dangerous. These clowns might actually be able to beat him.

He gathered his energy and avoided Fang Hook’s blade before kicking Fang Hook in the gut so hard that Fang Hook was sent flying backward to crash hard against the wall, but Gaz didn’t have time to enjoy it.

Michael was all over him. The shining red saber whirled and spat and every overhand chop crashed against Gaz’s defence with the unstoppable power of a meteor strike; the Rebel General spent lavishly of his reserve of energy merely to meet these attacks without being cut in half, and Michael—Michael was getting stronger.

Each parry cost Gaz more power than he'd used to kick Fang Hook across the room; each block aged him a decade. He decided he'd best revise his strategy once again.

He no longer even tried to strike back. Exhaustion began to close down his perceptions, drawing his consciousness back down to his physical form, trapping him within his own skull until he could barely even feel the contours of the room around him; he dimly sensed stairs at his back, stairs that led up to the entrance balcony. He retreated up them, using the higher ground for leverage, but Michael just kept on coming, tirelessly ferocious.

That crimson blade was everywhere, flashing and whirling faster and faster until Gaz saw the room through an electric haze and now Fang Hook was back in the picture and Gaz decided that under these rather extreme circumstances, it was at least arguably permissible for a gentleman to cheat.

“Guards!” he said to the pair of troopers that still stood at attention to either side of the entrance. “Open fire!”

Instantly the two sprang forward and lifted their hands. Energy hammered out from their blasters; Michael whirled and his blade batted every blast back at the troopers, whose nadium armour deflected the bolts again. Blaster bolts screeched through the room in blinding ricochets.

Fang Hook reached the top of the stairs and a single slash of his sword dismantled both troopers. Before their bodies could even hit the floor, Gaz was in motion, landing a spinning side-stamp that folded Michael in half; he used his last burst of energy to continue his spin into a blindingly fast wheel-kick that brought his heel against the point of Fang Hook's chin with a crack, knocking him back down the stairs. Sounded like he'd broken his neck.

Wouldn't that be lovely?

Now, as for Michael, which was as far as Gaz got, because by the time his attention returned to him, his vision was rather completely obstructed by the sole of a boot approaching his face with something resembling terminal velocity.

The impact was a blast of white fire, and there was a second impact against his back that was the balcony rail, and then the room turned upside down and he fell toward the ceiling, but not really, of course: it only felt that way because he had flipped over the rail and he was falling headfirst toward the floor, and neither his arms nor his legs were paying any attention to what he was trying to make them do. He barely managed to land on his two feet.

He dusted himself off and fixed a supercilious gaze on Michael, who now stood upon the balcony looking down at him and Gaz couldn't hold the stare; he found this reversal of their original positions oddly unsettling. There was something troublingly appropriate about it. Seeing Michael standing where Gaz himself had stood only moments ago… it was as though he was trying to remember a dream he'd never actually had…

It was somewhat similar to Tara’s premonitions. Michael would strike down everyone but would eventually lose to Cherilyn… No. Gaz would bring Michael down by himself.

He lifted his blade, and beckoned.

Michael leapt from the balcony.

Gaz slipped aside from an overhand chop and sprang backwards.

Michael leapt for him again, and this time Gaz met his charge easily. They stood nearly toe-to-toe, blades flashing faster than the eye could see, but Michael kept control of his motion.

He and Michael paused for one single, final instant, blades locked together, staring at each other past a sizzling cross of crimson against green, and in that instant Gaz found himself wondering whether his end was near.

And through the cross of their blades he saw in Michael's eyes the promise of hell, but he was determined not to meet his death in Michael’s hands.

Gaz attempted one last counter that sent Michael retreating a bit, but Michael bounced back with a hard slash, which Gaz barely managed to block. Just as Gaz saw an opening, he felt Fang Hook approaching him with lightning speed and finally, Gaz’s exhaustion caught up to him.

He did not react in time, and Fang Hook finished him off with one, swift blow. He met his fate after all. But it was not how Tara foresaw it, or maybe the whole premonition meant something else. But one thing’s for sure: Gaz had fallen.

[Terudel]

Aboard Omega Class Star Destroyer Liberation, Approaching orbit of Idylle, Relesent System
12th Selene, (12th October) 0900 Hours (Idylle Time), 1506 AGW

“That appears to be all of them, Commodore,” Sojan said, gazing out the bridge viewport at the Rebel warships spread out along the orbit of the planet. “Instruct the Conqueror and the Maw III to secure from entrapment duty and return to their positions in the demarcation line. All warships: prepare to engage the enemy.”

“Yes, sir,” Helysa said, shaking her head in silent wonder as she keyed in the orders. Once again, against overwhelming evidence to the contrary, the Grand Admiral had proved himself right. The Rebel assault fleet was hesitating.

And probably wondering at this very moment what had gone wrong with their clever little scheme. “It occurs to me, Admiral, that we might not want to destroy all of them,” she suggested. “Someone should be allowed to return to Dieusia to tell them how badly they were outsmarted.”

“I agree, Commodore,” Sojan said. “Though I doubt that will be their interpretation. More likely they’ll conclude instead that they were betrayed.”

“Probably,” Helysa agreed, throwing a quick look around the bridge. She’d thought she’d heard a faint sound just then, something like an overstressed bearing or someone rumbling in the back of her throat. She listened closely, but the sound wasn’t repeated. “Though that would work equally well to our advantage.”

“Indeed,” Sojan said.

Helysa glanced up at Tesex, standing silent guard behind Sojan’s chair, and wondered if the former Lieutenant appreciated the irony of it all. Given the look on her face, probably not. Ahead, space was filling with ashes of laser fire as the opposing starfighter squadrons began to engage. Settling herself comfortably in her chair, Helysa glanced over her displays and prepared her mind for battle. For battle, and for victory.

The two Rebel Assault Frigates broke to either side of the beleaguered Conqueror, delivering massive broadsides as they veered off. A section of the destroyer flared and went dark; and against its darkened bulk another wave of Rebel starfighters could be seen slipping past into the shipyards beyond.

And Helysa was no longer smiling.

“Don’t panic, Commodore,” Sojan said. But he, too, was starting to sound grim. “We’re not defeated yet. Not by a long shot.”

Helysa’s board pinged. She looked at it.

“Sir, we have a message coming in from Rebel Base 9,” she told Sojan, her stomach twisting with a sudden horrible premonition. Could Michael and Fang Hook be—

“Read it, Commodore,” Sojan said, his voice deadly quiet.

“Gaz is dead. We got Glenn. We will be returning to the Liberation. Inform Jaygini and the rest to disengage. We will not confront the rebels. Spencer out.”

Helysa cleared her throat before continuing, “We can’t back down now! We can bring down the rebellion with our ships! Spencer is a—”

She never got to read any more of the report. Abruptly, a pale-skinned hand slashed out of nowhere, catching her across the throat. She gagged, falling limply in her chair, her whole body instantly paralyzed. “You do not get to decide here, scum! If Michael says no, then it’s a no!”

Tesex let go of Helysa and returned to her position. Still gasping, struggling against the inertia of her stunned muscles, Helysa fought to get a hand up her command board.

With one final effort, she made it, trying twice before she was able to hit the emergency alert. And as the wailing of the alarm cut through the noise of a Star Destroyer at battle, she finally managed to turn his head. Sojan was sitting upright in his chair, his face strangely calm. In the middle of his chest, a dark red stain was spreading across the spotless white of his Grand Admiral’s uniform. Glittering in the centre of the stain was the tip of Kalee’s knife.

Sojan caught her eye; and to Helysa’s astonishment, the Grand Admiral smiled. “But,” he whispered, “it was so artistically done.”

The smile faded. The glow in his eyes did likewise … and Sojan, the Grand Admiral, was gone.

“Commodore Helysa?” the comm officer called urgently as the medic team arrived—too late—to the Grand Admiral’s chair. “Colonel Jaygini is requesting orders. What shall I tell her?”

Helysa looked up at the viewports. At the chaos that had erupted behind the defences of the supposedly secure shipyards; at the unexpected need to split her forces to its defence; at the Rebel fleet taking full advantage of the diversion. In the blink of an eye, the universe had suddenly turned against them. Sojan could still have pulled a Republic victory out of it. But she, Helysa, was not Sojan.

“Signal to all ships,” she rasped. The words ached in her throat, in a way that had nothing to do with the throbbing pain of Tesex’s treacherous attack. “Prepare to retreat.”