Star Wars: X-Wing I: Rogue Squadron (50 page)

The Preybirds were back in tight formation now, once again approaching their target. The
Chimaera’
s turbolasers opened up as they came, their low-level fire splattering across the Preybirds’ overlapping deflector shields. For a few seconds the opponents traded fire; then, the Preybirds broke formation again, splitting apart like the fingertips of an opening hand. Twisting over and under the
Cbimaera
, they shot past, scrambling for the safety of distance.

“Damage report?” Pellaeon called.

“Three starboard turbolaser batteries knocked out,” the officer called back. “We’ve also lost one tractor beam projector and two ion cannon.”

“Enemy damage?”

“One attacker appears to have lost its deflector shields, and two others are reading diminished turbolaser capability.”

“Hardly counts as damage,” Ardiff murmured. “Of course, the situation here isn’t exactly fair. Ships that small and maneuverable would never have the kind of shields or firepower we’re crediting them with.”

“If you want fairness, organize a shockball tournament,” Pellaeon said acidly. “Don’t look for it in warfare.”

Ardiff’s cheek twitched. “I’m sorry, sir.”

Pellaeon sighed. The finest the Imperial Fleet had to
offer … “Stand by the cloaking shield, Captain,” he ordered, watching the faint drive glows as the Preybirds regrouped again in the distance. “Activate on my command.”

“Yes, Admiral.”

There was a sudden flare of drive glow, partially eclipsed by the Preybirds themselves, as the enemy kicked into high acceleration. “Here they come,” Pellaeon said, watching as the single glowing dot rapidly resolved itself into eight close-formation ships. “Lock Predictor into fire control. Stand by cloaking shield.”

“Predictor and cloaking shield standing by,” Ardiff confirmed.

Pellaeon nodded, his full attention on the Preybirds. Nearly to the point where they’d broken formation last time … “Cloaking shield:
now.
”

And with a brief flicker of bridge lighting, the stars and incoming Preybirds vanished as the cloaking shield plunged the
Chimaera
into total darkness.

“Cloaking shield activated and stabilized,” Ardiff said.

“Helm, come around portside: thirty degrees by eight,” Pellaeon ordered. “Ahead acceleration point one. Turbolasers: fire.”

“Acknowledged,” an officer called. “Turbolasers are firing.”

Pellaeon took a step closer to the viewport and looked down along the
Chimaera’
s sides. The faint blasts of low-level fire were visible, lancing a short distance out from the Star Destroyer and then disappearing as they penetrated the spherical edge of the Star Destroyer’s cloaking shield. Blinded by the very device that was now shielding it from its opponents’ view, the
Chimaera
was firing wildly in an attempt to destroy those opponents.

Or perhaps not quite so wildly. If the Predictor worked as well as its designers hoped, perhaps the Empire still had a chance in this war.

It was a long time before the
Chimaera’
s turbolasers finally ceased fire. Far too long. “Is that it?” he asked Ardiff.

“Yes, sir,” the other said. “Five hundred shots, as pre-programmed.”

Pellaeon nodded. “Deactivate cloaking shield. Let’s see how well we did.”

There was another flicker from the lights, and the stars were back. Mentally crossing his fingers, Pellaeon peered out the viewport.

For a moment there was nothing. Then, from starboard, he spotted the approaching drive glows. Seven of them.

“Signal from Adversary Commander, Admiral,” the comm officer called. “Target Three reports receiving a disabling hit and has gone dormant; all other targets have sustained only minimal damage. Requesting orders.”

Pellaeon grimaced. One. Out of eight targets, the
Chimaera
had been able to hit exactly one. And that great feat had required five hundred shots to achieve.

So that was that. The wonderful Computerized Combat Predictor, touted by its creators and sponsors as the best approach to practical use of the cloaking shield, had been put to the test. And to be fair, it had probably done better than simple random shooting.

But it hadn’t done enough better. Not nearly enough.

“Inform Adversary Commander that the exercise is over,” Pellaeon told the comm officer. “Target Three may reactivate its systems; all ships are to return to the
Chimaera
. I want their reports filed within the next two hours.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m sure they’ll be able to improve it, Admiral,” Ardiff said at Pellaeon’s side. “This was just the first field test. Surely they’ll be able to improve it.”

“How?” Pellaeon retorted. “Train the Predictor to be omniscient? Or simply teach it how to read our enemies’ minds?”

“You only gave it two passes to study the targets’ flight patterns,” Ardiff reminded him. “With more data, it could have better anticipated their movements.”

Pellaeon snorted gently. “It’s a nice theory, Captain, and under certain controlled situations it might even work. But combat is hardly a controlled situation. There are far too
many variables and unknowns, especially considering the hundreds of alien species and combat styles we have to contend with. I knew from the beginning that this Predictor idea was probably futile. But it had to be tried.”

“Well, then, we just have to go back to mark zero,” Ardiff said. “Come up with something else. There have to be practical uses for this cloaking shield device.”

“Of course there are,” Pellaeon agreed heavily. “Grand Admiral Thrawn devised three of them himself. But there’s no one left in the Empire with his military genius.”

He sighed. “No, Captain. It’s over. It’s all over. And we’ve lost.”

For a long moment the low murmur of background conversation was the only sound on the bridge. “You can’t mean that, Admiral,” Ardiff said at last. “And if I may say so, sir, this is not the sort of thing the Supreme Commander of Imperial forces should be talking about.”

“Why not?” Pellaeon countered. “It’s obvious to everyone else.”

“It most certainly is not, sir,” Ardiff said stiffly. “We still hold eight sectors—over a thousand inhabited systems. We have the Fleet, nearly two hundred Star Destroyers strong. We’re still very much a force to be reckoned with.”

“Are we?” Pellaeon asked. “Are we really?”

“Of course we are,” Ardiff insisted. “How else could we be holding our own against the New Republic?”

Pellaeon shook his head. “We’re holding our own for the simple reason that the New Republic is too busy right now with internal squabbling to bother with us.”

“Which works directly to our advantage,” Ardiff said. “It’s giving us the time we need to reorganize and rearm.”

“Rearm?” Pellaeon threw him a quizzical frown. “Have you taken even a cursory look at what we’re working with here?” He gestured out the viewport at the Preybirds, disappearing now beneath the edge of the
Chimaera’
s hull as they headed for the Star Destroyer’s hangar. “Look at them, Captain. SoroSuub Preybirds. We’re reduced to SoroSuub Preybirds.”

“There’s nothing wrong with the Preybirds, sir,” Ardiff
said stubbornly. “They’re a quite capable midsize starfighter.”

“The point is that they’re not being manufactured by the Empire,” Pellaeon said. “They’re being scrounged from who knows where—probably some fringe pirate or mercenary gang. And they’re being scrounged precisely because we’re down to a single major shipyard and it can’t keep up with demand for capital ships, let alone starfighters. So tell me how you plan for us to rearm ourselves.”

Ardiff looked out the viewport. “It’s still not yet over, sir.”

But it was. And down deep, Pellaeon was sure Ardiff knew it as well as he did. A thousand systems left, out of an Empire that had once spanned a million. Two hundred Star Destroyers remaining from a Fleet that had once included over twenty-five thousand of them.

And perhaps most telling of all, hundreds of star systems that had once maintained a cautious neutrality were now petitioning the New Republic for membership. They, too, knew that the outcome was no longer uncertain.

Grand Admiral Thrawn could perhaps have breathed the remaining sparks into an Imperial victory. But Grand Admiral Thrawn was gone.

“Have the navigator plot a course for the Bastion system, Captain,” Pellaeon said to Ardiff. “Send transmissions to all the Moffs, instructing them to meet me at Moff Disra’s palace. We’ll leave as soon as the Preybirds are aboard.”

“Yes, Admiral,” Ardiff said. “May I tell the Moffs what the meeting is about?”

Pellaeon looked out the viewport at the distant stars. Stars that the Empire had once called theirs. They’d had so much … and somehow it had all slipped through their fingers. “Tell them,” he said quietly, “that it’s time to send an emissary to the New Republic.

“To discuss the terms of our surrender.”

The
Millennium Falcon’
s console gave a final proximity beep, jolting Han Solo out of a light doze. Uncrossing his arms, he stretched tired muscles and gave the displays a quick look. Almost there. “Come on, Chewie, look alive,” he said, giving the Wookiee beside him a couple of quick slaps with the back of his fingertips.

Chewbacca came awake with a jolt, rumbling a question. “We’re here, that’s what,” Han told him, widening his eyes a second to clear them. Getting a grip on the hyperdrive levers, he watched the timer count down. “Stand by the sub-light engines. Here we go.”

The counter went to zero, and he eased the levers forward. Outside the
Falcon’
s canopy, the mottled sky of hyperspace turned to starlines, which collapsed into stars, and they were there. “Right on target,” he commented, nodding toward the bluish-red planetary half circle ahead of them.

Beside him, Chewbacca growled. “Yeah, well, it’s always crowded around Iphigin,” Han said, eyeing the hundreds of tiny drive glows moving around the planet like some crazy multrille dance. “Main transfer point for this sector and at least two others. Probably why Puffers set up the meeting for here—you don’t start shooting if some of your own stuff might get in the way.”

Chewbacca growled in annoyance. “Well, excuse me,”
Han apologized sarcastically. “President Gavrisom, then. Didn’t know you were such a big fan.”

There was a beep from the comm. Slapping a massive hand at the switch, Chewbacca roared out an acknowledgment.

“Hey, Chewie,” Luke Skywalker’s voice came over the speaker. “You’re right on schedule. The
Falcon
must be running smoothly for a change.”

“Nothing broken but the comm switch,” Han grumbled, throwing a scowl at the Wookiee. “Chewie just tried to flatten it. Where are you, Luke?”

“Just coming in nightside,” Luke said. “What’s wrong with Chewie?”

“Nothing much,” Han said. “Small difference of political opinion, that’s all.”

“Ah,” Luke said knowingly. “Been calling President Gavrisom ‘Puffers’ again, have you?”

“Now, don’t
you
start,” Han growled, glaring at the comm speaker.

Chewbacca rumbled a question. “Well, for one thing, he never seems to do anything except talk,” Han said.

“That’s what Calibops are best at,” Luke pointed out. “Face it, Han: words are the tool of the task these days.”

“I know, I know,” Han said, making a face. “Leia’s been pounding it into me forever.” His voice drifted into an almost unconscious parody of his wife’s. “We’re not the Rebel Alliance anymore, with a handful of people running the whole show. We’re negotiators and arbitrators and we’re here to help system and sector governments be all nice and friendly to each other.”

“Is that really the way Leia put it?”

“So I paraphrased a little.” Han frowned out the
Falcon’
s canopy, glanced back at his displays. “Is that you in the X-wing?”

“That’s me,” Luke confirmed. “Why? You think I’ve forgotten how to fly one?”

“No, I just thought you usually used one of the academy’s Lambda shuttles these days.”

“That’s because I’m usually flying with other people,”
Luke said. “Students and such. Artoo was with me on Yavin doing some data sifting, so when your call came we just hopped in the old snubfighter and headed out. What’s this all about?”

“What’s it always about at this end of the Core?” Han countered sourly. “The Diamala and Ishori are at it again.”

Luke sighed, a faint hiss on the speaker. “Let me guess. Commerce and resource-sharing dispute?”

“Close,” Han said. “This time it’s shipping security. The Diamala don’t like having to rely on local patrol ships when they’re coming into Ishori ports. The Ishori, on the other hand, don’t want armed Diamala ships coming into their systems.”

“Sounds typical,” Luke said. “Gavrisom have any ideas on how to solve this one?”

“If he did, he didn’t mention them,” Han said. “He just called me on Wayland and said to flare it on over here. Help them be all nice and friendly to each other, I guess.”

“Gavrisom asked
you
to arbitrate?”

Han pursed his lips. “Well … not exactly. He kind of thinks Leia’s here with us.”

“Ah.”

“Look, Luke, I
am
official liaison to the Independent Shippers Association,” Han reminded him testily. “It’s not like I haven’t done this sort of thing before. And Leia hasn’t had any kind of real vacation in a long time—she and the kids need some time off together. And just for once, I’m not going to let her get dragged away on some stupid diplomatic thing, especially when she’s supposed to be on a leave of absence. She deserves better.”

“I can’t argue with that,” Luke conceded. “It’s not like her last few times away from the Presidency have been exactly restful. Though personally, I can’t imagine Wayland being very high on anyone’s list of resort spots.”

“You’d be surprised,” Han said. “It’s not like when we went tromping through the forest on the way to Mount Tantiss. Not with all the Noghri who’ve settled there.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Luke said. “So what can I do to help?”

“I’ve got a plan worked out,” Han said. “You know how Diamala get when they think: all icy calm and unemotional, right? Well, that’s kind of like your deep Jedi stuff, so you can go talk to their delegation. The Ishori are just the opposite—they can’t discuss anything without getting all worked up and screaming their heads off at each other.”