20
“Accuracy was nearly ideal, sir,” said Captain Raslan—or, rather, his holographic image now wavering in the security foyer of Iron Fist’s bridge. “Efficiency, however, is another matter. The jump here used nearly three times as much energy as it optimally should.”
Zsinj kept any annoyance out of his face. This was not bad news. He’d gambled almost everything on the assumption that Razor’s Kiss actually was as complete as its builders claimed and had made it to safety with his new prize. All other considerations were minor ones. “What about damage?”
“It appears that, contrary to safety regulations, some of the Kuat workers had jammed an airlock open where the access armature attached from the station to Razor’s Kiss. When the ship blasted free, that section vented its atmosphere rather precipitously. We’ve corrected the problem. The Kuat Drive Yards workers who were on duty at that portion of the ship perished, of course. Instant corrective measures for those who disobeyed the rules.”
Zsinj grinned, then suppressed it. “Very well, Captain. Carry on. Keep me updated.”
“Yes, sir.” The image faded.
Zsinj turned and jumped. General Melvar stood right behind him, his makeup removed and his features returned to their usual cheerful blandness. “You did it again,” Zsinj said, cross.
“Yes, sir.”
“All the pirate captains happy?”
“Not one of them was happy, but none of them shot me, which I took to be a good sign. I think most of them will work with us again. Especially once those who took the credit vouchers take them to their systems of origin and determine that they’re real.” He gave Zsinj a curious look. “I’m surprised you’re not over there now. On Razor’s Kiss, looking at every rivet and dab of paint.”
“Oh, I will be soon. Best to wait until Security has removed the last Kuat forces and possible saboteurs.”
There was a sudden surge of noise from the crew pit, voices raised in fast exchanges. Iron Fist’s captain, Vellar, a stern-faced man just now going to fat, leaned over the command walkway to peer down into the midst of the noise, then looked back at Zsinj, unhappiness in his expression. “Several ships have just dropped from hyperspace in our vicinity. One dead ahead as we bear, the rest situated to our starboard and trailing. The one ahead is tentatively identified as a Mon Calamari cruiser.”
Zsinj felt as though he’d been dropped into a polar breeze. He suppressed a shudder. “Mon Remonda, here?”
“That’s not determined yet, sir, but—”
“Shut up. Signal Razor’s Kiss. Coordinate a five-light-year hyperspace jump on this course and execute it.”
“Sir, the cruiser is maneuvering directly into our path. We’ll be on her before it’s time to jump. Shall we change course to avoid?”
“No, you idiot. One Mon Calamari cruiser in the path of two Super Star Destroyers? Bring all guns of both ships to bear. Before we make the transition to lightspeed, we’re going to rid the galaxy of the Rebels’ most annoying cruiser … and of the legacy of Han Solo.”
• • •
Her comlink suddenly crackled with activity on New Republic bandwidths, and Shalla jumped in surprise. Guiltily, she checked her life-support unit. She’d fallen asleep and the thing had run down almost to empty. A really stupid way to die, she told herself. She removed another unit from the storage compartment beneath her seat and put it on.
The comm transmissions were all encoded, but by straining her eyes she could see, in the incredible immensity of the starfield ahead of her, a distant needle of light that could not be a star. Her sensors might tell her what it was … then again, if activated, they might alert the Razor’s Kiss crew to her presence.
But the domes to the right and left of her suddenly pulsed with power, bringing their mighty shields up over the Super Star Destroyer, and she decided the ship’s crew had other things to worry about. She began her power-on sequence.
Wedge roared out of Mon Remonda’s port hangar, came around to a course matching the cruiser’s, and waited as the others formed up on him.
Kell flew Piggy’s X-wing, but that left the unit shy one snubfighter. Dia was in one of the TIE interceptors, hastily painted in Wraith Squadron grays to disguise its recent activities with the Hawk-bats. Wedge tried to force a nagging voice of worry from his mind. He didn’t need to tell Wes to look after his underdefended wingman. He just wanted to.
The last members of his unit to launch, Face and Lara, formed up. Moments later, Rogue Squadron began emerging by twos, Tycho Celchu and Corran Horn first, and forming up by wingmates. On the opposite side of Mon Remonda, the A-wings of Polearm Squadron and B-wings of Nova Squadron would also be assembling.
Han’s voice crackled in his ear. “They’re aware of us. They’re not deploying their fighter screen. That suggests they plan to blow their way through and launch back into hyperspace.”
“The rest of our group?” Wedge asked.
“Coming up fast in their wake.”
“Please inform them that if they’re very nice, maybe we’ll leave them something to shoot at.”
Han Solo watched the universe tilt through the viewports as Mon Remonda turned on its intercept course.
He could feel Captain Onoma’s eyes on him. He turned to the captain and shook his head. “Not yet,” he said. “Save your fire. This is going to be a slugging match.”
“You sound regretful.”
“I hate slugging matches.”
Piggy activated his power-on sequence.
Nothing happened. The fighter’s interior remained dark and silent.
Shalla’s sensors showed four squadrons of starfighters approaching.
When should she act? The later she made her assault on the shield projectors, the better it would be for her unit. But she knew her fellow pilots had to be suffering, approaching without any knowledge of whether she’d be able to accomplish her task.
She calculated their rate of approach based on sensor data. When they were thirty seconds short of firing range, she activated her repulsorlifts, bringing her interceptor up a mere meter above the deck of Razor’s Kiss and well back from the domes. She swung toward the starboard shield projector dome and fired.
The dome blew apart in an impressive display of flaming gas and metal shards; she heard shrapnel bounce off her hull. She rotated and fired again, obliterating the second projector with similar finality.
Then she settled down again atop the rubbish-strewn tower. She’d wait a moment to launch—wait until space was crowded and confused, when she wouldn’t be such an easy target.
“Razor’s Kiss reports catastrophic failure of topside shield generators!”
Zsinj stared at the captain as though the man had suddenly grown a Devaronian’s horns and teeth. “Tell me you’re lying.”
The captain shook his head helplessly.
Zsinj slammed his hands on the nearest bulkhead. “Change course to eight-five. Tell Razor’s Kiss to follow closely and use us for protection from Mon Remonda. Calculate a new jump on that course and initiate it as soon as possible.” He looked at Melvar. “Launch all fighters.”
Wedge’s sensor board showed the second Super Star Destroyer’s topside shields evaporating. It displayed the information without emotion, without understanding of how that fact made the pilots’ hearts jump.
“All squadrons, this is Wraith Leader. Prepare for strafing run on the second Destroyer. Ignore Iron Fist for now. X-wings, B-wings, commence with proton torpedoes. Save some for the engines.” Wedge heeled over, changing course toward the second destroyer, and sent up a silent cheer for Shalla.
Iron Fist surged forward, her bow guns opening up on the oncoming starfighters, and began a slow maneuver to starboard as the second destroyer dropped back behind her. Wedge adjusted course, bringing his squadrons up over Iron Fist’s bow at a considerable altitude.
And then they were in the midst of it, ion cannons sending energy washes between them, laser batteries making space brilliant all around them. Wedge felt hair stand up all over his body as an ion blast came too close; his cockpit lights dimmed, but the computer and his R5 astromech did not suffer power loss. He heard one cry over the comlink—the cry of a survivor who’d just seen a wingman evaporate; Polearm Five disappeared off the sensor board.
Then they were past Iron Fist, the ship’s horrendous field of damage tracking and following them, and the second Destroyer’s guns opened up.
But now they could reply. “Fire at will,” Wedge commanded, and some of the starfighters were launching proton torpedoes before he had the second word out. Faint blue trails leaped out from the starfighters, homing in on the Destroyer’s bow, detonating split seconds later in huge balls of incendiary destruction.
Ahead, a tiny spark—ion-engine emissions—leaped off the command tower, then curved around in front of that projection and opened fire. Minuscule needles of green flashed between it and the destroyer’s bridge … and Wedge watched as the bridge viewports blew in, then vented out just as suddenly in a hail of debris and atmosphere.
“New Republic forces, this is Wraith Ten. Sending transponder data. Please flag me a friendly.”
“Confirm that friendly,” Wedge said. “People, this is the lady who just opened the front door for us.”
Cheers sounded over the comlink. Then the starfighters flashed past the command tower and its ruined summit, past the friendly interceptor that looped around and struggled to catch up. They rained their torpedoes down on the Super Star Destroyer’s stern, then looped around to add the ship’s engines to their list of victims.
A grating voice, Mon Calamari: “Assault force, this is Mon Remonda. Sensors show starfighters launching from Iron Fist in considerable strength.”
“Understood,” Wedge said. “All squadrons, stay in formation. Turn to course nine-oh but keep firing on the target destroyer until you no longer bear. Prepare for individual action.”
“The Razor’s Kiss bridge is no longer responding to communications,” the captain said. His voice was dull with this recitation of what was only one new set of bad news. “Sensors show serious damage to the bridge. I think we’ve lost them.”
Zsinj stared at the holoprojection of a live image of Razor’s Kiss. The Super Star Destroyer, so powerful, so beautiful just minutes ago, was now awash in flame from bow to stern. Hundreds of gouts of fire had erupted from her top deck.
“What about our man on the auxiliary bridge?”
“Also not reporting. Possibly killed during the barrage.”
On a fully staffed destroyer, crews would be putting out those fires. More officers would be occupying the auxiliary bridge and getting back in contact with Iron Fist. But this was not a fully completed Destroyer.
When Zsinj spoke, his voice was quiet, calm. “What’s her course?”
“She came to eight-five as ordered. But she has not come back up to flank speed. Unless we reduce speed, we’re going to leave her behind.”
“Reduce—”
A voice rose from the crew pit: “Communication from Razor’s Kiss!”
Zsinj shouted, “Well, bring it up!”
The dismal image of the crippled Destroyer was replaced by a faded holoprojection of a stormtrooper. His helmet was off, revealing a big face on a big neck, black hair just a little too shaggy to be regulation, a determined expression. “This is Trooper Second Class Gatterweld.”
Zsinj frowned. He knew the names of all his agents aboard Razor’s Kiss. This man wasn’t one of them. “You’re part of the ship’s security detail?”
“Yes, sir.”
The warlord smiled. A social call from an enemy who wasn’t even an officer. The ridiculousness of it pleased him. “And what can I do for you this fine day, Trooper Gatterweld?”
“Sir, I’d just taken the auxiliary bridge to gain control of this ship when the attack came. But I’d prefer to see this fine lady intact in your hands rather than destroyed at the hands of the Rebels.”
Zsinj’s knees went weak. “I’m going to put a communications officer on. He’s going to talk you through the process of slaving Razor’s Edge to our bridge. Then we’ll save her.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Gatterweld, I’m going to make you a very rich man.”
“I don’t care about that, sir. I’m just doing my duty.”
Zsinj tottered away to let Melvar take over. Suddenly exhausted, he sank into a chair at the communications console.
Events like this reminded him, from time to time, that there was good in the universe, that with enough faith and determination he could win. He could win everything.
Piggy was up to his armpits in wiring when he found the problem. His port-side ion engine was completely out of commission, its connections severed, with trailing cables from the power generator having fallen into other wiring, destroying he knew not how much additional equipment.
He’d have to cut the destroyed engine out of the loop, patch everything else back together as best he could, and then see if the thing would start. He devoutly wished Kell, with his mechanic’s skills, were here.
On the other hand, he wouldn’t wish “here” on anyone he actually liked.
He got to work.
They boiled out of Iron Fist’s sides like angry stinging insects emerging from a shaken hive, squadron after squadron of TIEs—fighters, interceptors, even bombers. They curved in their streams back toward the New Alliance squadrons.
Face heard Wedge issue orders, perhaps the last set of group orders they’d receive before this fight was done: “Break by pairs. Take shots at Iron Fist when you can, but your main objective is to protect yourselves and hold the starfighters. Polearm, you’re our spearhead—break up their formation, deny them their united inertia before they get to us. Rogues next. Wraiths, hang back, every pair protect a pair of B-wings. That’s all.”
“Polearm Leader acknowledging.”
“This is Rogue Leader, we’re on it.”
“This is Nova Leader, thanks.”
From the Wraiths there were only a few scattered groans. Face felt like complaining himself. To be relegated to babysitting duty while the Polearms and Rogues were up front—but Face knew, deep down, the reason for it. More than half the Wraiths were just back from an earlier action. They were tired, even if they didn’t realize it yet.
Ahead, the A-wings of Polearm Squadron roared toward the massed TIEs with speed no X-wing could match. Face could see the deadly formation of starfighters stream straight into the squadrons of TIEs, their laser fire reaping heavy casualties in the target-heavy environment. The enemy forces seemed even more to be a swarm of stinging insects as their formation lost coherence, groups of two and four and six TIEs going after each A-wing.
Then the Rogues were among them. Face watched the unit expertly break up into pairs, each pair moving as one, each pilot firing with the skill of years of experience. Face felt something like a shudder of dread, a feeling nearly of sympathy for the TIE fighters facing those formidable pilots, and suddenly he felt inadequate. He knew he wasn’t up to their standard of performance.
“Orders?” That was Lara’s voice in his ear, calling him back to the present situation.
“Right. Follow me.” He dove relative to the formation and brought himself and his wingman up before a pair of B-wings. He dropped transmission power. “This is Wraith Eight and Wraith Thirteen. We’re your escorts for this evening. What’s your pleasure?”
“You have Nova Three and Nova Four. We can play with the TIEs, but we’re much better suited to unloading on that ugly hunk of metal the warlord is driving.”
“Tuck in tight, we’ll get you close.” Face goosed his thrusters and the foursome of starfighters veered off, away from the center of the dogfight, toward Iron Fist.
Ahead, a group of fighters—nine, nearly an entire squadron—broke from the main engagement zone and moved out to intercept them. Face switched to dual fire and opened up with his lasers at maximum range.
The backstop for his fire was Iron Fist. No expended fire would be wasted.
The TIEs came on, twisting, bobbing, weaving, difficult targets. Face wished he hadn’t expended all his proton torpedoes on the other Destroyer. On the other hand, it burned nicely, and he had no time for regrets.
One of the oncoming TIEs exploded under Lara’s sustained fire and he heard a hissed “Yesss” from her. Why? Oh, yes, she entered this fight with four silhouettes on her canopy. She’d just made ace.
Another TIE drifted right through the ion-cannon wash from one of the B-wings and went ballistic, helplessly rolling in uncontrolled straight-line flight. Face saw one of the oncoming TIEs was making unpredictable moves at predictable intervals; he waited for the next interval, guessed at the pilot’s next move, fired in that direction, and was rewarded when the fighter drifted right into his fire. It detonated and its wingman flew right through the debris, emerging intact.
Face felt a blow as his forward shields were hit and some of the laser energy penetrated to score his hull. Then they were past, nothing between them and Iron Fist.
“Thirteen, drop back, shore up your rear shields,” he said. “Let’s give the Novas all the protection we can.” In other words, let’s be targets for a while. The way the raiders on the first Death Star trenches were before they died.
“Understood.”
Wedge, unencumbered by a wingman, switched his encryption code so only the Rogues would hear him. “This is Wraith Leader. Any sign of the One Eighty-first?”
Tycho Celchu’s voice, strained: “We’re in the thick of them. You offering help?”
Wedge sighed. He’d like nothing better than to demonstrate to Baron Fel the error of his evaluation of Wedge’s flying skills. Then he glanced back at the pair of B-wings following in his wake. “I’d love to. But can’t. They’ll be here soon enough.”
“Understood.”
Then they were before him, a half squad of TIEs, four fighters and two bombers. He saw one veer to starboard, picked out that one’s wingman, fired ahead of its course if it turned the same way, and it did, erupting into a glowing shrapnel cloud—one kill, one second into the dogfight.
“Now reaching Iron Fist’s escape vector.”
“All stop.” Han felt fluttering in his stomach as though it were occupied by alien invaders, but he tried to keep his discomfort from his face. “All starboard batteries to begin fire on my command. Prepare for axial roll. Captain, maintain our position directly ahead of Iron Fist. Continue correcting as it’s recalculated. And when any bank of batteries falls below eighty percent, perform enough roll to bring new guns to bear, and increase shield strength on the firing side as you do so.”
“Yes, sir.”
Iron Fist opened up, her laser batteries streaking by in such profusion that they looked like the star elongation that was the first visual manifestation of a hyperspace jump. Han tensed against the blows he knew were to come. “Open fire.”
Piggy flipped the power-up switch and was rewarded with an erratic whine from the engines and the sudden lighting of his weapons and flight boards.
His diagnostics board said that all systems were down.
He grunted. No use listening to people—or systems—who are inclined to tell you that you can’t do something. Not yet daring to commence powered flight, he brought his targeting system up and tried to bracket the distant shield projector dome.
One small piece of the dome fell within his targeting bracket, and jittered there, showing a clean lock, only moments at a time.
Wedge blinked away at the stinging of his eyes. The third TIE fighter had nailed him with a good fuselage shot just before Wedge had vaped him, and his cockpit was now filling with smoke.
Sensors showed that of the flight of nine that had moved against him, four were down—one having fallen prey to one of the B-wings. One of his B-wings remained, battered, char marks on its hull from insistent laser fire; the other was a rapidly dissipating cloud a dozen kilometers back.
He brought his targeting brackets over another TIE. They overshot as the starfighter sideslipped. Then the vehicle exploded, hit by lateral fire.
Incoming vehicles on the sensors, from the direction of the second destroyer—an A-wing leading a flying wedge of unscathed Y-wings. They continued firing and the TIEs bedeviling Wedge evaporated under their massed lasers.
“Wraith Leader to newcomers. Who am I talking to?”
The voice that came back was hard and military, but he heard an amused tone within it. “Why, Commander. You forget old friends so soon.”
“General Crespin!” This was the frigate’s starfighter force, then, finally catching up from the rear.
“And the Screaming Wookiee Training Squadron.”
“Can you escort Nova Three?”
“Hand over all the B-wings, sonny, and I’ll show you some old-fashioned mass-fire tactics.”
“Nova Squadron, this is Wraith Leader. Form up with the Screaming Wookiee.” Wedge coughed against the smoke. “I’m outbound, General, have to visit some old friends.”
“Good luck.”
“Wraiths, see your charges back to the general, then join the Rogues.” Wedge heeled over and headed into the thickest part of the engagement zone.
Far ahead, past Iron Fist’s bow, the tiny needle that was Mon Remonda opened up with laser barrages. They flared and were expended uselessly against Iron Fist’s shields.
“Do you think he plans to sacrifice Mon Remonda to stop us?” Zsinj, chin in hand, steadily regarded the tiny but growing cruiser ahead.
“He continues correcting his position to be more and more precisely in our path,” said Melvar. “We can’t be sure of his intent until we’re past the point of no return. Then, either he moves out of our path and we can get through and go to hyperspace … or we hit Mon Remonda and both vessels probably perish.”
“He actually has more firepower to unload than we do at the moment. He can bring almost half his guns to bear at any time. We’re limited to the forward guns that can depress far enough to target him.” Zsinj shook his head. “All right. Bring all our guns to bear on her engines. Stop her dead in space. The sooner you do it, the greater margin we’ll have to squeak past him.”
Zsinj’s stomach began churning. This was still winnable. But the New Republic assault, the way they’d accurately calculated his position, the way they relied on his protectiveness of Razor’s Kiss to slow him, was upsetting.
It was a TIE interceptor, but it moved more sluggishly than the standard interceptor. A few kilometers from Iron Fist’s bridge, it had one TIE fighter under its guns and was stitching it with dual-linked fire while another fighter maneuvered behind it.
Wedge targeted the second fighter, bracketed it with his targeting computer before it was aware of his proximity, and shredded it with quad-linked lasers even as the interceptor vaped the first fighter. “Ten, is that you?”
“Good to hear from you, Leader. I hate this thing. It’s as fragile as an interceptor and as slow as an X-wing.”
“Well, stop playing by yourself, then. You’re my wing.”
“Yes, sir.”
In spite of the smoke blurring his vision, Wedge saw the tiny green needle on Iron Fist’s hull below him—a long, tentative streak that hit the port-side shield projector dome, hit it twice, hit it a third time—and then the dome exploded.
The source of the laser fire, a TIE fighter, leaped up from Iron Fist’s hull. It shot up through her defensive shields as if the maneuver were an accident, then looped around as if flown by a drunken skimmer pilot, apparently setting up for a descent and run on the second dome projector, but an ion-cannon beam swept across it. The fighter continued off on a straight-line course toward the stars.
The captain’s shout was jubilant: “Mon Remonda no longer maneuvering. We have their engines, Warlord!”
“Excel—”
The bridge rocked, its lights dimming, fragments of ceiling descending into the crew pit. Zsinj tottered and fell. He looked up; Melvar was looking away, not extending a hand. That was correct, that was proper. No one was supposed to see the warlord discommoded.
Zsinj clambered to his feet. “What happened?”
The captain had gone from cheer to despair in just a second. “We’ve lost the port-side shield projector. We’re down to half shield strength above the midline.”
Zsinj felt as though he, too, were suddenly at half strength. He calculated the numbers. “Is that frigate still on our tail?”
“Still catching up. It will be within firing range in two minutes at this rate.”
Zsinj closed his eyes. “Recall the fighters. Bring Iron Fist up to flank speed. Communicate with Razor’s Kiss, issue the command ‘abandon ship.’ ” He didn’t have to add, We’ve lost this battle.
Face caught sight of the interceptors emerging from the flurry of fighters, headed their way. “Thirteen, incoming!” He turned into the path of the incoming TIEs, threw all discretionary power onto forward shields—
Too late. Laser fire from the lead interceptor punched through his unboosted shield and then through his cockpit. He felt a sudden blast of agonizing heat to his left side, then cold just as intense. He watched in idle curiosity as his vision changed—first as the atmosphere of his cockpit was vented, then as the emergency magcon field on his suit came up and tried to cope with the sudden vacuum. He caught a glimpse of the red stripe on his attacker’s solar wing arrays as it sped past.
There was no response, and Face felt a distant sadness. Eight, whoever he was, must have been vaped.
“Eight, this is Thirteen, can you hear me?”
There was an additional squeal from Vape, Face’s R2 unit, and Face wished the whole universe would just shut up for a while.
“Squad, this is Thirteen. We need help here. I can’t handle these two—”
“Wraith Three here. Four and I are coming in. Hold on.”
“Five here, I’m almost there.”
It took Face another long moment to understand. He was hit, he was done. He couldn’t move for the pain. Iron Fist loomed in the near distance ahead. He was going to crash and his debt would be paid.
He should have felt at peace with that. Peace was what he’d expected all this time. But it eluded him. Was something left undone?
Well, there was that second shield projector dome. If he could make his hand move, he might be able to steer straight into it. If the Destroyer’s guns didn’t get him, if its shields didn’t destroy him, he might, just might be able to angle into that dome and destroy it, too.
The odds one in a million. Less, really. But it seemed like a good way to go out. He brought his cold, cold hand up to the pilot’s yoke and gripped it. He couldn’t feel his fingers close on it, but could see them.
“Got him, got him—dammit, he’s slipped by.”
“This is Five, I’m on the second one.”
“Hold him, hold him—”
“He’s not shaking me, Three. You see after Eight.”
Oh, yes, he was Eight. Why were they worried about him? Didn’t they realize he was already dead?
No, they didn’t. Bless their optimistic little hearts, they actually thought he was going to make it. Now he knew how Phanan had felt with Face fussing over him. The Wraiths didn’t realize it was his time, time to balance the account.
The account doesn’t need balancing. Ton Phanan’s voice from some forgotten conversation. You can’t reduce sapient lives to numbers and exchange them like credits.
The snubfighter shuddered again as more laser fire hit him. It must have hit the X-wing’s rear; at least he wasn’t feeling any more pain. Iron Fist was getting bigger.
And Ton was right. Ton, who had suffered from the Empire’s success as much as anyone he’d ever met, should know. He didn’t have to close out his account now.
An X-wing blasted past him to port, juking and jinking. He thought he recognized it as Wraith Eleven. Tyria.
If she was doing that, she was being pursued. With his numbed fingers, he brought up his targeting system and swung it just to port of his flight path.
An interceptor flashed into his brackets and he fired. With detached interest, he watched the laser blast shear through its starboard wing and pylon, straight through the canopy. The interceptor exploded and bits of it glowed as they bounced off his forward shields.
Donos’s voice: “Nice shot, Eight! Are you back with us?”
“ ’M here.”
“Eight, this is Thirteen. I’m coming up beside you.” Lara slid in place to his starboard, then ahead. “I’m going to lead you back to Tedevium. Will you follow me?”
“Sure.”
“Can you make it?”
“Sure. Wake me up if I fall asleep.”
“Will do.”
Another TIE fighter went to pieces under Wedge’s lasers and he had a clear path to the center of the engagement, where members of the 181st—where Baron Fel—awaited him.
But those fighters veered off toward Iron Fist.
All the TIEs began veering off toward Iron Fist, even if it meant exposing their backs to New Republic guns.
And Iron Fist was picking up speed.
“Oh, no, you don’t.” Wedge kicked his thrusters as high as they’d go and added some discretionary power to them. But the faster TIEs leaped out ahead, arcing down beneath the Super Star Destroyer and toward her landing bay. Wraiths, Rogues, Polearms, and Novas took parting shots, achieving more kills in those few seconds than in the entire dogfight, but still the TIEs ran.
Iron Fist cruised past Mon Remonda, lying at a dead stop, her engines flaming, mere kilometers away. The two capital ships exchanged barrage after barrage. Wedge, looping well around the corridor of fire between them, saw laser batteries take out chunks from the hulls of both vessels. Nova Squadron’s B-wings continued pouring heavy fire into Iron Fist’s stern from as close a distance as they could afford, but the Destroyer’s shields held.
Then the Destroyer leaped forward and was gone, lost into hyperspace.
Far behind, the other Destroyer began firing off escape pods like mold spores as more and more flames gouted up from beneath her surface. Then the brightest flame of all rose out of her midsection, a globe-shaped inferno, and began eating away at the vessel in all directions. The few starfighters remaining in its vicinity raced away at full speed.
One last flash, bright as a nova, and the Destroyer hurled asteroid-sized pieces of itself in all directions.