TWENTY-FIVE

With the exception of those in the Corporate Sector, few planetary systems had been exploited to the degree that Fondor had—especially for a system so close to the Core. That part of the Tapani sector had originally been designated a manufacturing and shipbuilding center precisely because of the surfeit of resource-rich asteroids and moons, and worlds ripe for abuse. But where the colossal corporations that dominated Bilbringi, Kuat, Sluis Van, and other shipbuilding centers made a pretense of picking up after themselves, no such efforts had ever been made at Fondor. With the space lanes perilous with free-floating construction debris, Fondor’s several small moons looking as if something had taken huge bites out of them, and the planet itself overcrowded, polluted, and corrupted by profiteers providing diversions for the millions of workers who had nowhere else to spend their hard-earned credits, the system was a blight on the Rimma Trade Route.

Many were quick to assert that Fondor’s nimbus of orbital docking stations and oblate zero-g construction facilities had never operated more smoothly than when the Empire had appropriated them, and in fact, conditions had clearly deteriorated over the past twenty standard years—more so since the arrival of the Yuuzhan Vong.

Emerging from the Gandeal hyperlane out past Fondor’s outermost moon, the Falcon was immediately detected and scanned by First Fleet command and control, which had been assigned the task of safeguarding the shipyards after the fall of Obroa-skai.

“Give them our actual transponder signal,” Han instructed Droma while he threaded the Falcon toward a pack of freighters and warships awaiting clearance to enter Fondor space. “It’s our best chance of getting through.”

“How could the Trevee have entered?” Droma asked while he flicked switches on the console.

Han snorted. “A ten-year-old slicer piloting a thirty-year-old Headhunter could penetrate military security. The Trevee could have legitimate business here, or whoever’s in charge of the Tholatin operation could have provided the crew with clearance codes.” He looked at Droma and grinned. “Look who I’m telling. The Ryn are probably pros at just this sort of thing.”

“Only by necessity,” Droma said ingenuously.

A crisp voice crackled from the cockpit annunciators. “Millennium Falcon, this is First Fleet control. Please state your point of origin and the nature of your business.”

“Gandeal,” Han said into his headset mike. “And it’s more pleasure than business. We’re supposed to rendezvous with friends who may have arrived ahead of us. Their ship is the Trevee. Nar Shaddaa registry.”

The communications officer at the other end of the link took a long moment to respond. “Pardon me for asking, Millennium Falcon, but am I speaking with General Han Solo?”

“That’s former general to you, Control,” Han said jocularly.

“A genuine pleasure to be talking with you, sir. As to your request, the Trevee received clearance a short while ago. Unfortunately, sir, they made their cargo drop in an area off-limits to unregistered ships—especially ships with the rectenna array and firepower rating yours boasts.”

“Just like I thought,” Han muttered to Droma. “They scammed their way in.” He reopened the comlink. “Control, can you at least tell us where the Trevee made her drop?”

“Negative, sir. I suggest you direct your request to Defense Force command downside. The best I can do from here is turn you over to Fondor command.”

“Understood, Control. And thanks for the help.”

“Stand by to receive routing and navigational beacon data.”

“Standing by.”

Han set his elbows on the console and regarded the misshapen moons and hundreds of active construction platforms that crowded local space. The bright, sweeping crescent of Fondor dominated the backdrop. “Well, this oughta be a snap. Only a couple of billion cubic kilometers to search—not to mention Fondor itself.”

Droma glanced at him. “We could initiate a drive-signature scan for the Trevee.”

Han thought about it. “Control said they’d already delivered their cargo. Hyperspace jumps aren’t permitted inside the orbit of Fondor’s sixth moon, so they’ll be running on repulsor power or sublight. But they could be anywhere.” He ran his hand down his face, stretching the bags under his eyes. “You’ve just marooned a couple of hundred refugees. What’s your next move?”

Droma sat back, fingering his pale mustache. “Perhaps you want to hang around and spend some of the credits you just earned. Or you jump to Abregado-rae for the same purpose.”

“Maybe. But remember, you know that Fondor is likely to be attacked sometime soon, which means the Rimma is going to get real busy, real fast, from Abregadorae clear to Sullust.”

Droma frowned. “In that case, you’d want to be as far from Fondor as possible. You might even want to lie low for a while before going on a spending spree.”

Han and Droma looked at each other. “Tholatin,” they said at the same time.

Han straightened in his chair, taking hold of the control yoke while Droma interrogated the navicomputer.

“The best jump point for Tholatin is just Coreward of Fondor aphelion.”

Han cut his eyes to the star chart Droma put onscreen. With Fondor less than two months from aphelion, the jump point was relatively close to where the Falcon had reverted to realspace from the Gandeal hyperlane. Engaging the thrusters, he veered the ship through an abrupt climbing bank, away from the line of navigational buoys that would have directed them to Fondor.

Instantly the cockpit annunciator came to life. “Millennium Falcon, why are you altering course?”

“Uh, slight drive malfunction,” Han said, spicing his voice with false alarm. “But we should have things under control momentarily.”

“Maintain your present position, Falcon. You are entering restricted space. I repeat: Stay where you are. An escort ship will be dispatched to provide assistance.”

“Don’t bother sending an escort,” Han said, even as the Falcon was accelerating. “We’ll return to the holding point and make repairs there.”

“Negative, Falcon. You have entered restricted space. Return to original course headings immediately.”

Han increased the ship’s speed while the navicomputer aimed them for the remotest point of Fondor’s elliptical orbit. A host of capital ships, barges, tenders, and freighters came into view, all maneuvering toward various jump points. Abruptly, an indicator on the friend-or-foe authenticator flashed.

“IR emission and ion exhaust recognition,” Droma said excitedly. “Confirmation of the Trevee.” He called up a magnified view of the supplied coordinates, then pointed to the run-down, pod-shaped ship at the center of the display screen. “There!”

Han smiled in recollection of the opticals Baffle and the other droids had provided. “That’s her, all right.”

“Millennium Falcon,” the voice of fleet command and control barked. “This is your final warning.”

“Turn that thing off,” Han snapped.

Droma lowered the gain, then swiveled back to the console. “Deflector shields raised,” he reported without being asked. “Fire-control computer on-line.”

Han reached to his left for the servo that controlled the dorsal quad laser. When they could see the Trevee through the viewport, he tugged the throttle lever toward him, streaking the Falcon beneath the freighter, then barrel-rolled to port across the Trevee’s blunt bow.

“Now they know we’re here,” he said, decelerating to hang on the Trevee’s twin-thrustered tail.

“They’re scanning us,” Droma said. “Weapons powering up.”

“Give me a schematic of the ship.” Han glanced at the data Droma retrieved and tapped his forefinger against the display screen. “Their hyperdrive is just forward of the aft fin. Take over.”

Droma tightened his hands around the copilot’s yoke, gluing the Falcon to the Trevee’s stern. Han centered the quad laser’s targeting reticle over the freighter’s sleek stabilizer.

“Weapons fire!”

The words had scarcely left Droma’s mouth when blue hyphens of energy raced toward the Falcon, splashing against her forward deflector shield and jarring the ship without doing damage.

“Ion cannon,” Droma said. “They’re maintaining target lock. Hyperdrive is enabling.”

Energy streaked from the freighter’s aft cannon turret. Droma tipped the Falcon to one side, then the other, then rolled out to starboard and kept the ship inverted while Han lined up his shot.

Violent light pulsed from the quad laser’s reciprocating barrels, blowing the Trevee’s fin away and scoring a ragged line along her aft hull. Gouts of molten alloy streamed from the freighter as she banked in desperation, firing continuously at her pursuer. Droma powered the Falcon through a loop, giving Han a clear shot at the freighter’s overheated cannon, which Han quickly put out of its misery. Then, for good measure, Han took out the worthless shield generator.

“Open a frequency to the ship,” he said.

“No response.” Droma glanced at the sensor suite screen. “They’re heading straight out of the system, all speed.”

Han compressed his lips. “What do they think they’re doing? They can’t jump and they can’t outrun us.” He turned to Droma, who was still staring at the scanner display. “What? What?”

“Six New Republic fighters—X-wings. Coming up fast on our stern.”

Han cursed to himself. “A chase group from fleet command.” He slipped into the headset and adjusted the controls.

A new voice issued from the speakers. “—heave to, Falcon. Don’t make us go to guns.”

Han quirked a grin. “Let’s see you try,” he said, mostly to himself. He opened the comm. “This is Captain Han Solo of the Millennium Falcon. We’re not looking for a fight, squadron leader. Patch me through to the flight ops commander.” He covered the mouthpiece with his hand. “Time to pull rank.”

“I’m already listening in, Captain Solo,” a bass voice said in irritation. “You’re in violation of security regulations. Any further infractions and you’ll be seeing the brig before this day is out—regardless of your history or who you’re married to. Are we clear?”

The remark served only to incite Han further. “You’ve got more important things to do than arrest me, Commander.”

“Don’t press your luck, Captain Solo. Follow your escorts to fleet HQ and I’ll consider entertaining your notion of what my priorities should be.”

“Listen to me, Commander. The Yuuzhan Vong have targeted Fondor for attack. I don’t know exactly when, but it’s going to be soon. I suggest that the fleet be put on full alert.”

“That’s absurd, Solo. We’ve received no such information.”

“I don’t have time to go into all the details—”

“The chase group is breaking off,” Droma interrupted, eyes fixed on the scanner screen.

Han glanced at the display and snorted a laugh. “I don’t often enjoy name-dropping, but …” He let his words trail off. Droma’s mouth was hanging open, and he had one quivering hand raised to the viewport. Simultaneously with a chime from the hyperwave warning indicator, Han swung forward to see that they were soaring straight into what anyone else might have believed was an uncharted meteor storm, but what he knew to be enemy vessels, decanting to realspace by the hundreds.

Instinctively, he stood the Falcon on her side, weaving her through a swarm of carrier, destroyer, and cruiser analogs, none of which appeared to take the slightest interest in the Falcon or even the much larger Trevee.

“Evasive action!” Droma said, finding his voice at last. “Countermeasures!”

Han wrestled with the controls. “What do you think I’m doing!”

Warships continued to materialize to all sides, more than Han would have believed possible—and certainly more than enough to engage and ultimately overwhelm Fondor’s defenses. Already the vanguard vessels were firing, launching molten projectiles and blinding streams of plasma at picket craft and warships alike. Han swerved the Falcon away from the main battle group, then accelerated as the Trevee had done, still shooting for the aphelion coordinates, now if only to distance itself from the onslaught.

“That’s why they were running,” Han remarked. “They knew the Yuuzhan Vong were on their way.” His face contorted by anger, he triggered a short burst from the quad lasers, though more to terrorize the crew of the Trevee than to further disable the ship. Then, just when it appeared that both ships had made it safely through the throng, a final enemy vessel emerged. Looking more like a wedded cluster of tough-skinned bubbles than a chunk of scabrous coral, the new arrival narrowly missed colliding with the Trevee, but sent it into an out-of-control tumble nevertheless.

Intrigued, Han leaned toward the viewport to have a closer look at the ship, then immediately changed course, vectoring directly for the newcomer.

“One on one,” he snarled. “We can live with those odds.”

With the Falcon up on its side once more, Han and Droma assailed the clustership with sustained bursts from the dorsal and ventral quad lasers. Most of the bolts were engulfed by gravitic anomalies long before they reached the ship, but a surprising few got through. The reason became clear when Han realized that the vessel was taking rear fire from a motley group of New Republic fighters. Overtaxed and distracted, the dovin basals that shielded the Yuuzhan Vong vessel were obviously failing.

Caution forgotten, Han at once sharpened the angle of their attack and shed velocity so that the clustership would come across the Falcon’s vector. When it did, he and Droma opened up with both guns, hammering the enemy with massive outpourings of energy. Gas and flame belched from the ship, then one of the spherical components imploded, deflating as if pricked by a pin. Slowing, the ship began to list to port, then rolled completely over, like a defeated creature showing its belly to an aggressor.

“Thanks for the assist, YT-1300,” someone said over the hailing channel.

“The pilot of the lead X-wing,” Droma clarified.

“That’s no military squadron,” Han said.

“When did the fighting start, YT?”

Han opened a channel to the fighters. “The enemy checked in just ahead of you. The shipyards are already under bombardment. Who are you guys?”

“Kyp’s Dozen,” the pilot said.

“Kyp Durron! What in blazes are you doing out here?”

Put off his guard, Kyp fell silent for a moment. “Han, is that you?” he asked tentatively.

“None other.”

“Is that a new paint job, or did you accidentally bring the Falcon too close to a star?”

“Long story.”

“So is ours. We’ve been chasing that bubble ship since Kalarba. The Yuuzhan Vong have captives aboard, Wurth Skidder among them. What about you?”

“The freighter at your starboard marooned a group of refugees somewhere in this system. I figure we can convince them to show us where they made the drop.”

“If you’re headed back into that fray, you could do with some support. I’ll assign two of my people to fly with you.”

“I’ll take them. But what are you planning to do about the captives?”

“Go aboard and rescue them.”

Han uttered a laugh. “Leave it to a Jedi to take on the impossible.”

“It’s our mandate,” Kyp said.

“We’ll be back to help out as soon as we can,” Han promised.

“May the Force be with you, Han.”

“Yeah, you too.”

At Orbital Shipyard 1321, the Star Destroyer Amerce was nearing completion—one of thirty such massive warships being readied at Fondor, in addition to hundreds of smaller vessels. Owing to having had to retrofit a flotilla of ships with hyperwave inertial momentum sustainers, several of the major yards had fallen behind schedule, but confidence was high at 1321 that work on the Amerce would conclude within a local month. The launch would finally mean leave for the tens of thousands of shipfitters who had spent the better part of a standard year working on the great ship, shoulder to shoulder with droids and other machines, frequently for back-to-back shifts, and sometimes in zero-g for days on end.

Creed Mitsun, human foreman of a mixed-species crew of electricians, was more eager than most for leave.The substantial credits he’d amassed were programming an escape route from his bank account, and his companion of the past two years—an exotic dancer who worked in Fondor City—was threatening to return to Sullust if Mitsun didn’t get himself down the well before too long.

Lately not a relative day passed when Mitsun didn’t wake from dreams that were every bit as fatiguing as work itself without fearing that the Amerce would never be completed and leave would never be granted. To make matters worse, space raid drills had become quotidian events, jarring everyone from sleep long before they were required to report to work.

Today was no exception.

Adding his elaborate groan to a chorus of similar protests issuing from all corners of the bunkroom, Mitsun buried his head under a pillow and declined to move, despite the unrelenting howling of sirens and the insistent appeals from the Bothan female who had the bunk opposite his.

“Come on, Chief,” she pleaded, trying to shake him into motion. “You know what happens if we don’t report to our stations.”

“I don’t care,” Mitsun said, his voice muffled by the pillow. “How do they expect us to finish the Amerce if we’re asleep on our feet for most of our shifts?”

“Please, Chief. If you get suspended, things’ll be worse for everyone.”

Mitsun started to wave her away, but suddenly found himself rudely tossed from his third-tier bunk to the hard deck.

“What’s the idea?” he stammered, hauling himself to his feet, only to see that the Bothan female and almost everyone else in sight had been similarly displaced.

Without warning, the facility sustained a follow-up blow, powerful enough to topple several banks of bunks and hurl everyone halfway across the hold.

“This is no drill!” someone yelled.

Mitsun heard the words but refused to give them credence. Stepping over sprawled bodies, he hurried to the outer hull bulkhead and slammed the heel of his hand against the release stud that raised the hold’s night curtain and blast door.

By the time the curtain had pocketed itself, several other workers had joined Mitsun at the underlying transparisteel panel, beyond which the Amerce lay half in ruins, holed and venting its guts into space.

From the direction of Fondor’s closest moon came a storm of asteroidlike ships, so fixed on demolishing Shipyard 1321 that they weren’t even bothering to discharge weapons, but were instead accelerating toward the battleship and the facility.

“Leave cancelled,” Mitsun said to himself as he caught sight of two coralskippers hurtling directly for the bunkroom.

Leia followed briskly on the heels of the colonel who had fetched her from her cabin aboard the Yald, saying only that it was urgent that she join Commodore Brand in the tactical information center quickest. She and Brand’s adjutant were stepping from the turbolift on the secure deck that housed the TIC when she nearly collided with Isolder, who had obviously just arrived from the Song of War.

“Do you have any idea what this is about?” he asked her.

The question was pointed, though without his being aware of it. What had begun at Gyndine as vague misgiving and had swelled to apprehension as a result of the vision on Hapes had now become unmitigated dread—as tangible as any fear or phobia she had ever experienced—even while its source and substance remained veiled.

Hours of meditation had allowed Leia to determine that part of her apprehension was centered on Anakin and Jacen and the forecasted attack on Corellia. But just how her concerns for them were connected to the foreboding that swirled like excited electrons around Isolder—and more specifically around Commander Brand’s battle plans—she could not say or even guess at. She knew only that her composure was unraveling, and that forces were converging in a way that no one had anticipated.

“Leia?” Isolder said.

The Jedi’s weapon is her mind. When a Jedi is distracted, when she loses her focus, she becomes vulnerable …

“I’m sorry, Isolder,” she said at last, “but I don’t know what this is about.”

He studied her in silence while they hastened for the war room and entered side by side. Brand, looking stricken, gazed up at them from his tall stool alongside a sprawling horizontal plotting panel. In fact, beneath all the frantic activity, everyone in the enormous room seemed to be moving in a daze.

“On-screen,” Brand ordered one of the technicians, as Leia and Isolder approached.

Leia glanced at a nearby array of holographic displays, instantly aware that she was seeing her vision realized—or at least some part of it. Whether the realtime images were being transmitted from satellites or an orbital facility was impossible to discern, and unimportant in any event. One holo showed dozens of Yuuzhan Vong and New Republic warships firing mercilessly at each other, while wings of snubfighters and coralskippers slalomed through the wreckage of orbital docks. Another holo revealed ships close to completion blackened, ruptured, and keeled over in their berthing spaces, command towers and gun turrets in ruins, clouds of debris making it impossible to get a clear fix on anything. Elsewhere, Yuuzhan Vong carrier analogs were hurling tempests of coralskippers toward weapons platforms and the surface of a world already afflicted by industrial devastation.

“That’s the Amerce,” Brand said grimly, indicating one of the destroyed ships. He pointed to another holo display. “That’s the Anlage.”

Leia looked at him in confusion. “Those aren’t Corellian vessels.”

Brand showed her one of the saddest looks she had ever seen. “The Yuuzhan Vong have struck at Fondor. They deceived us into believing they were going to attack Corellia, and they hit Fondor.” The words tumbled from his mouth without emotion. “Our greatest hopes go with those ships. The First Fleet is doing all it can, but the enemy is literally flinging their coralskippers at any target that presents itself.”

“The Hapan fleet is prepared to launch,” Isolder said.

“No!” Leia found herself saying. Brand and Isolder stared at her. “No,” she repeated quietly.

Brand looked at Isolder. “Thank you, Prince Isolder, but I’ve already ordered elements of the Fifth Fleet to launch from Bothawui. We’re waiting to hear from them.”

Leia swung to the communication console, her heart racing.

“Commenor command, this is Task Force Aleph,” a distressed voice said. “The enemy has seeded all routes linking Bothawui and Fondor with dovin basal remotes. Half the task force has been yanked from hyperspace, and six ships have been diverted into collisions with mass shadows. We’re in harm’s way, sir. We have no choice but to retreat to the Outer Rim and jump to Fondor from Eriadu or Sullust.”

“They’ll arrive too late,” Brand muttered, then turned to Isolder. “You say your forces are prepared?”

Isolder straightened to his full and considerable height. “Eager, Commodore.”

Leia’s breath caught in her throat, and the TIC began to spin before her eyes. She had to hook her arm through Brand’s to keep from falling.