Solo banks her Starchaser hard, cutting her thrusters and burning her retros at full power, letting the three V-Wings overshoot her. A quick series of button presses, instinctual at this rate, and the modified concussion missile locks onto the central fighter and launches. Undoing her stop and putting power back into engines to avoid an eager Headhunter coming from above she watches as the missile explodes well ahead of the V-Wings, splattering the banking fighters with shrapnel as Solo fires six well placed laser cannon blasts into the damaged fighters, blowing them up one by one.

  “Star, you were to make sure no one came from above. Why is there a headhunter gunning for my ass?” Solo asks as she quickly readjusts her shields to give her rear some better cover.

  “Sorry ma’am. We had five of them attack us from a bad angle and one slipped through.” Star Leader replies.

  “Make sure it doesn’t happen again. Little Squadron, reform on local flight leads and find your next targets. We’ve more than a few available to choose from.”

  “Roger that ma’am.” Comes the reply from her flight leads.

  “Little Leader, Colonel Solo, you read us?” A familiar voice echoes in her headset.

  “You got Little.” She replies.

  “Enemy bomber group incoming. Four squadrons on scope heading for the Tidal Wave. Intercept asap.”

  “Roger that. Little Squadron, on me. We have some bombers to intercept. Four squads of tune-forks heading for the Tidal Wave. Missile free, ions free, lasers free. Pick your targets carefully, max damage, max disorg. I’m taking the enemy lead element and their flightmates.”

  “Copy that.”

  “Like fish in a barrel.”

  “Roger that. Any friendlies?”

  “Keep an eye on the flak, that’s it from what I can tell.”

  “Understood. Good hunting, Colonel.”

  “Fuck you, Seven.” She replies venomously. She hated the promotions, hated what it meant, hated how in the Empire she would have been benched the moment Dericote gave the nod. Hated the idea that if she fucked up even slightly and lived she’d never fly again if she was still part of the Empire. Reduced to a trainer for rookies or put on a bridge to coordinate her underlings without risking her own hide like some sort of mob-boss on Corellia.

  She suppresses the urge to spit at the thought. There was a reason she had problems with authority. Honestly, for all the shit she gave him, Dericote was understanding about it. She quickly locks on her targeting computer to connect to her second concussion missile. She’ll need to cycle back for rearmament and emergency repairs soon.

  But yeah, her damn boss was understanding. A bit of a mess if she was fully honest, but understanding. That was probably what caused this whole mess. He was a bleeding heart even with his mean streak. He’d die before killing a civilian on purpose, but he’d also shoot a man for disobeying the chain of command in a high stress situation. As she said, an absolute mess.

  “Intercept in t-minus thirty secs. Check your sixes ups and downs.” She reminds her squadron.

  “I’ve got a flight of V-Wings on intercept. Up sixty degrees at twelve o’clock.” Little Eleven reports

  “Ten, split off your flight and intercept those fighters. We’ll pull through.” She orders.

  “Roger that.”

  Her computer gives her a green lock and she presses the trigger for the concussion missile, her un-modified missile joined shortly after by seven others. They crash into the Y-Wings and blow each to bits. The remaining bombers’ ball turrets begin rotating to fire upon them, but her squadron’s done this a thousand times before, rolling off, up and down, firing ion cannon blasts and laser fire at their enemies. Solo counts three more splashes to her name before she finishes her pass under the formation, having yanked down at the last minute to avoid any Y-Wings from firing at her if she were to go directly through.

  “Soundoff while we clear the area. Rally on my position near Ocean Breeze engine six.” She orders.

  “Got two.” Two says.

  “Nabbed the one.” Three grumbles.

  “Scratched two off myself.” Four replies, “Rest of my flight grabbed three.”

  “I downed three.” Seven reports, “I lost nine, but he grabbed three himself. Eight snagged one.”

  “We intercepted the enemy. Three V-Wings down, I took a bad hit and eleven’s scorched. Regrouping now. We’re out of missiles too.” Ten finishes the soundoff.

  “Understood. We’ll dock in Ocean Breeze, restock missiles, make emergency repairs and kill anything between us and them. Any objections?”

  “Neg.”

  “Sounds fun.”

  “None here.”

  “Then fall in. I’ll make the call so they have a heads-up.” She replies, locking in on two Headhunters about to pass her front. A bloodthirsty grin comes over her, this is what she lived for.

  Cal was exhausted. Bogano hadn’t really been that bad. Sure, it had been annoying to complete all the trials and some of the wildlife was outright mean, but all in all it had been calm. Though in hindsight it was probably only calming to him because the last months had been so hectic. Kashyyyk had been interesting. He had bumped into some pirate allies of Dericote there, busy selling the Wookies weapons to fight the Trandoshians and Stormtroopers who had encroached onto their home. Chief Tarfful had been rather accommodating though.

  Then he was forced to fight the second sister who turned out to be Cere’s former padawan of all people. What were the odds of that anyway? Thousands of Jedi killed and one of the few who not only survive, but fall to the Dark was Cere’s padawan. Had to be like, one in a million. She was … intense. That was probably the right word for the mess of issues she seemed to have. At least he learned he had to get to Dathomir.

  Dathomir had also been … intense. Yeah, he’d go with intense again here. Merrin was rather confused when one Jedi was telling her that the other Jedi was lying about the Jedi leading the massacre of her people. Eventually she decided Cal had been right, duh, and had joined him in the fight against former Master Malicose. Cal was about ninety percent sure he would have died there if Merrin hadn’t fought alongside him. He had lost his lightsaber in the fight after all and while Malicose was absolutely insane with grief and rage, he had been skilled.

  Still, they had had to run the Imperial blockade over Illum to get him a new kyber crystal for a new lightsaber and he had almost died again if he had stopped bringing his blaster-pistol with him everywhere. Damn thing was rather useful when fighting Stormtroopers.

  Returning to Dathomir had been … complicated. Merrin was rather certain of heading back, Cal kinda wanted to see if Hondo would help them, but in the end they had all agreed that they should return alone. Malicose had gotten worse. He was … easier to defeat this time, though Cal was certain he would still have died without Merrin.

  Bogano had ended up a mess. Sure he had gotten knighted, but he had also failed in grabbing the holocrom.

  Then … Nur.

  It had been too easy getting there. Various construction ships and Imperial warships were busy coming and going as Inquisitors were sent out to find various Jedi while their fortress was being constructed. Officers coordinating the construction crews, assembly of taskforces and the inter-office politicking which came with a new center of power. The Mantis was just another ship among many. Surprisingly they had even accepted Captain Mi-Kus’s old codes to let them pass into orbit.

  It had been slightly fun putting on the airs of an Imperial officer to sneak in. Nobody even asked why he was landing with the Mantis because he had codes that had worked. He had made it through all the security checkpoints and snuck up on Trilla while she was trying to access the holocron. He was unsure how he had convinced her, the fear of the following moments where the wall blew apart and Shocktroopers attacked them both as a mere prelude for what was coming next had made the memory foggy at best.

  …

  Vader had been terrifying. He was unstoppable and Cal was certain he was being toyed with the entire time. If Trilla had been anymore consumed by the Dark. If she hadn’t decided against following her Masters’ wishes … Cal didn’t want to think about it. Not now, not when he had just barely survived this hellhole of a world. Not when Trilla had almost died to save him and the holocron, to get them away from … him.

  “Kid? Cal? Helloo?” Greez asks.

  “Sorry, I was kinda stuck in my head.” He replies, returning to the present, ending his meditations. Trilla was still in a medically induced coma. She had lost a lot of blood and the cold and rain hadn’t done her any favors. Neither had the dismemberments,the broken femur, shattered hand, broken ribs and punctured lung. Cal was sure Vader had been toying with her as much as he had been punishing her.

  “I could tell.” Greez says as he glances over towards Trilla and Cere, one carefully meditating over the other and imbuing the Force to try and stabilize the other.

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  “She needs help.” Merrin says, echoing what everyone was thinking.

  “Not a whole lot of options for that. She’s probably the most wanted woman in the Empire now. An Inquisitor going traitor is gonna be pretty high up on their list.” Greez mutters.

  Cal sighs. He had accepted Master Tapal’s death, had come to peace with it. It hadn’t been his fault. It had simply been. He hadn’t come to peace with his other old mentor though. But what other options did they have? Cere was busy using the little Force she had regained and all her focus on keeping Trilla alive. That made getting her to spill any useful contacts difficult. It wasn’t like she had a book of contacts for the rest of them to peruse at their leisure, now did she. It looked like it would be up to Greez and him to find them safe harbor.

  “Could we try Kashyyyk?” Cal asks.

  “They’re already spread too thin. The Wookies are barely keeping their young from the slavers by moving into the deeper forests. Doing stuff like that isn’t exactly safe in the first place, even with them being natives. Not exactly a place for high grade medical equipment.” Greez replies.

  “Do we have enough credits for the Hutts?” Cal tries another option.

  “What makes you think we do?” Greez almost laughs.

  Could he try Hondo? No, the pirate was likely raiding Imperial shipping Force knows where. Cal would need the Force’s help and a whole lot of luck to catch the pirate prince and a bit more to get an audience with the eccentric pirate. An audience that would not necessarily guarantee Ohnaka’s help. Cal sighs. There really wasn’t another option, was there. The Force humming in approval at the inevitable decision really wasn’t helping either. Cal groans in frustration.

  “I … Force damn it. I know someone.” Cal mutters.

  “Really?” Merrin asks.

  “Greez, we’re gonna need to plot a course for the Dac System.” Cal says, his decision locking in despite his … anxiety.

  “Dac? You got an in with the Rebels there?” Greez asks.

  “You could say that.” Cal mutters as the three of them walk into the cockpit.

  “You serve near there during the Clone Wars?” Greez asks curiously.

  “For about half of it.” He replies.

  “You must have been the only Jedi that wackjob tolerated. I heard most didn’t even last a month.” Greez replies.

  “Should I know what you’re talking about?” Merrin asks.

  “We’re planning on entering the territory of the most popular Outer Rim warlord of the Republic.” Greez says.

  “We’re going to see if I can leverage my connection with Fleet Admiral Dericote.” Cal explains. He would bear the anxieties for Cere and Trilla.

  “He is a rebel?” Merrin asks, “I thought all the Republic joined the Empire with those Confederates who surrendered.”

  “He did too.” Cal says.

  “For a year. Depending on who you ask, he either rebelled to stop the Imps from turning Mon Cala into a ball of steam, was harboring Jedi before that, or because they killed all his friends and his career after the HONO Clique Coup.” Greez explains.

  “It was the first.” Cal says, though the Force nudges him that that wasn’t the full truth, “He hated it when civilians were put in danger.”

  “You knew him well then?” Merrin asks.

  “Me and my Master were the only Jedi he trusted. He mentored me on Navy matters. It’s how I can pass for an Imperial officer so easily.” He replies.

  “That explains a few things. He the one who hooked you up with those pirates on Port Borgo too?” Greez asks.

  “Ohnaka was a long term associate of his.” Cal confirms.

  “Alright then. Sounds like he’s definitely not against us. I’ll start adjusting our course. Though we’ll probably have to skirt Hutt Space unless you fancy ending up in a brawl with Imps or pirates.” Greez says.

  “The pirates are probably Thraken’s.” Cal mutters, “But better safe than sorry.”

  “Should take us a couple weeks, maybe less if we stress the drive and get lucky with my charts.” Greez mutters.

  “I’ll see about cooking up some broth for both our incapables.” Cal says, deciding he needed to do something with his hands before he breaks something out of anxiety.

  “You’re nervous.” Merrin says after following him into the kitchenette, getting slightly too close in the process.

  “We didn’t exactly leave on good terms.” Cal confesses.

  “So he won’t help us?” Merrin asks skeptically.

  “No, I’m sure he will. Just worried about … seeing him again.”

  “You should be happy you can see him at all. I would give much to see even those sisters who annoyed me greatly.” Merrin councils, moving an inch closer as she does.

  Cal sighs, letting some of his anxieties go into the force: “You’re right.”

  “Of course I am.” Merrin says with a small grin, before leaving him behind to cook.

  Cal sighs again, pulling his focus away from her. He should probably figure out what he should do about the feelings he had about her at some point.

  Honor watches as Dericote flounders. Sure, the anti-orbital batteries were becoming an issue, but they remained manageable all the same. A few cruisers lost was nothing in the greater picture of it all and neither was the loss of a handful of battleships. Not when victory here was so necessary.

  “Inform Rear Admiral Harkov he is to begin pressing the north more intently. See if he can swing around and get a better angle against the defenders.” She orders. She would have to begin committing some of the reserve soon to ensure her line remained stable.

  “Roger that, ma’am.” Comes the reply from a leal comms officer.

  She would press Dericote where he was weakest. From where he was the furthest removed. It would stress her former protege. He preferred to be in the midst of the action so he could be the rock around which his men rallied. She would deny him this steadying chaos. Instead she would make him a distant shore barely in sight thanks to the storm which was her impeccable battle line. Something his men would desperately try to reach out to, but fail to arrive at as anything other than washed up corpses.

  “Prepare the undamaged Imperials from the reserve. Dodonna may be needed sooner than I would have preferred. Prepare our south for a possible surge.” She orders.

  “Understood, ma’am.” A different comms officer replies.

  “Ma’am, Rear Admiral Nantz says he cannot guarantee a successful assault unless we divert forces from the north to him.”

  “Never mind then.” Honor decides, “Well simply have him continue to pin Dericote and his southern forces.”

  “Very good, ma’am.”

  Yes, this would be a victory worthy of her person. A fine step back towards the heights she had lorded from but months ago and would lord from once more. All that was needed was to remove this stain from her record, with prejudice.

  “Sir, enemy northern force wrapping around some of our defenses. Benoni is requesting permission to split off the reserve and intercept the enemy.” Commander Slas reports.

  “That’s fine, as long as he does it already!” I bark. Not like I would have ordered anything differently in this situation. Honor was trying to encircle us, force us back and push us away from Argai and her defenses below.

  Was she planning a surface invasion already? She had always advised against deploying ground troops unless you already had orbital supremacy, a mistake many a Jedi had committed during the war. Was she that confident? That sure of victory?

  “Divert whatever spare pickets we can north to support Benoni and the Sith’s Demise.” I order.

  “Diverting a Deathshead picket section now.” An Adjutant replies.

  “Fighter stats.” I order an update.

  “We’re down eight wings, they’re down seventeen.”

  Better, but not great. I inhale deeply and exhale slowly, it would have to do. We were fighting an uphill battle, losses will be substantial. Yet those losses will be worth it. I nod in acknowledgment. I couldn’t really change anything about it now, the fighter brawls would continue until a time when Honor’s fighters were gone or our strikecraft were gone. Either way, it would be a bloody mess among the flak and heavy turbolaser exchanges.

  “Sir, it looks like the center of the northern forces are adapting into an arrowhead formation, one row deep. They’ve got sixteen Star Destroyers closing ranks.”

  “Damn.” I mutter, “Have Benoni intercept them personally and move whatever light forces we can spare to hold off them off.” I order.

  “Understood, sir.”

  A heavy turbolaser slams into our portside shields and I feel them shatter.

  “Adjust current positioning by sixty degrees portside. Let our shields recover there.” Mi-Kus orders.

  “Moving portside.”

  I thank the Maker once more for Mon Cala shields. Sure, they may cover less of the ship individually and make it almost impossible to double up on any one side, but they were perfect for ensuring we didn’t lose all our shields due to a couple bad hits.

  The center was holding well, even after they had used the Sith’s Demise to plug a small gap, giving a handful of cruisers a chance to recharge their shields and make emergency repairs to their hulls, hidden among the reserve as they were. The south was holding even better than that, the enemy being far more cautious as their lines were stretched thin to allow their northern forces to attempt their maneuver.

  Damn Honor for keeping her fighters spread out like this. She had sent almost all of them at our lines, but I knew the moment I ordered any of our bombers to make a run for one of her ships they would be swarmed in a retaliatory strike.

  Wait … no. Sending the Hyenas as a diversion would be too obvious. Honor would be able to tell that it was one of my tricks. She would divert fighters to swarm them, but she would also be keeping an eye out for any other bombers I sent out to take advantage of any lapse in attention.

  “Damn it.” I mutter as the half-thought plan falls apart before it can even get off the ground, “Damn it all.”

  Sykes remained calm as the battle was devolving all around him. Benoni was leading the counter charge holding off the Imperial flanking maneuver in the north while he was trying to manage the remaining forces at hand. Trying to ensure the various Separatist warships, his Ruusan’s Folly and the Mon Cala warships under his direct command remained in line despite the various military traditions that were slowly grinding against one another while he was trying to keep them in line.

  If he didn’t get a medal out of all this bullshit he’ll go rogue again, honor be damned. Dericote’s coattails may not be the best to hang off from anymore. The Admiral scoffs as a group of Y-Wings flee from a squadron of Tri-fighters. If it was all about coattails, honor and promotions he would have stuck with the Empire. Nah, it was about freedom and making your own damn decisions too and like hells would the Empire be more laissez-fair than the Rebels he had colluded with.

  “Sir, enemy forces have begun moving more intently towards Admiral Benoni’s forces.” An Adjutant informs him.

  “Keep me updated. I need to know when they start getting overwhelmed so we can react promptly.” Sykes orders, flinching at his slip of the tongue. Never show weakness when in command, never allow an inkling of your doubt to pass through. There was only victory, never defeat.

  Yet as he reminds himself of his training he can see the cracks forming in the north. First slowly then more and more rapidly. The Imperial arrowhead formation clashing against Benoni’s Praetor and her closest escorts. The Imperial reserves under Dodonna, the former vanguard they had clashed with over the last weeks, merging into the arrowhead or circumventing them. Five Star Destroyers and their escorts moving around and getting intercepted by a paltry force of Acclamators, their corvette escorts and their assigned fighters.

  Then a trio of Star Destroyers break past the Rebel guard on the portside flank of the Korriban’s Silence and begin throwing full broadsides into the battlecruiser and the remnants of her portside escorts. They had pierced the line.

  His eyes widen in realization as his men relay the happenings to Dericote. They needed to re-consolidate. Now.

  “Begin pulling us back further. Divert whatever spare fighters and bombers we can sccratch together north to Benoni asap and see if the northern fortresses can blunt the enemy assault!” Sykes barks.

  “Pullin’ back, ser.” His Helmsman reports.

  Sykes quickly glances at the tactical display. Dericote would hold their exit open, but his forces would still likely end up in the rearguard. Just what he needed. More work.

  Krugwolt suppresses the urge to grin as the first Imps land, their transports tacking flak all the while and their landing zones bracketed by artillery. It was a massacre, one the Imps wouldn’t be able to sustain, even if they were victorious in orbit. After all, Argai had over a hundred fortresses worthy of the name. Each and every one capable of denying an enemy’s comfortable control of the orbit while holding the enemy at bay, protecting the world’s citizens and most vital cultural artifacts as they do.

  And while he was slightly displeased at not being in the north personally, he was currently in the fortress closest to the Argaian capitol, he would suffer the indignity of not fighting alongside his men for now. At least his most veteran men, the Bandomeerians and Targonnians he had served alongside since before Raxus, were well positioned to be redeployed when necessary. Their transports, a motley mix of LAATs, MAATs and the occasional heavy duty transport for their armored support ready and prepared within the relative safety of the south-east of the world.

  Yet still he watches carefully as the first spare turbolaser bolts crash into the shields of the northernmost fortresses. Their shields would hold, at least for a while, though they would be unable to provide anti-orbital fire in the meanwhile or else risk the people within. The General frowns, watching the pinprick on the planetary map receive the enemy bombardment. It would hold, for as long as the Empire refused to concentrate more firepower at the surface installations. That would have to be enough.

  I feel my metal arm begin to itch as I consider the rapidly devolving battlefield. Hard pressed in the north, pinned in the center and south, not nearly enough reserves. I sigh, this was not going to end well. Which means I have an uncomfortable decision to make.

  I sigh before nodding to myself: “Divert our older fighters from their supremacy duty for picket duty instead. Have our Pelta transports descend in the southern hemisphere and begin evacuation of the civilians most at risk of Imperial reprisal, as many ground forces as we can spare and any major cultural artifacts the Tionese are willing to have relocated with us. Double check the connection between our detonators and the scuttling charges on the yards while you’re at it.”

  “We’re abandoning the system then, aren’t we.” Commander Hursk states.

  “I hate it too, but Honor will not let us win here. We’ve already taken our pound of flesh from her and now she will maul us in return.” I spit. And to think I used to admire this characteristic of my mentor.

  “Transmitting orders.” Commander Slas reports.

  I inhale deeply as I watch the tactical display, a shudder embracing the bridge as her shields shrug off a heavy turbolaser blast. All it would take was a single failure within our north and we would lose the surface below. A failure that would come. It may start off small, an engine burning for a minute too long, a lasercannon misfiring, a fighter launching a missile a second too late, a twitch in a man’s face obscuring their vision for a microsecond too long. Whatever it was, the failure would come and the north would fall.

  “Prepare the orders package for a general retreat.” I order.

  “How long do you plan on continuing the battle, sir?” Mi-Kus asks.

  “Until we cannot last any longer.” I reply, “Until everyone who can escape has.”

  Depicting the third phase of the Battle of Argai in 7960 C.R.C.

  Red = Rebel Coalition Forces

  Dark Gray = Imperial Retribution Fleet

  Yellow = Argai Surface to Orbit artillery range