Lieutenant Jainer noticed movement ahead.
He dropped altitude and speed, not allowing himself to slip past the injustice he had spotted.
A lone "Star Viper," with a commander's insignia painted on its fuselage, was hiding behind a huge piece of debris that had previously been part of an "Aggressor"-class Star Destroyer recently blown apart by assault frigates.
The other interceptors of his squadron passed a hundred meters from the squadron leader, heading to complete the escort of the returning frigates, which had expended their ordnance and turned not only the first couple, but also the neighboring "Aggressor" that had rushed to their aid, into ruins.
And if the first two were pieces of scrap metal, then the third was still showing signs of life through the occasional light appearing in the few intact viewports.
And one of the few "vipers" surviving in this part of space had clearly decided to wait it out.
Such behavior had not been observed before.
Krieg opened a communication channel.
"CC-1138 'Chimera' at point six-zero-three, a damaged 'viper' with commander's insignia, what should I do?"
"There's plenty of work here, 'Grey Leader'. Return."
And where is this plenty?
Not a single combat-capable enemy could be found.
He could "chat" with the enemy, maybe he could be recruited.
The squadron leader was a valuable trophy.
Lieutenant would have done just that, but a new voice intervened, abrupt, militarily clear:
"I have the honor of speaking with the commander of the squadron that destroyed my pilots?"
Krieg took a deep breath.
If Kreb were here, he would undoubtedly say that such negotiations with the enemy were "wet snot."
More precisely, he wouldn't say it, but he would definitely think so.
As sure as death, that's how it was.
Jainer's former lead was utterly devoid of anything human.
If Krieg didn't know that Thrawn had started using cloning cylinders before the commander of the "Black Wing" himself appeared in the crew, he would have undoubtedly thought that his former leader was created in a test tube solely for waging war.
Forgetting to mention that there was such a thing as peaceful life.
"That's right!" he said carelessly. "I am Lieutenant Krieg Jainer, Dominion Pilot Corps, who are you?"
"My name is Jong. I am the leader of the 'Sabaac' squadron. You know," a muffled cough was heard, "until now, we were considered the best. Since the Battle of Yavin."
The well-trained, velvety voice didn't match the simplified, almost chopped phrases.
As if the man was trying to say something very quickly while he still had oxygen.
"Did you participate in the Battle of Yavin?" Krieg decided to ask after some hesitation.
"Yes."
"On whose side?"
"Side?!" his opponent chuckled softly. "I was on all sides, Lieutenant. I was a Republic pilot who embraced the Empire. I was an Imperial who defected to the Alliance. I fled from the Alliance to the 'Consortium'. I looked for where it was better. Where it was right. Where there was law and order. And a ringing credit, of course, what's there to hide. And all I found was," he coughed again, "a piece of rebar in my lung."
"Turn off your weapon, and our shuttle will pick you up in a minute," Krieg offered. "I guarantee full immunity and prisoner of war rights if you surrender."
"If," the Baron agreed. "It won't work like that, squadron leader. Surrendering is not in the 'Zann Consortium's' rules."
"Then why are we wasting time here?" Krieg got angry, feeling like he was about to lose it. "No offense, squadron leader, but I have things to do. I have duties and a debt to the state I serve..."
"I sympathize."
"With what?"
"I had all that too. And I screwed it all up, Lieutenant!" Jong confessed. "I chased after money, and now..."
"Is this a deathbed confession?" the lieutenant asked suspiciously. "Excuse me, but I'm a combat pilot, not a confessor."
"And you're funny!" the opponent laughed. "I was the same in my youth. You're a good guy. So, I wasn't mistaken."
"In what?"
"In choosing you."
What does that mean?
"And how can I help you?"
"When I said that surrendering is not in the 'Zann Consortium's' rules, I didn't mean that I'm fanatically loyal to them," Jong explained. "My ship is mined, kid. And it'll blow if the canopy is opened or if it lands anywhere other than a 'Zann Consortium' ship. I might want to survive, kid, but they've made sure we don't get captured."
"There's nothing simpler," Krieg declared. "We'll tow you, shell you with an ion cannon, and..."
"Kid, let's not fantasize, okay? One of my lungs has already collapsed. The other is punctured. The SFS will keep me going a bit longer—then it'll all blow up when I die."
"Did you call me just to tell me this?" Lieutenant Jainer clarified, completely bewildered.
"Not only," Jong stated. "You're a young guy, right?"
"Well, something like that..."
"Then you still know what honor is," the man's voice weakened noticeably with each phrase. "I have two daughters left. Adopted. I met their mother during the Clone Wars. It's... complicated. Oh, Sith, it hurts so much... Jainer, promise me something."
"Seriously? Maybe I should get him posthumous clemency? Why the hell should I do that?"
"Lieutenant, don't you dare promise this man anything," the dispatcher suddenly said. Reminding him that Krieg hadn't switched communication channels. "He was offered to surrender..."
"CC is CC," Jong chuckled weakly. "It never changes. Listen, Jainer. Find my girls. At least try. Lie to them about something, so... They don't know... How... I died... like... a vagrant..."
For some reason, he felt sorry for this man.
The hardships in search of a better life, the pursuit of money—and all this ended not even with a swift death in battle.
The CC remained treacherously silent.
"Okay, I will," Krieg decided. "How do I find them?"
He certainly wasn't going to do it.
No one in their right mind would let him go when every pilot counted, and there was an ongoing war with the 'Zann Consortium' looming.
And even less likely would they let him go to hell knows where to find hell knows who.
"Passik," Jong said. "The mother's last name... Find them... by it. My... they... disowned me... both..."
Krieg half-listened to the instructions on where to fly, who to look for.
Obviously, he wasn't going to be anyone's executor.
But he couldn't leave a man, even an enemy, at the last moment with an unfulfilled request...
He would die anyway.
So let him at least think that someone went on his behalf and fulfilled his last request.
"Did you record it?" Jong asked.
"Both I and the CC," Jainer confirmed.
"Thank you, kid," Jong said. "Don't think I... was always like this... I... will repay you..."
"I doubt I need a souvenir from the afterlife."
"Destroyer," Jong continued. "The one that was hit last... It's not finished..."
"WHAT?"
Krieg glanced at the scanner.
No, the instruments showed that the disfigured structure showed no signs of life.
One guide—the ion cannon—was broken in the middle.
And the second—the plasma one—was scorched at the nose and also seemed deformed.
"I have... a better angle," Jong said. "The bombers... didn't hit... the plasma... They're repairing it... They'll shoot... soon..."
"Shit-shit-shit!"
Krieg's thoughts spun in his head.
Now that there were no more wheezes from Jong's comm channel, indicating the man's death, and Krieg saw a forming plasma bud appear in the nose of the damaged ship.
The distance between the "Chimera" and this wreck was thirty units.
If it fires, it'll be bad.
This thing flies slowly, but it'll be enough for the flagship.
The "Chimera" won't have time to react and avoid collision.
"Thank you, Jong," Krieg said, accelerating his machine—CC-1138 'Chimera', I'm one unit away from the damaged 'Aggressor'. We've locked onto you. Is anyone nearby? A frigate? A 'Scimitar'?"
"Negative, 'Grey Leader'. You are the only one. The nearest 'Scimitar' is one hundred and twenty units from your current position. A message has already been sent..."
"Understood," Jainer gritted his teeth.
He oriented himself extremely quickly.
Six seconds—that's how long it would take the "Scimitar" to arrive here and enter combat course.
But this implies acceleration in a straight line, in which fast bombers, of course, have no equal.
A few more seconds—to lock onto the target and launch torpedoes.
In nine to ten seconds—the problem would be solved.
The "Chimera's" gunners were currently destroying four "Interceptor IV"-class frigates, and the damaged enemy Star Destroyer itself was on the starboard side and closer to the stern of the Dominion flagship.
One of the "Chimera's" eight-gun turrets was already working on it, but it was unforgivably insufficient.
Too little to win.
Through a rapid multi-barrel roll, Krieg sent his ship into a dive, aiming for the thickest part of the debris to take the shortest path to the target.
Emerging into the projection of the "Star Viper's" position, whose pilot he had recently spoken with, the "Grey Wing" squadron leader understood everything.
The "Scimitar" raid had indeed destroyed the enemy's ion cannon.
And damaged the plasma one.
But the enemy had carried out repairs, rerouting some power cables to the relatively intact installation "on the fly."
Despite the fact that the front of the barrel was destroyed, and twisted frames and armor debris were in front of the muzzle, this played no role whatsoever for the main caliber.
The "Chimera's" turbolasers, which could fire in this sector, were firing, destroying the improvised cover of the installation, but all this was clearly pointless.
Plasma would easily evaporate any small obstacle in its path, only reducing the power of its charge by a fraction.
If this projectile were to be discharged by any more or less large fragment, there would be no point in using such a monstrous weapon.
Space is full of various kinds of debris from comets, meteors, ship parts scattered throughout the galaxy.
Under the influence of gravity and stellar wind, they "migrate" from one end of the galaxy to another.
Space is not as clean as it might seem.
That's why the "Scimitar" won't make it here in six seconds.
It will take a broken course and will be at the destination after a longer period.
And most likely, by this time, the "Aggressor" will have already fired—judging by the huge glowing sphere in its nose, it has already charged its main caliber considerably.
Therefore, there is only one solution to this problem.
The targeting computer locked onto the charging cannon's nose.
The red crosshair turned green, and all four missiles left the launchers.
They scattered the crudely laid power cables of the main weapon, which, in theory, should have affected the intensity of the charge...
Yes, the huge plasma flower was no longer swelling as rapidly.
But the charge continued to grow.
Either the installation had a buffer, or the power of four cumulative missiles was insufficient to break through the armor of the installation and completely sever its power supply.
Krieg switched to the laser cannons and pressed the trigger as hard as he could into the grips of the interceptor's controls.
The four cannons of his ship began to spit fire.
With a rate of fire at which the barrels began to noticeably overheat, and the green throttled streams of light merged into almost four beams, he was able to unleash a power onto the remnants of the protective casing of the installation that he would never have achieved with normal rate of fire.
And he had only one hope that he would reach his goal before...
With an unpleasant sound signal, the onboard computer reported that the gun circuits had fused.
"Damn it!" Jainer cursed in frustration.
Just three more seconds—and he would have blown this Hutt installation into molecules.
And at the moment, he had only managed to destroy the protective casing of ship armor and expose the interior of the plasma cannon, shining with a lilac bud.
Ripe and ready to bloom.
" 'Grey Leader'," the dispatcher said. "In three seconds, a 'Scimitar' will be at your position."
Krieg looked at the chronometer.
Ten seconds had passed.
In three, it would be too late.
He glanced at the "Chimera."
The Destroyer was already maneuvering, realizing that it couldn't escape the blow and was therefore trying to present its least vulnerable part.
But in any case, casualties would be in the hundreds, if not thousands, of people.
And the destruction of a third of the Destroyer's main engines.
Which would turn it into an almost immobile target.
The worst part is that the greatest damage would be to the superstructure—and that already smells like a failure of the operation.
Whatever it was.
There was only one solution.
"Understood, CC," he said, transferring all energy to his engines.
Sounds do not propagate in a vacuum.
But there is an atmosphere in his cockpit.
And even through his helmet, he could hear the hysterical screeching of the twin ion engines, which had gone haywire, receiving maximum possible power.
Only this way would he make it in time.
Only this way would it work.
The higher the speed, the fewer questions about the consequences of the impact.
The twin ion engine and the runaway reactor would explode so violently that it wouldn't be pleasant for anyone.
Perhaps the principle of decreasing interference would work.
Perhaps the wave would cancel out the wave.
Krieg directed his machine straight at the target.
" 'Grey Leader', you are forbidden!"
"An autopilot wouldn't hurt on interceptors," Krieg sighed, holding the machine's controls with hands slightly trembling from nervous tension.
Yes, it would be good to set a course and get out through the hatch.
Too bad then nothing would work—the machine wouldn't reach the target.
He even felt a sense of calm.
He was an Imperial pilot.
He became a Dominion pilot.
And he clearly knew that a member of the Pilot Corps, in both manifestations, must do everything conceivable and inconceivable to protect comrades and save the operation.
A lone TIE Interceptor, accelerated to speeds that were indecently high even with the PLAE, a fiery candle in which even the twin ion engines overheated, plunged by inertia into the huge cylindrical muzzle of the "Aggressor's" plasma cannon.
The lilac-purple plasma flower, having reached the necessary size for launch, did not accelerate.
The lone TIE Interceptor destroyed all the control equipment necessary for firing the main caliber.
It burst like an overripe fruit, instantly vaporizing the front part of the Destroyer.
Two seconds later, two units from the burning starship, a "Scimitar-01" appeared.
***
"Well, damn..." was all Alex could manage to say. "He rammed the emitter and the buffer accumulator!?"
The disfigured Star Destroyer began to come to life.
Obviously, the enemy, realizing that his sneak attack plan had failed, decided to use turbolasers and the self-destruct system.
But not today.
"Yes," Tomax said abruptly, adjusting the machine's course. "How many are left underneath?"
"Six, Commander."
"Prepare everything."
"We still have two targets besides this..."
"I. Said. Prepare. EVERYTHING!"
His palms clenched the control grips until they ached.
But now was not the time for emotions.
The result.
Only it mattered.
"Understood," Alex replied. "Ready, Commander."
"Combat ready," Bren said. "Engaging. Who was working on it?"
"Looking at the flight log..."
"Scimitar-01" dived from the upper echelon to the lower.
To the one where the "Aggressor" was located.
For ground and space combat, spatial orientation is different, but the fact remains—it so happened that pilots of starships also called a rapid approach "from top to bottom" a dive.
"Torpedoes launched," Tomax said, turning away.
The onboard computer calculated the escape trajectory.
"Charge."
A second later, "Scimitar-01" was twenty units away from the enemy Destroyer tearing itself apart.
All six proton torpedoes hit their targets.
A series of detonations swept from stern to bow, turning the "Aggressor" into a heap of debris and scrap metal.
How small, scattered, and incapable of even remotely resembling a combat ship.
"CC-1138 'Chimera' is 'Scimitar-Leader'," Tomax reported. "Bomb bay empty, requesting landing for rotation."
"Granted, 'Scimitar-Leader'. As always—first bay."
"Understood," Tomax switched to communication with the flight mechanic. "Did you find out what I asked for?"
"Yes," knowing her commander's temper, Alex's voice didn't sound optimistic. "Fifth crew."
Tomax looked at the control panel.
A green light was on next to the "Scimitar-05" mark.
So he was alive.
There was no mark on the scanners.
So the bomber was on rotation.
"Heading to the 'Chimera'," Tomax said, activating the PLAE.
A second later, they were under the rectangular muzzle of the flagship's main hangar.
The machine was "lifted," caught by a tractor beam, which placed it in the designated first launch bay for the air group commander and his squadron.
The squadron leader turned his head, seeing another "Scimitar" secured along the rack.
Right at the fifth launch position.
And two figures in black jumpsuits standing on the bridge while a technician secured deactivated proton torpedoes in the bomb bays with the help of droids and manipulators.
As soon as "Scimitar-01" was secured in the mounting manipulators, Tomax yanked the emergency canopy release lever.
His trained body automatically ended up on the platform.
The helmet, torn from his head, fell onto the seat.
If the technician who was supposed to arm their bomb bay was surprised by the wing commander's behavior, he certainly didn't show it.
"Bren, your hyperdrive!" Alex's cockpit opened next, looking at his commander's back, moving quickly, almost running along the ramp towards a pair of pilots of the fifth bomber. "Commander, damn it! He's not worth it!"
It was impossible to distinguish the pilot and the flight mechanic, dressed in identical black pilot jumpsuits, except by the patch on their right sleeve.
"You attacked 'Aggressor'-target-nineteen," Tomax said without any preamble, addressing the pilot.
Somewhere behind him, the clatter of boots of Alex running on the metal ramp could be heard.
"Yes, sir, I did," the pilot said uncertainly.
It was this bleating, which even the vocoder couldn't hide, that put everything in its place.
"Remove your helmet!" Tomax barked.
The pilot obeyed.
In front of him stood not his clone—he realized that almost immediately.
An ordinary middle-aged man.
"Where is Bren-05?" the squadron leader asked, addressing their crew's flight mechanic.
"We were hit on the second target," the latter said quickly. "He was hospitalized... 'Aggressor'-target-nineteen is our third target."
No further explanation was needed.
Dominion ships always had not only spare parts for air group machines, but also a small percentage of "extra" pilots and technicians who could replace injured crew members of small aircraft, provided the machine could be brought "back to life."
"Sir," the fifth crew's flight mechanic, realizing that something extraordinary was happening, tried to smooth things over. "The Commander, like me, only joined the Defense Forces two months ago..."
"Why was the strike on the main caliber of 'Aggressor'-target-nineteen on the ion cannon and the plasma power system?" the wing commander continued his questions, looking at the pilot.
He is the ship's commander.
He pulls the trigger.
"Sir, I..." the man averted his eyes. "Missed, probably..."
"Your father missed," Alex said, standing shoulder to shoulder with Tomax. "We see the result now. You wanted to get 'prize money' for capturing valuable enemy technology!"
Such a practice existed.
Payment of rewards for the capture or acquisition of military or other equipment of interest to the Dominion, possessed by any party in the galaxy.
The Zann Consortium's plasma cannon is a very valuable trophy in monetary terms.
"No, sir, I..." the pilot's eyes darted around.
"I've contacted the PSS," Alex stated unequivocally. "You reported this immediately after the strike. You... Tomax! Damn it!"
He hadn't put much strength into the blow, but the pilot of the fifth machine fell onto the bridge, clutching a broken nose.
A head shorter and twenty kilograms lighter than the mechanic of the flagship, the "fifth" wisely stayed put.
"Because of your desire to stuff your pockets, pilot, the commander of the 'Grey Wing' sacrificed himself," Tomax said. "You reported the enemy Star Destroyer disabled! It was removed from the target list! And it was drifting towards the 'Chimaera', repairing its weapon! If not for Krieg Jainer, half of the 'Chimaera's' hull and superstructure would have been blown off! Because of a hundred thousand credits, you almost doomed a third of the watch, you son of a bitch!"
"Sir, I didn't know..." the pilot whined.
"Your job is to follow orders," Tomax repeated. "No more, no less. Collecting trophies is the last thing you should be doing in combat! Today, because of you, a fine officer died, who completed more successful sorties in six months than you have in your entire life! He paid with his life for your greed!"
"Sir, forgive me, it's not my fault, he wanted to himself..."
"Yes, squadron commander," the mechanic of the fifth crew chimed in, "we did our job. Nobody asked him to ram, he could have shot them with cannons..."
Tomax swung again, seeing that the impudent face still hadn't understood the instruction, delivered in simple and clear language.
But he couldn't – Alex intercepted his hand.
The gazes of the squadron commander and the flagship mechanic met.
"Don't, Bren," his partner said clearly. "They're not worth it. There will be an investigation anyway. They joined the regular fleet to earn money. They're not the first, and they won't be the last. The problem with these guys is that they're too stupid to understand the combination of reasons why Jainer did it. They'll find out during the tribunal. Don't get any dirtier dealing with them."
Glancing at the former "conscripts," Tomax realized that Alex was right in every sense.
"You are both suspended," he declared, seeing a squad of stormtroopers led by the ship's security officer already running across the decks. It seemed someone from the witnesses had whispered to the "security guys." "I'll inform the dispatcher about the replacement myself."
"Major Tomax, what's going on?" the counter-intelligence officer asked, giving him a grim look and drilling his gaze into the crew of the fifth 'Scimitar'.
"Because of this crew's actions, our pilot died," Bren said. "They didn't follow orders, they didn't destroy the enemy destroyer's weapons to claim it as a trophy..."
"Hey-hey-hey, what do I have to do with it?" the mechanic of the fifth crew worried. "I just..."
"You just enter the target coordinates into the warheads for a paired launch," Alex prompted him with the correct answer.
"As a result, to save the 'Chimaera' from damage and protect the crew, squadron commander Jainer of the 'Grey Wing' was forced to ram," Bren finished his brief story.
"Is that true?" the counter-intelligence officer furrowed his brows, piercing the fifth crew with his gaze.
"They just wanted to earn some money..." the commander of the indicated crew said plaintively.
"Arrest the crew of 'Scimitar-05'," the security officer ordered the stormtroopers present.
"Take them away," came a new order, and the procession moved out.
"Sir," the ship's counter-intelligence officer said, lowering his voice to Tomax. "You must realize that physical assault is a crime. No matter what the reason."
Alex sighed heavily, as if to say, "I warned you."
"I understand," Tomax replied. "I'm not looking for excuses. I'll face the tribunal if necessary."
"When it's necessary," the counter-intelligence officer corrected.
He looked at a new pair in black jumpsuits running across the catwalks towards the fifth machine.
"Today we lost quite a few pilots - both regular and 'stand-ins'," he said. "There are almost no reserves. I... I'll have to write quite a few explanations, of course, but... You have until the end of this battle and the lifting of the alarm to fight properly. Then I'll be obliged to arrest you, just like those two."
"I understand," Tomax nodded. "Thank you."
"Destroy a couple of ships for me too," the counter-intelligence officer smiled weakly. "Let's hope it all works out without harsh sanctions, like Kessel..."
"Let's hope," Bren nodded, calming down. "Alex, let's go. We have a lot of work ahead of us."
***
"A nasty situation," Tschel commented on the latest news from the hangar.
"Unpleasant, but quite explainable by the emotional overload our pilots are experiencing," I commented.
"Nothing can explain violating orders for material gain," Tschel objected.
"My words referred to Major Bren," I clarified. "Not to the crew of 'Scimitar-05'."
But what happened clearly demonstrates that the situation is starting to get out of control.
"Captain, are all designated targets uncloaked?" I asked.
"Yes, sir," Tschel frowned, not understanding why the conversation had returned to business. "Aren't you going to take measures against the pilots who broke the law?"
"There's a tribunal for that, and there will be a more favorable environment," I cut him off. "We're moving on to the second phase of the operation, Captain. Inform the 'Scimitars' about the change in priorities. Now they are to proceed to destroying enemy ships."
"Sir, the enemy has split into two groups," Tschel reminded me. "If we can still clear the 'Alpha' zone, then 'Beta'..."
He fell silent, meeting my gaze.
"Follow orders, Captain," I cut him off. "And inform our comms officers that one of the enemy's small transport ships may transmit our identification signal shortly. We will need to protect this starship and escort it out of the combat zone."
"It will be done, sir."
Stroking the ysalamiri sleeping on my lap, I activated the commlink built into the armrest of my chair.
It's time to make a few important calls to start the rout.
***
Despite being ready for it, the "yellow alert" buzzer caught Kreb off guard.
He had woken up some time ago, feeling quite rested, refreshed, and ready to carry out the assigned combat missions.
It took him a few seconds to close the ventilation valves of his suit (he wasn't going to sit in a practically hermetic half-suit for several hours waiting for the alarm command?), reconnect it to the life support system controller on his chest, and, pulling down his helmet, put his gloves back on, cutting himself off from the remaining atmosphere in the launch bay.
Next came the upper hatch, the safety harnesses, and the now-obligatory ritual of looking at the combined holophoto.
Engines warmed up, fuel added to the tanks, another pre-flight check completed.
They would be given the command soon.
The 'Scimitars' had already launched.
So it would soon get really "hot" and the remaining reserve machines would be needed.
He felt a slight tingling in his fingers.
He looked at them with surprise, trying to remember when he had felt this last.
It turned out to be during his Academy days, when he, a green recruit, was just starting to pilot.
At first, the tingling was accompanied by fear of failure.
Then – by awe and anticipation of flight.
Now it was all the same.
There was no fear – only the desire to finally get out of this huge metal box that had surrounded him for weeks.
And to get out – not for training, exercises, practice, or combat coordination with the others.
To get out for combat.
Real.
Merciless.
Face to face with the enemy.
A signal sounded in his helmet, indicating communication with the dispatcher controlling the flight.
"Leader, are your people ready to launch?"
A strange question.
"Ready and waiting, dispatcher," Kreb stated crisply.
"As am I," he added mentally.
"That's good..."
The man frowned.
Non-regulation phrases.
A heavy sigh.
A meaningful pause.
"PSS, are there problems?" he asked directly.
There was something his flight leader wanted to say.
Something he couldn't bring himself to say.
Because he knew Kreb wouldn't like it.
That's why he hesitated.
Something on the verge of personal and official duty, which caused dissonance in the senior officer.
"Kreb," came a dry click of the switch to a personal channel. "I shouldn't be telling you this, actually..."
"Then why are you telling me?"
"There's bad news, son."
"I've never seen you in my life, dispatcher, and judging by your voice, you're barely ten years older than me."
"I'm listening, sir."
"If there's another cancellation of the sortie, I'll transfer to any patrol tub just to fly."
"Information has been received that Krieg Jainer has died," the dispatcher said.
Kreb felt the skin on his face tense, his teeth grinding against each other.
"How, sir?" he asked.
That was all he could manage.
"He went on the attack against an enemy destroyer, with cover from gunships. As it turned out, the Xg-1s used their entire combat load, but the 'Zann' somehow launched their plasma cannon. Krieg went into a ram. Apparently, he was only left with lasers," meaning he had fired all his cumulative missiles, "and according to scanner data, there was no one of ours nearby... Son, he died saving the flagship, thanks to him everyone is alive..."
"I understand, sir," he replied. "Why are you telling me?"
According to military law, news of the death or disappearance of a serviceman must be reported to his next of kin.
"It seems he has no one else, Kreb," the dispatcher replied. "Absolutely no one... And he was your wingman..."
Now it was clear.
The "leader-wingman" connection is the foundation of the Pilot Corps.
It is an unbreakable monolith that can accomplish any task and is obliged to stand up for each other.
And, to be fair, the wingman often gets more than the leader.
"I understand, sir," Kreb replied. "I'll take it into account."
"I understand you will, son," the dispatcher continued. "I just want you to know. Today, all the enemies won't be finished. Nor tomorrow. Nor the day after. You don't need to go into battle thinking that life is over."
"Some kind of twisted psychology."
"I understand, sir."
"Live, Kreb," the dispatcher continued in a persuasive tone. "Live to remember those for whom there is no one else to remember. If you rush into this mess with a hot head, with all your fervor – you won't come back. I want you to fly through the magnetic field with the full realization that you have a reason to return.
"As long as you are remembered, you are immortal."
For some reason, the thought occurred that he wasn't the only one who knew about the photograph on the instrument panel.
And following this conclusion came another.
The vocoder hides intonations.
The duty officer's booth at the PSS has a vocoder, not a simple microphone like in the commlink.
"Sir," he said slowly. "Who am I speaking with? State your personal number and clearance level."
A barely perceptible chuckle was heard.
"Beta-Alpha-2-1-Leader-Giant," one could go gray at leisure with such a personal number. "Should I state the clearance level too, son?"
"No, sir," Kreb replied hastily. "Everything is perfectly clear. I heard your instruction. I will do everything in my power to return. And to remember those for whom there is no one else to remember."
Such a personal number would bring anyone to their senses.
And clear their head.
And according to rumors, he even arranged physical punishment for some, within the framework of disciplinary actions no longer applied to officers.
"That's good, son," the "dispatcher" continued. "Now go and kick their asses."
The "red" light flashed.
Launch.
The machine easily detached from the brackets and rushed into the rectangular maw of the hangar bay.
The 'Avenger' shook as a bubble of air, along with the machine, burst through the magnetic field's protection into the vacuum.
The second time was when they broke through the second field and entered the operational space of the battlefield.
A place of grand battle, bathed in red, white, green, and blue laser fire, turbolaser fire, and ion cannon fire, with smoky trails of missile tracks, explosions, and a vortex of death.
In which they were to deliver the final blow.
Kreb gripped the control stick so hard his knuckles turned white.
He didn't see it – he felt it.
He had gotten used to it over so much time.
So many battles, so many losses.
Now Krieg too...
The 'Chimaera's' air wing was his family.
Twenty-four TIE interceptor pilots, of whom he only knew those who had not yet completed their "assigned" sorties before destruction.
Jainir was the last.
Now – no one was left.
"As long as you are remembered, you are immortal."
The phrase acted like a cold shower.
Kreb shook his head and checked his course against the PSS telemetry.
He had deviated by one degree.
Nothing, he'd fix it now.
And they would fight.
To live.
Because not all interceptor pilots from the 'Black Wing' and 'Grey Wing' squadrons perished.
He was alive.
He remembered them all.
And he would live to understand.
To avenge.
To kill.
So that others could live.
"Leader, is everything alright?" his wingman asked him.
"No, Kreb-611," the pilot replied. "Krieg Jainer is dead."
Clones do not have emotional attachments.
Frankly, Kreb hadn't even been interested in what they had adopted from his past, besides piloting skills.
"Was he a friend?" the wingman asked.
His voice was so similar to a droid's pronouncements.
"He was my wingman," Kreb explained. "Before you. And before Kreb-215. And before Kreb-48. And before Kreb-23. And before Kreb-2."
"Understood, Leader," Kreb-611 said. "Are we going to avenge?"
"No, wingman," the original rejected. "We're going to work."
Cold head.
In battle, he is a machine.
But only in battle.
"Understood, Leader. Let's work."
A few minutes later, as the mass of TIE interceptors and TIE Avengers entered the firing range of their weapons, each of the Kreb's in the air wing knew that Krieg Jainer was dead.
And knew that he had been Major Kreb's wingman.
That was more than enough for their approach to the enemy to be extremely appropriate to the situation.
Fortunately for the 'Star Vipers' pilots, by this time they had been almost entirely destroyed.
To the misfortune of the remaining 'Zann' ships, the latter were still alive.
For now.
But the volleys of turbolaser, ion, and missile fire that had descended upon them were already beginning to reduce their numbers.
***
Captain Tschel's expression could be described by one extremely concise phrase.
He looked like a fish out of water.
His mouth open, closing silently from time to time as thoughts visited his head that he wanted to voice but couldn't fully formulate.
His eyes wide, staring at the deadly rain that had poured down as if from nowhere.
Now, it seemed, he understood the reason why I had ordered only to disable the enemy's cloaking fields, rather than wasting time on the complete destruction of enemy starships.
"Channel twenty-five," he finally managed to whisper, pointing a finger at a silhouette visible through the panoramic screen. "Were transmissions made from there?"
"That's correct, Captain," I agreed.
"But... How?"
"Crystal gravfield trap," I explained. "The only one operational in the galaxy. And now we've made a mobile copy of it, capable of cloaking independently."
"I see..."
Kreb's voice indicated otherwise.
"Sir," he addressed me again. "At the 'Perimeter', when we first arrived at the station, you said that other ships should be given docking instructions. Was that what you were referring to?"
"Yes, Captain," I confirmed, stroking the ysalamiri's belly. "They were with us. Our invisible escort."
"And...?"
"How long ago?"
"Yes, sir."
"From Kessel."
"From Kessel," Tschel repeated, dumbfounded, watching intently as two waves of annihilation methodically chewed through the enemy fleet.
Ion shots – for the transports, which we will still need ourselves in future dealings.
Turbolasers and missiles – for the warships.
"From Kessel," the commander of my flagship repeated again. "And I didn't even suspect!"
"Don't blame yourself, Captain," the remark made Tschel turn his attention to me. "No one was supposed to know how deep the black hole was until they were needed."
"They," Tschel repeated as if enchanted, looking at the viewport again. "I only see one..."
The captain looked at me as if his face could provide an understandable answer.
"Many wondered when I would deploy my Super Star Destroyer," Tschel stopped blinking altogether. "Well, the time has come. With the only difference being that I didn't meet the expectations of the eager ones."
"In what sense, sir?" Physiology finally took its toll, and Tschel blinked, finally.
"It was expected that I would bring my 'Executor' into battle," the captain finally closed his mouth when he realized that in a moment, from the sight of the enemy fleet being beaten, massing to escape with the aim of pressing on the 'Eternal Wrath' and breaking free, he would start drooling. "I didn't postpone the premiere. And I brought both here."
"Both?!" Tschel exclaimed, peering greedily into the viewport.
He didn't have to search for long.
The 'Fellblade' dropped its cloak, revealing its nineteen-kilometer hull directly above our 'Interdictor', just as the 'Guardian' had done above the 'Chimaera' a few minutes earlier.
And both "super-heavy" fighters began a competition in high-speed destruction of enemy starships.
***
Read the story months ahead of the public release — early chapters are available on my Patreon: Granulan