Cham had fought for his people and Ryloth for over a decade. He’d fought for a free Ryloth when the Republic had tried to annex it, and he fought now for a free Ryloth against the Empire that was trying to strip it bare.
A free Ryloth.
The phrase, the concept, was the pole star around which his existence would forever turn.
Because Ryloth was not free.
As Cham had feared back during the Clone Wars, one well-intentioned occupier of Ryloth had given way to another, less well-intentioned occupier, and a Republic had, through the alchemy of ambition, been transformed into an Empire.
An Imperial protectorate, they called Ryloth. On Imperial star charts Cham’s homeworld was listed as “free and independent,” but the words could only be used that way with irony, else meaning was turned on its head.
Because Ryloth was not free.
Yet Orn Free Taa, Ryloth’s obese representative to the lickspittle, ceremonial Imperial Senate, validated the otherwise absurd Imperial claims through his treasonous acquiescence to them. But then Ryloth had no shortage of Imperial collaborators, or those willing to lay supine before stormtroopers.
And so … Ryloth was not free.
But it would be one day. Cham would see to it. Over the years he’d recruited and trained hundreds of likeminded people, most of them Twi’leks, but not all. He’d cultivated friendly contacts and informants all over the Outer Rim and the Core. Over the years he’d planned and executed raid after raid against the Imperials, cautious and precise raids, but effective. Dozens of dead Imperials gave mute testimony to the growing effectiveness of the Free Ryloth movement.
Not a terrorist, but a freedom fighter.
He put a reassuring hand on the shoulder of the helmsman, felt the tension in the clenched muscles of her shoulder. Like most of the crew, like Cham, she was a Twi’lek, and Cham doubted she’d ever flown anything larger than a little gorge hopper, certainly nothing like the armed freighter she steered now.
“Just hold her steady, Helm,” Cham said. “We won’t need anything fancy out of you.”
Standing behind Cham, Isval added, “We hope.”
The helmsman exhaled and nodded. Her lekku, the twin headtails that extended down from the back of her head to her shoulders, relaxed slightly to signify relief. “Aye, sir. Nothing fancy.”
Isval stepped beside Cham, her eyes on the viewscreen.
“Where are they?” she grumbled, the darkening blue of her skin and the agitated squirm of her lekku a reflection of her irritation. “It’s been days and no word.”
Isval always grumbled. She was perpetually restless, a wanderer trapped in a cage only she could see, pacing the confines over and over, forever testing the strength of the bars. Cham valued her need for constant motion, for constant action. They were the perfect counterpoints to each other: her rash, him deliberate; her practical, him principled.
“Peace, Isval,” he said softly.
He held his hands, sweaty with stress despite his calm tone, clasped behind his back. He eyed the bridge chrono. Almost time. “They’re not late, not yet. And if they’d failed, we’d have had word by now.”
Her retort came fast. “If they’d succeeded, we’d have had word by now, too. Wouldn’t we?”
Cham shook his head, his lekku swaying. “No, not necessarily. They’d run silent. Pok knows better than to risk comm chatter. He’d need to skim a gas giant to refuel, too. And he might have needed to shake pursuit. They had a lot of space to cover.”
“He would’ve sent word, though, something,” she insisted. “They could have blown up the ship during the hijack attempt. They could all be dead. Or worse.”
She said the words too loudly, and the heads of several of the crew came up from their work, looks of concern on their faces.
“They could, but they’re not.” He put his hand on her shoulder. “Peace, Isval. Peace.”
She grimaced and swallowed hard, as if trying to rid herself of a bad taste. She pulled away from him and started to pace anew. “Peace. There’s peace only for the dead.”
Cham smiled. “Then let’s stick with war for at least a bit longer, eh?”
His words stopped her in her pacing and elicited one of her half smiles, and a half smile was as close as Isval ever got to the real thing. He had only a vague sense of what had been done to her when she’d been enslaved, but he had a firm sense that it must have been awful. She’d come a long way.
“Back to it, people,” he ordered, and eyes returned to their places. “Stay sharp.”
Silence soon filled all the empty space on the bridge. Hope hung suspended in the quiet—fragile, brittle, ready to be shattered with the wrong word. The relentless gravity of waiting drew eyes constantly to the chrono. But still nothing.
Cham had hidden the freighter in the rings of one of the system’s gas giants. Metal ore in the rock chunks that made up the rings would hide the ship from any scans.
“Helm, take us above the plane of the rings,” Cham said.
Even in an off-the-chart system, it was a risk to put the freighter outside of the shelter of the planet’s rings. The ship’s credentials wouldn’t hold up to a full Imperial query, and Imperial probes and scouts were everywhere, as the Emperor tried to firm up his grip on the galaxy and quell any hotspots. If they were spotted, they’d have to run.
“Magnify screen when we’re clear.”
Even magnified the screen would show far less than long-range sensors, but Cham needed to see for himself, not stare at readouts.
Isval paced beside him.
The ship shifted up, out of the bands of ice and rock, and the magnified image on the screen showed the outer system. A single, distant planetoid of uninhabited rock orbited the system’s dim star at the edge of the system, and countless stars beyond blinked in the dark. A nebula light-years away to starboard painted a splash of space the color of blood.
Cham stared at the screen as if he could pull his comrades through hyperspace by sheer force of will. Assuming they’d even been able to jump. The whole operation had been a huge risk, but Cham had thought it worthwhile to secure more heavy weapons and force the Empire to divert some resources away from Ryloth. Too, he’d wanted to make a statement, send a message that at least some of the Twi’leks of Ryloth would not quietly accept Imperial rule. He’d wanted to be the spark that started a fire across the galaxy.
“Come on, Pok,” he whispered, the involuntary twitch of his lekku betraying his stress. He’d known Pok for years and called him friend.
Isval muttered under her breath, a steady flood of Twi’lek expletives.
Cham watched the chrono as the appointed time arrived and passed, taking the hopes of the crew with it. Heavy sighs and slack lekkus all around.
“Patience, people,” Cham said softly. “We wait. We keep waiting until we know.”
“We wait,” Isval affirmed with a nod. She paced the deck, staring at the viewscreen as if daring it to keep showing her something she didn’t want to see.
The moments stretched. The crew shifted in their seats, shared surreptitious looks of disappointment. Cham had to work to unclench his jaw.
The engineer on scan duty broke the spell.
“I’ve got something!” she said.
Cham and Isval fairly sprinted over to the scanner. All eyes watched them.
“It’s a ship,” the engineer said.
A satisfied, relieved rustle moved through the bridge crew. Cham could almost hear the smiles. He eyed the readout.
“That’s an Imperial transport,” he said.
“That’s our Imperial transport,” Isval said.
A few members of the bridge crew gave a muted cheer.
“Stay on station, people,” Cham said, but could not shake his grin.
“Coming through now,” the engineer said. “It’s them, sir. It’s them! They’re hailing us.”
“On speaker,” Cham said. “Meanwhile, alert the offload team. We’ll want to get those weapons aboard
and destroy that ship as soon as—”
A crackle of static and then Pok’s strained voice. “Get clear of here right now! Just go!”
“Pok?” Cham said, as the crew’s elation shifted to concern. “Pok, what is it?”
“It’s Vader, Cham. Get out of here now! We thought we’d lost the pursuit. We’ve been jumping through systems to throw them off. I’d thought we’d lost them, but they’re still on us! Go, Cham!”
The engineer looked up at Cham, her lavender skin flushing to dark blue at the cheeks. “There are more ships coming out of hyperspace, sir. More than a dozen, all small.” Her voice tightened as she said, “V-wings probably.”
Cham and Isval cursed as one.
“Get on station, people!” Cham ordered.
Vader’s personal Eta-2 Actis-class interceptor led the starfighter squadron as the star-lined tunnel of hyperspace gave way to the black of ordinary space. A quick scan allowed him to locate the hijacked weapons transport, which they’d been pursuing through several systems as it tried to work its way out to the Rim.
The heavily armed transport showed slight blaster damage along the aft hull near the three engines, behind the bloated center of the cargo bay, behind the Imperial insignia.
“Attack formation,” he ordered, and the pilots in the rest of the squad acknowledged the command, disengaged their jump rings, and fell into formation in their V-wings.
Concerned the hijackers might have dropped out of hyperspace to lure the squadron into an ambush, he ran a quick scan of the system. The Eta-2 interceptor’s sensor array was not the most sensitive, but it showed only a pair of huge, ringed gas giants, each with a score or more of moons, an asteroid belt between the planets and the system’s star, and a few planetoids at the outside of the system. Otherwise, the system was an uninhabited backwater.
“Scans show no other ships in the system,” Vader said.
“Confirmed,” the squadron commander replied.
The voice of one of the pilots carried over the comm: “They’re spooling up for another jump, Lord Vader.”
“Follow my lead,” Vader ordered, and accelerated to attack speed. “Do not allow them to jump again.”
The V-wings and Vader’s interceptor were far faster and more maneuverable than the transport and closed on it rapidly, devouring the space between. Vader did not bother consulting his instrumentation. He fell into the Force, flying by feel, as he always did.
Even before the Eta-2 and the V-wings closed to within blaster range, one of the freighter’s engines burped a gout of blue flame and burned out. The hijackers had overtaxed the transport in their escape attempt.
“I want the shields down and the remaining two engines disabled,” Vader said. Disabling the engines would prevent another hyperspace jump. “Do not destroy that ship.”
The heavier armaments of the transport had a longer range than the interceptor and V-wings’ blasters and opened up before the starfighters got to within blaster range.
“Weapons are hot, go evasive,” said the squadron leader, as the transport’s automated gun turrets filled the space between the ships with green lines. The starfighter squadron veered apart, twisting and diving.
Vader felt the transport’s blasters as much as saw them. He cut left, then hard right, then dove a few degrees down, still closing on the transport. One of the V-wings to his left caught a green line. Its wing fragmented and it went spinning and flaming off into the system.
The larger, manned, swivel-mounted gun bubbles on either side of the transport’s midline swung around and opened fire, fat pulses of red plasma.
“Widen your spacing,” said the squadron commander over the comm. “Spacing!”
A burst of red plasma caught one of the V-wings squarely and vaporized it entirely.
“Focus your fire on the aft shields,” Vader said, his interceptor wheeling and spinning, sliding between the red and the green, until he was within range. He fired and his blasters sent twin beams of plasma into the aft shields. He angled the shot to maximize deflection. He did not want to pierce them and damage the ship, just drain them and bring them down.
The rest of the squadron did the same, hitting the transport from multiple angles. The transport bucked under the onslaught, the shields flaring under the energy load, and visibly weakening with each shot. The entire squad overtook and passed by the freighter, the green and red shots of the transport’s weapons chasing them along.
“Maintain spacing, stay evasive, and swing around for another pass,” said the squadron commander. “Split squadron and come underneath.”
The squadron’s ships peeled right and left, circling back and down, and set themselves on another intercept vector. Vader decelerated enough to fall back to the rear.
“Bring the shields down on this pass, Commander,” he said. “I have something in mind.”
Pok had left the channel open so Cham and his crew could hear the activity aboard the hijacked freighter’s bridge—Pok barking orders, someone calling the attack vectors of the V-wings, the boom of blasterfire on shields.
“Pok!” Cham said. “We can help!”
“No!” Pok said. “We’re already down one engine. We can’t spool up yet, and there’s a Star Destroyer somewhere behind these V-wings. There’s nothing you can do for us, Cham. Get the hyperdrive back online!”
An explosion sent a crackle of static and a scream of feedback along the channel.
“Shields at ten percent,” someone on Pok’s bridge called out.
“Hyperdrive still nonoperational,” said someone else.
Isval grabbed Cham by the arm, hard enough for it to hurt. She spoke in a low, harsh voice. “We have to help them.”
But Cham didn’t see how they could. If he left the shelter of the rings, the V-wings or interceptors or whatever they were would pick them up on scan, and Cham had no illusions about the ability of his helmsman or his ship should they be picked up.
“No,” Cham said to the helmsman. “Stay put.”
Vader watched the transport go hard to port, taking an angle that would allow both of the midline gun bubbles to fire on the approaching starfighters. As soon as they entered the transport’s range, the automated turrets and gun bubbles opened fire, filling space with beams of superheated plasma. The V-wings swooped and twisted and dodged, spiraling through the net of green and red energy.
Vader, lingering behind, piloted his ship between the blasterfire, above it, below it. A third V-wing caught a shot from a gun turret and exploded, debris peppering Vader’s cockpit canopy as he flew through the flames.
When the V-wings got within range, they opened fire and the freighter’s shields fell almost immediately.
“Shields down, Lord Vader,” said the squadron leader.
“I’ll take the engines,” Vader said. “Destroy the turrets and the starboard-side midline gun bubble.”
The pilots of his squadron, selected for their piloting excellence and a demonstrated record of kills, did exactly as he’d ordered. Small explosions lit up the hull, and the gun emplacements disappeared in flowers of fire. The transport shook from the impact as the V-wings swooped past it, up, and started to circle back around.
Meanwhile Vader veered to his left and down, locked onto the engines, and fired, once, twice. Explosions rocked the transport aft, and chunks of both engines spun off into space. Secondary explosions rocked the rear of the transport, but otherwise the ship remained intact. Vader slowed still more, trailing the transport.
“She’s running on inertia now, sir,” said the squadron commander. “When the Perilous arrives, she can tractor the transport into one of her bays.”
“I have no intention of leaving the hijackers aboard the ship that long,” Vader said. He knew the hijackers would try to blow up the ship, and there were enough weapons in the cargo bay to do just that. “I’m going to board her.”
“Sir, there’s no docking clamp or landing bay on that ship,” said the squadron commander.
“I am aware of that, Commander,” said Vader.
The sole remaining gun bubble—manned by one of the hijackers—swung around and opened fire at Vader’s ship. Still using the Force to guide him, Vader slung his ship side to side, up and down, staying just ahead of the blasterfire as he headed straight for the bubble. He could see the gunner inside the transparent canopy, feel his presence, insignificant and small, through the web of the Force.
“Sir …” The squadron commander said as the V-wing squadron circled back around, but Vader did not acknowledge him.
Vader hit a switch and depressurized the Eta-2’s cockpit, his armor shielding him from the vacuum. Then, as he neared the transport’s midline, still swinging his ship left and right to dodge the incoming fire, he mentally selected a spot on the ship adjacent to the gun bubble and, using the Force, took a firm mental hold on it.
His interceptor streaked toward the gun bubble, aimed directly at it. Content with the trajectory, he unstrapped himself, overrode the interceptor’s safeties, threw open the cockpit hatch, and ejected into space.
Immediately he was spinning in the zero-g, the ship and stars alternating positions with rapidity. Yet he kept his mental hold on the airlock handle, and his armor, sealed and pressurized, sustained him in the vacuum. The respirator was loud in his ears.
His ship slammed into the gun bubble and the transport, the inability of the vacuum to transmit sound causing the collision to occur in eerie silence. Fire flared for a moment, but only a moment before the vacuum extinguished it. Chunks of debris exploded outward into space and the transport lurched.
A great boom sounded through the connection. Alarms wailed, and Pok’s bridge exploded in a cacophony of competing conversations.
“Pok, what just happened?” Cham asked. “Are you all right?”
“We had a collision. We’re all right. Get me status on the damage,” Pok said to someone on his bridge. “Get someone over there now.”
“Sir! Sir!” the squadron commander called, his voice frantic in Vader’s helmet comm. “Lord Vader! What’s happening, sir?”