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The reassuring hum of machines on the Revenue’s bridge was interrupted by a grating tone from the scanner array. Gliding across the command walkway, Daultay Dofine queried the droid stationed at the scanner.

“Long-range monitors report a cluster of small ships advancing all speed on our position,” the droid answered in a metallic monotone.

“What? What did you say?”

The Sullustan elaborated. “Authenticators identify the ships as CloakShapes and one Tempest-class gunship.”

Dofine’s jaw dropped. “An attack?”

“Commander,” the droid intoned, “the ships are continuing to advance.”

Dofine gestured wildly to the outsize display screen. “I want to see them!” He had started for the screen when another worrisome tone sounded, this time from the station of the systems officer, which was also set below the walkway.

“The central control computer is reporting a disturbance in zone two of the starboard hangar arm.”

Dofine gaped at the Gran. “What sort of disturbance?”

“The droids are firing on one of the cargo pods.”

“Those brainless machines! If they ruin any of the cargo—”

“Commander, starfighters are onscreen,” the Sullustan reported.

“It could be nothing more than a glitch,” the Gran went on.

Dofine’s blinking red orbs darted from one alien to the other in mounting concern.

“Starfighters changing vector. Breaking into two elements.” The Sullustan turned to Dofine. “Flying the imprint of the Nebula Front.”

“The Nebula Front!” Dofine rushed to the display screen, then raised his long, fat forefinger to indicate the jet-black gunship. “That ship—”

“The Hawk-Bat,” the Sullustan said in a rush. “The ship of Captain Cohl.”

“Impossible!” Dofine snapped. “Cohl was reported to be at Malastare only yesterday.”

Jowls quivering slightly, the Sullustan regarded the screen. “But that is his ship. And where the Hawk-Bat ventures, Cohl is not far behind!”

“Starfighters are forming up for attack,” the droid updated.

Dofine turned to the navigator. “Enable defense systems!”

“Central control computer reports continued blasterfire in the starboard hangar. Eight security droids destroyed.”

“Destroyed?”

“Defense system has the Nebula Front starfighters in target lock. Deflector shields are raised—”

“Starfighters firing!”

Intense light exploded behind the rectangular viewports and shook the bridge hard enough to rattle a droid off its feet.

“Turbolasers responding!”

Dofine swung to the viewports in time to see hyphens of pulsed, red light streak from the freighter’s equatorially mounted batteries.

“Where is our closest reinforcement?”

“One star system distant,” the navigator said. “The Acquisitor. More heavily armed than the Revenue.”

“Send a distress call!”

“Is that wise, Commander?”

Dofine understood the implication. Rescue was always a belittling event. But Dofine was certain that he could offset the humiliation by protecting the Revenue’s cargo.

“Just do as I say,” he told the navigator.

“Starfighter elements are forming up for a second run,” the Sullustan updated.

“Where are the starfighters? Why aren’t they moving in to engage?”

“You recalled them, Commander,” the navigator reminded.

Dofine gestured wildly. “Well, relaunch them, relaunch them!”

“Central control computer requests permission to isolate zone two of starboard hangar.”

“Seal it!” Dofine sputtered. “Seal it now!”

The masked group that had infiltrated the Revenue were a diverse lot—as varied as the starfighters that were flying support—humans and nonhumans, male and female, stocky and slender. Protected by camouflage suits and matte-black armorply, and sporting gripsole deckboots and combat goggles, they emerged from behind the battering ram that had afforded them an element of surprise, firing state-of-the-art assault rifles and shoulder-slung field disruptors.

The handful of security droids that were still standing collapsed to the deck, limbs splayed or hopelessly entwined.

The human OLR-4 had nearly gotten the drop on strode