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The Bloodfin was on his screen now. Jag punched a button. “Little Boy Blue to Red Rider, my bearing is alpha seven mark two, heading your way as fast as possible.”

Reige’s voice replied, “We see you, Little Boy Blue, and are moving to rendezvous. We suggest you hurry.”

“Any word on Ash and Dust?”

“Ash has arrived, still awaiting Dust.”

The code name Little Boy Blue had been suggested by Ashik in one of his rare playful moments. Jag was, by both human and Chiss standards, rather short, and he was one of the very few beings the xenophobic Chiss regarded as akin to themselves. The code name was therefore both a jab and an honor in one. In the same lighthearted vein, Jag suggested Dust for Tahiri, who had grown up on Tatooine, and Ash for—well, Ashik. He was relieved to hear that Ashik had made it, but pressed down his concern for Tahiri. His … bodyguard? charge? … would make it, or she would not, and nothing Jag could do would change the outcome.

Two Clawcraft, gleaming and white and welcome, surged up to serve as escort just in time to attack one of the Moff’s escort cruisers. They fairly danced around it, blasting it away, while Jag concentrated on his approach to the Bloodfin, now visible to his naked eye.

And then suddenly, not understanding what had happened, he was spiraling wildly out of control, as helpless to correct himself as a bird caught in a tornado. Huge chunks of debris, some of them as large as an entire Star Destroyer, tumbled past. Jag, still turning over and over and frantically trying to regain control of his fighter, spared only the most cursory of glances toward the debris—but it was enough for him to recognize that he wasn’t looking at what was left of spacefaring vessels. A smaller chunk of the debris slammed into one of his wings and sent him hurtling off in another direction.

He finally managed to stop tumbling. Jag ran a quick scan of the ship. It showed that, incredibly, other than severe damage to a single wing, the TIE Destroyer—and its pilot—were intact.

“Little Boy Blue, we have a tractor beam lock on your fighter. Stand by to board Red Rider.”

He let out a deep breath as he moved toward safety. It was then that, as he had a chance to look around, he caught sight of what looked like a broken egg in the distance. And that was when he realized what had happened.

Somehow, Daala had blasted apart Exodo II’s moon.

It had been a desperate gamble, but it had bought them time. When Lecersen had initially proposed firing several baradium missiles into a structural weak point of Boreleo, she had thought him mad.

“To what end?” she had asked incredulously.

“Chaos and disorder, and many ships blown to pieces by flying debris,” Lecersen replied.

Daala opened her mouth to dismiss the idea—she preferred order to chaos, and her own ships could be jeopardized—and then she understood. Quickly, she gave orders to Lecersen and Vansyn—Trevin had perished along with his flagship—and they began to shift the area of battle so that Jag’s ships were between them and the soon-to-be-destroyed moon.

Lecersen had been right. It was not the most usual of tactics, but it certainly produced a great deal of chaos, disorder, and ships blown to pieces by flying debris. Daala used the confusion to send her ships in to pick off the ships that were already damaged. Jag’s people would have the chance to surrender and either join her or be kept civilly as prisoners of war, but she had a feeling that few would take such an easy way out.

The casualty reports were coming in—from her own ships and from those of Lecersen, Vansyn, and Trevin. It was worse than she had thought. The multiple “surprises” Jag had thrown her way had done just what he had intended: keep her and her people off-guard. Trevin’s entire contingent was nearly gone. Vansyn’s had taken a beating, and her own ships were reduced significantly. Many of them were so crippled they couldn’t even make the jump to hyperspace—the Chimaera among