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But that wasn’t enough. He couldn’t just run. He had to do something to salvage this mission. He had to intimidate or embarrass the Corellians, decisively. Somewhere. Somehow.

“V-Swords, heads up.” That was the voice of VibroSword Leader. “We have a unit incoming.”

On Lysa’s sensor board, the swirl looked like a small formation of Corellian attack fighters. They weren’t headed straight in; they had detached themselves from the Corellian fleet and were angling in, a course that was the counterpart of the interceptors’, bringing them closer and closer to VibroSword Squadron.

“They’re daring us.” That was V-Sword Eight, Lysa’s wingman, a Quarren male from Mon Calamari.

“That’s right,” Leader said. “So keep it under control. Remember, first one to twitch loses.”

Eight asked, “And the first one to blink?”

“The first to blink will be Corellians, Eight. Now pipe down.”

The attack fighters got closer and closer. Soon Lysa could count them on the sensor board—a full squadron dozen—and not long after that she could make them out visually as, now only a kilometer distant, they crossed in front of the stars. And on they came.

Lysa said, “Leader, Seven. I think they’re going to continue their course straight through us.”

“Seven, you’re probably right. Squadron, they’re going to move through our position as if they don’t see us. Trying to make us flinch. Bring your shields up only if it’s a sure thing you’re going to be hit and announce the impact. If you hear me say Incoming, break by wing pairs, bring shields and weapons up, and attack at will. VibroSword Squadron doesn’t flinch.”

Lysa heard a chorus of affirmatives from her fellow pilots, added her own to it.

Inside, she felt sick. This wasn’t a clean fight; it was confused and tense, and about nothing but playing a game of dominance. She hated it. Her father would have hated it.

She waited.

CORONET, CORELLIA

As the Jedi’s commandeered groundspeeder hurtled along one of Coronet’s main avenues in thinning traffic, a howl of distant space raid sirens filled the air, and tiny gray clouds began to pop up in the skies to the east, the direction of the groundspeeder’s destination. Thann handled the speeder yoke with one hand, keeping his comlink pressed up between ear and mouth with the other.

Zekk, still stretched out on the backseat and Jaina’s lap, had his eyes closed again. He hadn’t passed out—he had sunk into a short-term Jedi healing trance, one that would help him deal with the damage of the burns and shrapnel, so that his injuries would not hinder him as much when the time came for action.

Thann put his comlink away.

“What’s the situation?” Jaina shouted to him.

Thann pointed toward the distant gray antispacecraft clouds. “That? That’s your uncle Luke and the Jedi coming to take us offplanet. But they’ve lost their shuttle and he doesn’t think they’re getting another one.”

“Ah,” Jaina said.

“Team Tauntaun was ambushed the way we were, except that they got inside Sal-Solo’s mansion. They were attacked by troops and probots.”

“Where are they now?”

“They’re stealing a speeder and will rendezvous with us. They’re thinking of stealing some payroll credit chips, or kidnapping a holodrama star so we won’t come back empty-handed.”

“Good of them. Anything else?”

“The fleet jumped in and was ambushed, too. Nothing much is going right.”

“We need a spaceport,” Jaina shouted. “We’ll have to steal a shuttle.”

“All nonmilitary air and space travel will be shut down until things are settled. And the Coronet spaceport is going to be crawling with CorSec.”

“There are smaller ports. Private spaceports, spaceports for outlying communities. And they’ll have charter shuttle services,” Jaina said.

“I’m on it.” Kolir’s right cheek bulged with the cloth she’d stuffed in there to stanch the flow of blood. She reached into her blood-spattered bag and drew out a datapad. Opening it, she began searching the Coronet database she’d loaded into it.

“Find one with a female manager on duty,” Thann said.

Kolir grimaced at him.