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They looked at each other with the misgivings of professional leaders who knew things were bad when comlinks went off simultaneously.

Teppler pulled out his comlink to answer while the admiral did the same with hers. “Teppler here.”

Moments later, they were in the corridor, trotting toward the bunker’s main situation room, Teppler struggling to keep up with Delpin’s long military strides.

The admiral tucked her comlink back into her tunic. “Where’s the Prime Minister?”

“Up on the station. Under attack.” Teppler considered. There had to be some way for him to use this situation to bring about the very change in government he’d just been proposing to the admiral.

“And the station? Is it operational again?”

Teppler almost spoke one of Koyan’s favorite conversation-ending phrases, That’s on a need-to-know basis. But he bit his tongue. Given Delpin’s efforts to convince Koyan to cooperate more fully with the Confederation Supreme Military Commander, Koyan had been cutting her out of the line of information flow more and more frequently. But Teppler decided she did need to know. This was a combat situation, and Centerpoint Station was a military resource. “Operational as of four hours ago. The techs also think they’ve overcome the programming that limited the scope of the last beam. If they’re right, on its next use the station could eliminate an entire planet or star. That’s why Koyan is there. He’s composing his surrender-or-die message to Admiral Niathal.”

Delpin nodded, her jaw set. “If the Alliance seizes control of the station, Corellia is the system under the gun. We need more forces up there, now. More than we have. I need to talk to General Phennir.”

“No, let me. Believe it or not, I speak his language.”

She looked at him, dubious, but seemed convinced by his sudden confidence. She nodded.

At the next cross-corridor, she turned left, toward the situation room. Teppler continued on alone toward the Prime Minister’s communications chamber.

The Reveille raced toward the Anakin Solo, arcing to pass well clear of an engagement between a Corellian frigate and an Alliance starfighter squadron. Syal fumed. The Reveille was broadcasting its true registration, its correct password, both belonging to Tycho, the information having been sliced out of its computers by Syal’s own mother, who was now aboard the shuttle.

“Rakehell Leader. Begin firing.”

All around Syal, the other Rakehell pilots opened up on the shuttle—or rather, began firing in its general vicinity. Shots from their lasers passed all around the shuttle, and one—as beautifully placed as any kill, fired by her father—glanced off the top shields, not endangering the shuttle in the least.

A turbolaser blast, bright columns of light in parallel streams, flashed toward them from the capital ship. At this range, the Anakin Solo’s gunners were only likely to hit by accident, but accidents did happen. Suddenly all the Rakehells were on the defense, their approaches as erratic as the flight of piranha-beetles in mating season.

“Rakehell Leader to squadron. Break by wing pairs whenever you feel like it—or when I say break. We’ll form up off the Anakin Solo’s bow, outside the range of its main guns.”

Syal heard acknowledgments from the other pilots and added her own.

Then her comlink—her personal comlink, clipped to her tunic under her flight suit—came to life. “Captain Antilles.” It was Tycho’s voice.

“Yes, General.”

“Break when the others do. Do not, I say again, do not stay with me. I’m going to make my run from here.”

“But, sir—”

“That was an order. Acknowledge it.”

“Acknowledged, sir.” A chill settled in Syal’s stomach as a notion of what Tycho planned to do occurred to her.

ABOARD THE ANAKIN SOLO

A beep, indicating a high-priority query, sounded from Lieutenant Tebut’s terminal. She switched from the screen of scrolling security data to the query. The face of one of the Anakin Solo’s communications officers, a Rodian, came up on-screen. “Lieutenant—”

“Yes, Ensign.”

“We have an emergency transmission from the shuttle Reveille, inbound, carrying