Star Wars_ X-Wing 06_ Iron Fist - Aaron Allston [137]
“He continues correcting his position to be more and more precisely in our path,” said Melvar. “We can’t be sure of his intent until we’re past the point of no return. Then, either he moves out of our path and we can get through and go to hyperspace … or we hit Mon Remonda and both vessels probably perish.”
“He actually has more firepower to unload than we do at the moment. He can bring almost half his guns to bear at any time. We’re limited to the forward guns that can depress far enough to target him.” Zsinj shook his head. “All right. Bring all our guns to bear on her engines. Stop her dead in space. The sooner you do it, the greater margin we’ll have to squeak past him.”
Zsinj’s stomach began churning. This was still winnable. But the New Republic assault, the way they’d accurately calculated his position, the way they relied on his protectiveness of Razor’s Kiss to slow him, was upsetting.
It was a TIE interceptor, but it moved more sluggishly than the standard interceptor. A few kilometers from Iron Fist’s bridge, it had one TIE fighter under its guns and was stitching it with dual-linked fire while another fighter maneuvered behind it.
Wedge targeted the second fighter, bracketed it with his targeting computer before it was aware of his proximity, and shredded it with quad-linked lasers even as the interceptor vaped the first fighter. “Ten, is that you?”
“Good to hear from you, Leader. I hate this thing. It’s as fragile as an interceptor and as slow as an X-wing.”
“Well, stop playing by yourself, then. You’re my wing.”
“Yes, sir.”
In spite of the smoke blurring his vision, Wedge saw the tiny green needle on Iron Fist’s hull below him—a long, tentative streak that hit the port-side shield projector dome, hit it twice, hit it a third time—and then the dome exploded.
The source of the laser fire, a TIE fighter, leaped up from Iron Fist’s hull. It shot up through her defensive shields as if the maneuver were an accident, then looped around as if flown by a drunken skimmer pilot, apparently setting up for a descent and run on the second dome projector, but an ion-cannon beam swept across it. The fighter continued off on a straight-line course toward the stars.
• • •
The captain’s shout was jubilant: “Mon Remonda no longer maneuvering. We have their engines, Warlord!”
“Excel—”
The bridge rocked, its lights dimming, fragments of ceiling descending into the crew pit. Zsinj tottered and fell. He looked up; Melvar was looking away, not extending a hand. That was correct, that was proper. No one was supposed to see the warlord discommoded.
Zsinj clambered to his feet. “What happened?”
The captain had gone from cheer to despair in just a second. “We’ve lost the port-side shield projector. We’re down to half shield strength above the midline.”
Zsinj felt as though he, too, were suddenly at half strength. He calculated the numbers. “Is that frigate still on our tail?”
“Still catching up. It will be within firing range in two minutes at this rate.”
Zsinj closed his eyes. “Recall the fighters. Bring Iron Fist up to flank speed. Communicate with Razor’s Kiss, issue the command ‘abandon ship.’ ” He didn’t have to add, We’ve lost this battle.
Face caught sight of the interceptors emerging from the flurry of fighters, headed their way. “Thirteen, incoming!” He turned into the path of the incoming TIEs, threw all discretionary power onto forward shields—
Too late. Laser fire from the lead interceptor punched through his unboosted shield and then through his cockpit. He felt a sudden blast of agonizing heat to his left side, then cold just as intense. He watched in idle curiosity as his vision changed—first as the atmosphere of his cockpit was vented, then as the emergency magcon field on his suit came up and tried to cope with the sudden vacuum. He caught a glimpse of the red stripe on his attacker’s solar wing arrays as it sped past.
“Eight, can you hear me?”
There was no response, and Face felt a distant sadness. Eight, whoever he was, must have been vaped.
“Eight, this is