Star Wars_ X-Wing 07_ Solo Command - Aaron Allston [128]
Wedge set his jaw. This wasn’t the sort of victory they needed. “Rogues, form up. Let’s assess remaining threats.”
But the flaming wreckage that was Serpent’s Smile was no threat, and neither Red Gauntlet nor the three ships around her—Crynyd, Skyhook, or Stellar Web—was firing. Zsinj’s other destroyer had surrendered.
“I can’t beat him,” Solo said. His voice was duller than before, even to his own ears. He couldn’t seem to muster the energy even to pretend to be enthusiastic. “We’ve lost.”
Captain Onoma regarded him steadily; the Mon Calamari’s eyes were wide, evaluative. “We have reduced him.”
“He’ll swell up again. And there we’ll be, locked in this struggle forever.” He heaved a sigh. “All right. Recall the starfighters. Assemble the group. Secure Red Gauntlet and put a crew aboard her. Maybe we can draft her against Zsinj until Fleet Command decides to reallocate her.”
“Yes, General.”
The communications officer said, “Message from Contact M-317.”
“Put it through.”
Admiral Rogriss’s face came up on Solo’s private screen. He looked unshaken, undismayed by the events of the last few minutes. “General Solo.”
“Admiral. Let me compliment you on your flying.”
“Thank you. I think we’re done here, however. A shame.” The admiral shrugged. “It was a trap that could have succeeded.”
Solo nodded. “Let me ask you. Would you do it again?”
Rogriss froze. After a moment, he gave a slight nod. “I imagine I would. You have my frequency.”
“I do. Good luck … against the warlord, anyway.”
Rogriss laughed. Then his image vanished from the screen. A moment later, Stellar Web made the jump into hyperspace and was gone.
Solo sat, alone with his thoughts, his crew choosing not to disturb him.
In the murmur of their voices, he could pick up details of their status. How many pilots lost. How many starfighters temporarily out of combat, how many permanently. Damage tallies. Reports on reconnaissance pilots finally rejoining the group.
Then his communications officer said, “Sir, we’re receiving holocomm traffic.”
“That will be Zsinj,” Solo said. “Calling to brag.”
“No, sir.”
Long before she was supposed to, Iron Fist dropped out of hyperspace. Directly ahead, though at a sufficient distance that they were in no danger, was a yellow sun.
Zsinj leaned over to bellow down at his navigator. “What is this?”
“A star, sir,” the navigator said, then wilted as he realized how unnecessary the statement was. “Name unknown. It’s not on my charts.”
“Not on your charts?” The words escaped Zsinj in a bellow. “Just how incompetent are you? How far did we travel?”
“Less than eight light-years, sir.”
Zsinj felt himself gaping like a fish. “There are no unknown systems eight light-years from Vahaba!” He turned to Melvar, dropped the volume of his voice to a whisper. “Are there?”
“Well, if we knew,” the general said, “they wouldn’t be unknown. But to answer the question more appropriately, no yellow sun like this could exist eight light-years from Vahaba without the people of Vahaba knowing—and so it would be on our star charts.”
Zsinj returned his attention to the navigator. “Well, turn us around, get us out of this gravity well and into hyperspace, and get us to our rendezvous point.” He didn’t bother to keep anger out of his voice.
“Sir?” Another voice, the officer in charge of engineering. “New damage reports. We’re experiencing a progressive failure in our hyperdrive system.”
Zsinj felt his gut turn cold. “Define ‘progressive failure.’ ”
“Primary subsystems are shut down and secondary systems and optional reroutes are failing. But it’s not instantaneous. It’s spreading, like a disease.”
“How long before the system is inoperable?”
“One minute, maybe two.”
“Navigation, how long before we can make our next jump?”
The navigator looked up and slowly shook his head.
“Fix it,” Zsinj said. “Now. Now. Now.”
“We have a holocomm message,” called the communications officer.
“Directed to whom?” Zsinj