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The program took the package and encrypted it under a Wraith Squadron communications scheme. Then it checked Iron Fist’s threat board, identified the distant target Mon Remonda as the chief designated threat, and broadcast the package to that cruiser as an ordinary data stream.

“Comm transmission from Iron Fist, sir.”

“Chewie, your favorite correspondent is calling you again.”

“No, sir,” the comm officer said. “It’s a data stream.” His voice indicated confusion. “It’s diagnostic data, sir. For all the ships in Zsinj’s fleet. It’s being broadcast under a recent Wraith Squadron encryption on New Republic frequencies.”

Solo looked up at his comm officer, then glanced at Captain Onoma, who regarded him with one eye turned back toward him. “That would be Notsil again,” Solo said. “Probably. Are all our ships getting this data?”

“No, sir.”

“Send it to all our ships. They’re to use the data until I say otherwise.”

“Yes, sir.”

Solo allowed himself a smile.

Zsinj’s comlink beeped. He brought it up. “Yes?”

“Sir, Engineering. We have the hyperdrive functional again.”

Zsinj checked his chrono. “Thirty-eight minutes. Excellent. Continue with repairs. Perhaps you can get some of the redundant systems functional and improve the odds that we’ll survive a hyperspace leap.”

“Already on it, sir.”

Zsinj pocketed the device. “Put him down for extra leave time and a raise in pay. I approve of efficiency.”

Melvar nodded, but did not look at the warlord. His attention was fixed on the holo showing the damage Iron Fist had sustained and was continuing to suffer. The primary projection showed a series of wire-frame renderings of the destroyer as shown from above; blinking red zones indicated damaged areas. A secondary list indicated system failures. “We have a radiation leak on Deck Four.”

Zsinj grimaced. “I see six radiation leaks.” There was a tremendous bang from overhead and the bridge lights momentarily dimmed as a nearby torpedo strike momentarily overloaded some ship’s systems. “Ah. Seven, now. Deck Four is the least of our troubles.”

“Yes, sir. Still, I want to check it out personally. On a hunch.” The general bowed and headed back toward the bridge exit.

Zsinj followed him but stopped at one of the secondary communications consoles in the security foyer. He leaned over the shoulder of the man there.

The officer didn’t turn, but said, “Our TIEs have returned to Iron Fist. Now making an attack on the squadrons assaulting us.”

“Good. Is any of the units assaulting us now confirmed as Rogue Squadron?”

The man nodded. “Yes, sir. Eighty-three percent probability. We haven’t cracked their current transmission scramble code, but based on performance we still get a better than fifty percent probability that Antilles is leading them.”

“Excellent.” Zsinj pulled out his comlink again. “Zsinj to Baron Fel.”

“Fel here.”

“Prepare to launch. Don’t worry about defending Iron Fist. We’ll give you a course that will take you within visual range of Rogue Squadron, then you can head out to an engagement zone of your own choosing. Do whatever it takes to draw them away—far away.”

“And then?”

“I’ll send a support squadron a couple of minutes later. Between your pilots, your special systems, and this support, you should be able to kill Antilles. Please do so.”

“Warlord, it will be a pleasure.”

Zsinj pocketed the device and moved slowly back up to his preferred station on the command walkway. It was time, almost time to decide. The next few minutes would show him whether Solo’s fleet or his own would prevail in this battle. In the latter case, he would send Solo yelping back to Rebel space … or, best of all, kill him. In the former, he would have to destroy Iron Fist.

Temporarily, at least.

Solo’s Star Destroyer group closed with Zsinj’s force. Even at this range, Solo could see the needles of laser light flash between ships engaged in that action.

His sensor operator kept data on the status of all his ships projected as holos up on one of the bridge viewports. But now those images