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Piggy sat back and nodded to himself, satisfied. He loved math.

“We’re in open space, Warlord,” the captain announced.

Zsinj offered him a tight, unhappy smile. “Make your course directly toward Second Death. Instruct Second Death to deploy the Nightcloak in a channel long enough for us to make a hyperspace jump from. And to finish this masquerade, I’m going to have to stand by in a shuttle. The fleet is in your capable hands.”

“Yes, sir.”

In his shuttle bay, Zsinj and his pilot found his personal shuttle unharmed, but Melvar and Gatterweld were there in much less intact condition. Both men were tied, bleeding, unconscious.

He clucked over them but didn’t delay. Time was pressing. He called in a medical team as he and his pilot prepared the shuttle for flight.

“Iron Fist is outbound,” Onoma said. “And as much as the debris field is delaying us, we’re not going to be able to catch her.”

Solo looked at the damage diagnostics projections, which showed an ever-mounting damage total for Iron Fist. “Keep the starfighters on her. There’s a chance they can crack her open before she can jump. See, concentrate there on the forward top shield projector and the starboard engines. Both systems are faltering like mad. Her hyperdrive is damaged, too. There’s got to be a chance it will fail when activated.”

Mon Remonda’s own damage totals were mounting, too. Numerous asteroid impacts had reduced her shields, battered her bow hull in several places, even vented atmosphere from portions of the bow near the keel. And Iron Fist’s starfighter screen had been insane in its prosecution of Mon Remonda.

But suddenly the enemy starfighters were running, fleeing in the wake of Iron Fist.

Solo sat, his muscles knotting, uncertainty burning at his gut. It didn’t matter that he and his force had just destroyed or captured the rest of Zsinj’s group. It didn’t matter that they’d survived each trap Zsinj had set, each ploy he had initiated. Nor did it matter that they’d sent Iron Fist fleeing for the second time in the mighty destroyer’s career.

The only thing that mattered, the only acceptable outcome, was Iron Fist’s capture or destruction.

More data crawled across his personal screen. Rogue Squadron and Wraith Squadron were returning from Selcaron. They were requesting shuttles for pilot rescue and enemy pilot capture. Rogue One was among the pilots returning. Solo breathed a sigh of relief. He had few enough friends. Win or lose, he didn’t want to lose any more in this engagement.

Tetengo Noor, Polearm Nine, finished another pass across Iron Fist. He’d dumped more laser fire across the great ship’s bow. Turbolasers and ion cannons had failed to touch his A-wing. Now he banked around for another run. His wingman was dead; most of the friendly starfighters within sight were Y-wings and even TIE fighters.

Selaggis Six was growing small behind him and his target. But Mon Remonda was coming on strong. His home was chasing him. He got lined up for another run and dove toward the destroyer, his lasers stitching destruction across her hull.

Halfway across, he sensed something wrong to his port, toward the ship’s bow. He glanced that way, saw nothing beyond the bow.

Nothing. No stars. No starfighters. Blackness, an immense sea of blackness. It so jarred him that he ceased fire, ceased maneuvering until a near miss from an Iron Fist turbolaser jolted him out of his surprise.

Iron Fist’s bow entered the darkness and disappeared. The blackness rolled across the ship’s hull and swallowed Tetengo Noor.

All the stars disappeared, but he could still see Iron Fist’s lights, still see the glows of fire from friendly and enemy starfighters. He shook off his apprehension and banked for another run at his colossal enemy. “Polearm Nine to Mon Remonda. Something odd is going on here.”

He heard nothing but the alarmed comm chatter of other pilots near him.

Sensor data was strange. It showed new blips where none had been a moment ago. There were now two capital ships in his near vicinity. Iron