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At fifteen hundred meters, he said, “Launch one, launch two.” He fired, sending paired proton torpedoes toward one of Iron Fist’s stern engines. More blue streaks than he could count emerged from his X-wings, instantly crossing the distance to the destroyer, which was suddenly and brilliantly illuminated by their detonations against the port side of the stern.

He looped to port. “Novas, your turn.”

“Acknowledged, and thanks, Rogue Leader.” That was the voice of Nova One. “Novas, launch one and begin ion fire.”

Blue streaks leaped from the B-wings. Then the ungainly-looking craft continued their dive toward Iron Fist’s engines, their ion cannons sustaining fire against the destroyer’s stern.

Wedge wished them success. They were designed to hurt capital ships; their pilots knew what they were doing. But if Iron Fist called back its starfighters and the Novas didn’t notice in time, the entire squad could be lost.

Now it was time to meet the weak link of this force: Zsinj’s light cruisers.

Mon Remonda rattled under blast after blast from the attacking starfighters. Solo ignored the vibrations. Shield integrity was good, the hull was holding up—they still had a chance.

His communications officer said, “Nova One reports damage to Iron Fist’s engines.”

“How extensive?” Solo asked.

“Unknown.”

Golorno spoke up, his voice now more nearly normal. “A lot of the starfighters on us are in retreat. They just broke off to head for Iron Fist.”

“How many?”

“About half.”

“Ah, good. Now they outnumber ours only two to one.” Solo absently hammered the arm of his captain’s chair. If only he were out there, in the Millennium Falcon, making a direct assault on the enemy … here, all he could do was issue orders and hope they were so good that not many of his people died.

They were never so good that none of his people died. Never.

“Message for General Solo,” the comm officer announced. “From Warlord Zsinj!”

“Ignore it,” Solo said. “I’ll bet you a hundred Corellian credits he hates that. No, wait.” He stood. “Chewie, get in here.”

The Wookiee squeezed in through the bridge door, looking quizzical.

“Here, take my chair.” Han helped his friend into the seat, which was far too small for him. “All right, put that message through.”

The comm unit on the command chair lit up. Even from his angle off to the side, Solo could make out Zsinj’s florid features, bald head, and exaggerated handlebar mustache. “General Solo,” Zsinj said, “I’m calling to offer you an honorable—what is this?”

Chewbacca reached down and tilted the screen up so its built-in holocam would broadcast his face instead of just his chest. He grumbled something at the screen.

“It’s, ah, Chewbacca, isn’t it? Please put your owner on.”

Chewbacca offered him an extended speech, nearly subsonic, bone-rattling. Solo smiled. It was an eloquent discourse on the ingredients that made up Zsinj, and not one of the ingredients was the sort that should be mentioned in polite company or during any meal.

“Wookiee is not among my many languages, you extruded fur thing. Where is Solo?”

Chewbacca returned to his discourse and Solo moved to stand beside Captain Onoma, taking in the officer’s sensor readings, his mind once again fully engaged by the battle.

“This is Leader. Break by squadrons.”

“Wraith One acknowledges,” Face said. “Good luck, Rogues.” He began a long curve relative up and to starboard, taking him and the Wraiths toward one of the two Carrack-class cruisers in Zsinj’s group.

The Carracks were 350 meters long, looking like stubby metal bars with swells at bow and stern. Face knew them to be formidable opponents for capital ships; their batteries of ion cannons made it possible for them to disable much larger vessels. But the comparatively light number of turbolasers they carried gave the starfighters a chance at them.

The Wraiths approached their target from the stern. At Face’s command, they split into two units, Wraiths One through Six going to starboard, Seven through Eleven going to port. Stern turbolasers