Star Wars_ X-Wing 07_ Solo Command - Aaron Allston [150]
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As Solo and his bridge crew watched, flame gouted out from the center of the blackness, then spread to engulf it entirely. The approaching Y-wings veered away. Metal debris, brilliantly glowing, hurtled from the center of the explosion. In moments, the bright ball of explosive gas faded—and the blackness, too, was gone, the stars beyond it restored.
The sensor operator blinked. “We had signs of a hyperspace entry just before the explosion, sir.”
“Find out,” Solo said. “Find out if it was Iron Fist or that phantom ship.”
“Yes, sir.”
A moment later, the communications officer rocked back in his chair as if slapped. He turned to Solo. “Sir, I have a transmission from one of our Y-wings. The pilot thinks you ought to see this right away.”
“Put it up.”
The enhanced starfield wavered. The stars changed, and much of the view was replaced by a tumbling piece of debris, an enormous triangle of metal trailing cables and metal spars. Portions of the debris still glowed from the heat of the explosion.
Painted on the side of the triangle, rotating into and out of sight as the debris spun, were the words IRON FIST.
Captain Onoma joined him. “That is her bow.”
“Yes.” Solo let out a breath and felt five months of pressure and frustration begin to leave him. If he could breathe like that for a while, expelling the nightmare of this command one lungful at a time, he could someday become a real human again.
He moved back to his control chair and sat heavily. All across the bridge, officers began applauding, offering handshakes, exchanging embraces.
“Comm, let me address the fleet.”
“Ready, sir.”
“This is General Solo. Iron Fist is destroyed. We’ll tell you more as we know more.” He gestured for the comm officer to cease the transmission. “Sensors, Communications, what about our pilots who were close to her?”
The sensor officer shook her head. “They were awfully near to the explosion. Unless they move under their own power, we won’t be able to distinguish them from debris.”
“I have a transmission from a Y-wing pilot,” the comm officer said. “He’s injured, coming in on one engine. He was just emerging from the darkness field when Iron Fist blew. He was pretty disoriented while he was in the darkness field. He saw a second capital ship on sensors; it must have been the one that made hyperspace. He thinks most of our starfighters are gone, sir.”
Solo closed his eyes.
Maybe, just maybe, those were the last beings he would ever have to order to their deaths.
“Incoming message, sir. From one of those outbound shuttles. He says it’s Warlord Zsinj.”
“Of course,” Solo murmured. “He wouldn’t stay aboard Iron Fist and let himself be blown up. Not even if I asked him nicely.” He raised his head. “Chewie, you took the last one. Come join me for this one.”
Chewbacca moved in to stand behind Solo. “Put it on,” Solo said.
Zsinj’s image, against the background of a Lambda shuttle cockpit, appeared both on Solo’s private screen and as a holoprojection over the bridge’s main viewport.
There was no humor remaining to Zsinj’s expression. Sweat darkened parts of his white uniform. His mustachios drooped in what might have been, under other circumstances, a comical fashion. “I’ve signaled you to offer congratulations,” the warlord said. His voice was low, pained. “You realize you have cost me very dearly.”
Han summoned up the energy to give him a mocking smile. “I don’t have much to offer you in compensation. Maybe I could let you kiss my Wookiee.”
Chewbacca grumbled, a noise of dissent.
The color rose in Zsinj’s face and he spoke again—words Solo did not know, each few syllables sounding different in character and pitch than the ones before. The rant went on for nearly a minute, and Solo was glad they routinely recorded bridge communications—he wanted one of the 3PO units to translate this multilingual composition of profanity for him. One blast in the Rodian language he understood quite well; it described