[Legacy Of The Force] - 02(88)

You’re really going to shoot, aren’t you?

The Corellian fired.

Jacen didn’t feel in danger; he had deflectors, the XJ7’s robust airframe, and his own skills. He also had chaff to deploy. Instinctively, he fired the small decoy in his wake and it fragmented into pieces that looked, to a missile, very much like a target.

But if you want a fight, you’ve found one.

The missile exploded on his tail, and the rain of fragments peppered his hull. The Corellian fighter was still hard behind him and now he meant business. Jacen also knew that his opponent would aim the next missile manually, overriding its smart guidance to thwart more chaff.

That’s what I’d do, anyway.

Jacen could have sent the Corellian spiraling harmlessly away by using the Force to tip his wings. He could have stopped his drives dead and left him drifting. But this pilot was one more asset that was ready to take their lives. He and his starfighter had to be removed permanently.

You started it, my friend.

Jacen flipped the XJ7 ninety degrees and shot up vertically as the Corellian disappeared beneath him and overshot. Jacen was back on his tail, staring into white engine halos and closing the gap until he was close enough to fire the laser cannon. The starfighter exploded in a ball of white light.

Jaina? Zekk?

He felt them weaving between the two remaining Corellian fighters and then saw the enemy vessels break and shoot off toward the planet. He didn’t think they were retreating. He suspected that they were regrouping to assess the rapid escalation of the conflict.

A few hours into the blockade, the shooting had already started.

“Congratulations.” Jaina’s voice over the comlink was flat and unemotional, although she didn’t feel that way in the Force at all. Jacen sensed her as resigned. “You’ve made the history books. You fired the opening shot of the real war.”

SLAVE I, ENTERING CORELLIAN EXCLUSION ZONE, OUTER CORDON.

“Warship Ocean calling unidentified vessel,” said the Alliance. Fett listened in silence, Slave I’s scanner profile presenting the almost undetectable thermal and magnetic signatures of a speeder bike. He was, for all intents and purposes, invisible-unless someone was lucky enough to get a visual on him. “Identify yourself.”

“This is Mandalorian vessel Beroya.” Beviin’s voice oozed cheery comradeship. “Need a hand?”

“Why would we need that, Beroya? We’ve got two fleets deployed here.”

“You weren’t that choosy when you needed us to fight the Yuuzhan Vong.”

Fett prepared for a maneuver that would either get him through the blockade in one piece or solve all his worries about terminal illness-because if he miscalculated, he’d be vaporized along with Slave I.

And so would Mirta Gev, of course.

“Do it,” Mirta whispered.

“Wait.. ,” said Fett, fingers resting on the recessed pad that would punch Slave I into hyperspace. “Just making sure the trajectory is clear.”

There was a moment’s pause from Ocean. He heard the comm officer swallow. “Since when has Mandalore been part of the Alliance? You planning to bill us for this?”

“Just being comradely,” said Beviin. “But strictly speaking, we couldn’t be part of any alliance even if we wanted to, because…”

Nice diversion, thought Fett. If Beviin started on his theory of Mandalorian statehood, Ocean’s comm officer could be pinned down for days. It was now or never.

“Now,”

He hit the hyperspace jump control once and hit it again almost a heartbeat later.

In a second Slave I accelerated from a few thousand kilometers per hour to half the speed of light, and then decelerated again. Fett’s stomach felt as if it had detached from his body.

It was the equivalent of slamming the ship into a rock face, but it punched Slave I past the blockade fast enough to show up on a scanner as nothing more than a brief burst of energy. The huge forces made Slave I shudder and groan, and Fett found the surface of Corellia looming in his viewscreen. He’d cut it too fine. He couldn’t correct the angle of approach before the ship hit atmosphere. He struggled to correct the flight path, slamming on the burners and giving Slave I’s hull one more set of impossible stresses.

“You always this lucky?” Mirta asked. Her voice was tight and strained. Fett didn’t look at her. If she had any sense, she’d be scared rigid. He certainly was. Only idiots didn’t feel fear.

“Let’s see,” he said. Fear, yes; but fear never paralyzed him. It just made him sharper.

Slave I hit the atmosphere, and the hull temperature sensor jumped into the red. The emergency computer kicked in, correcting as best it could, but now it was simply a case of waiting to see if Slave I’s hull-and airframe-could handle the worst possible reentry.