[Legacy Of The Force] - 05(54)

“I don’t expect a tactical withdrawal, Captain.” Three more XJs were hit: Niathal noted it as lost assets, not knowing the pilots personally, and disliked her detachment for a moment. She always did. “We’re here. Let’s do as much damage as we can.”

The Bothans, of course, had the same goal.

Two Bothan frigates were on a ramming course with Bounty. Of the remaining flotilla, five were firing on the XJs. Daring opened fire. The bridge crew watched as a frigate’s aft section rippled with a sequence of explosions before debris blew away from it and smashed into an XJ. Five minutes into the engagement, Bounty’s air group was taking a pounding, not all of it from direct hits. The second frigate veered away from the stream of fire from the XJ, a red-hot rip in its hull.

“Their targeting’s not affected by chaff measures, sir.” The pilot’s voice was breathless with effort. “They’re using narrow-range heat seekers. In future we’ll need to—”

And he was gone, his cockpit cam blank and flickering.

“Air group, pull out,” Piris barked. “Cannons, solutions on all targets, now.”

Species perceived time differently in battle. For humans, it slowed because their brains took in far more detailed information about the threat, but that also meant they didn’t notice low-priority things. But Mon Cals—and Quarren—saw it all, and factored in every cough and spit. That was what made them good commanders. Niathal’s instinct was to fight back, and for a moment she couldn’t imagine why she’d ever had designs on high office. She saw the tactical displays and heard the comm chatter, and the real-time three-dimensional image in her mind showed her the whole battlefield—and she wanted to hit hard.

Nine Bothan frigates were now disabled, either drifting with no sign of power, reduced to cold debris, or venting brief bursts of flame into the vacuum as they broke up. Some of the remaining ten returned fire for a further thirty seconds, then powered down their cannons.

“Surrendering?” asked the officer of the watch.

“They’re preparing to jump,” said Piris. “Take take take—”

Seven frigates jumped in a tight sequence: three weren’t so quick off the mark, and took a furious barrage of laser and cannons.

Piris gave Niathal a nod of relief and leaned over the command console. “Air group, anyone too damaged to make an RV point?”

“Mothma Five-zero, sir. Slow hull breach.”

“Qarisa Eight, sir.”

The bridge crew waited for a few seconds, utterly silent, cannons still trained while XJs streaked back to the hangar and recovery units passed them outbound to haul in damaged craft.

“Secure hatches when ready and prepare to jump,” Piris said. “Any sign of the Bothan cavalry arriving on long-range scans? No? Good.” He looked at the chrono hanging from a fob on his jacket. “Not quite twenty minutes, Admiral. Now, was that a planned ambush we walked into, or are the Bothans making the best of an unfortunately timed arrival? The score’s twelve-nil to us, not counting starfighters lost. But did we win or lose?”

“I’ll let you know when our public information colleagues tell me,” Niathal said. “But this confirms my position yet again. If we’re stuck with the resources we’ve got, then we have to focus everything on Corellia, Commenor, and now Bothawui. If the Chief of State wants to extend to every bushfire that’s starting, he has to give us at least another fleet, and even if the Alliance had the credits—where would we get the personnel?”

Piris shrugged. “All empires become too big and collapse under their own weight.”

“Maybe that’s what we’re seeing.”

Her body was telling her that it was all over now. She felt hot as her biochemical defenses rushed around looking for damage to repair, and found none. The aftermath of battle was always a restless hour or two for her, so she occupied herself wandering around the bridge, patting crew members on the back, and telling them what a fine job they’d done. One young human male was wiping tears away with the back of his hand, his attention fixed unnaturally on the sensor screen in front of him; he’d lost a friend today, maybe more than one. There was nothing to say. She simply put her hand on his shoulder and stood there in silence for a while until the helm crew began their checks before hyperjumping.

“I’ll be in my day cabin,” she said, pausing to shake Piris’s hand. “Well done, Captain.”

She knew what they’d be saying as soon as the bridge hatches closed behind her. They’d be expressing surprise that old Iceberg Face could go around patting backs and showing sympathy. Combat did that to her: she had a brief period of dropping her guard, and then she was back to normal, a politician who used to be a competent naval officer and still missed fleet action.