The New Jedi Order: A Vision of Confluence

II: Learning

The ascension grotto claimed by Qesud Qesh nestled deep in the darkest guts of Blood Spat in Wrath. It smelt of brine and iodine, burnt amniotic fluid and strange incense. Its walls were craggy, bare coral, unadorned, covered over here and there by astringent herbs and mosses, medicinal all, spreading in strange webbing to and fro. Adolescent and feral blazebugs made nests in the vaulted ceiling, flickering and shimmering like constellations as they wove hives of spit and feces. Dark fluid lapped in an encircling trench, a stride wide and following the uneven shape of the room. Little things left swirls in the thick, syrupy suspension, suggesting scaled backs and delicate frond-feeders when they broke the surface.

Malik Carr reclined on a bare slab, indented just enough to suggest placement of limbs and trunk, a slight cup to nestle his head. Naked in the humid air, he was attended by only two - Harrar, his most trusted advisor on the faith and the Master Shaper Qesh herself.

Though idly he recognized Qesh's appealing features - he had never seen a woman with such richly hued sacs beneath her eyes, joining into blackened tattooing and burns that ringed her lambent and slightly overlarge eyes - she was exactly as her sacred caste demanded in this most sacred of duties. Proper, focused, humble before Yun-Ne'Shel. She took in his body with those overlarge eyes, peering over him in the twilight of the grotto and Malik Carr lay comfortably beneath her scrutiny. His body was one to be proud of, even with the markings the infidels had inflicted.

He had feared censure, condemnation, after Obroa-skai. He feared the fate of Commander Tla, banished from the glory of the front to the drudgery of rear-guard actions in conquered space. Worse - he feared the Gods themselves would reject him. He imagined illusory tremors and fevers as his blessed implants failed, as his scars reopened and bled pus.

He feared he would be Shamed.

Instead, Supreme Commander Choka gifted him Blood Spat in Wrath and commended him on his initiative. The jeedai were a nuisance none of the servants of Yun-Yammka had solved and the Supreme Commander did not fault Carr for failing where all others had as well. The jeedai were a puzzle to unwork and it would not be done idly nor instantly. Instead, Choka, with some degree of amusement, revealed that in allowing the jeedai and their allies access to the databanks of the world and by engaging the 'Aistarteez' in combat, Carr and had already gained more knowledge of this mysterious band than all the infiltrators of Nom Anor's vaunted efforts.

Villip recollections, chazrach memory-seeds, all were delivered with the utmost honor to the Supreme Commander so that more cunning minds than Carr's could be bent to the task of unraveling the 'Aystarteez'. Scraps of dried, clotted blood and bits of meat teased from the jaws of amphistaves had Shapers thirsty for more, already dazzled by scraps of degenerated secrets in the partially revivified samples.

In return, in recognition for his actions in securing his sector of the front, for the slaying of a jeedai and aistarteez, for proving himself, Carr found himself elevated. A Grand Cruiser of his own to bear his flag. Reinforcements, fresh from the shipwombs of Sernpidal. Taskings to continue his advance under his own authority and initiative.

And now - implantation.

His lower left arm itched and muscles spasmed. The disobedience of his body infuriated him, made all the worse that the muscles did not exist. Qesh debrided the stump just below his elbow, reopening flesh and peeling back scar tissue with nail-blades so sharp he felt nothing at all. His fingers ached. His palm tingled. They did not exist. They had not, since the cursed aistarteez had martyred himself and taken dozens of Carr's finest warriors and mindbent with him.

His burns had healed well, knotting and gnarling his chest from groin to pectoral, making half his torso rugose and webbed, an attractive and distinguishing pattern. It spoke to the favor the Gods showed him, to grace him survival when others died. His loyal nol basal served well, though it exhausted itself before the fury of the infidel bomb even as it devoured much of the ferocious heat and diverted hardened air around Carr. Enough to safeguard his life, but not spare his flesh. When he trained and recovered his form, the ache of taut flesh pulling across his chest enervated his every move.

Qesh offered him venoms that would loosen his scars, but he eschewed them all. He was not impeded by the pain; it made him stronger. Surer.

She came on recommendation from one of the Warmaster's own favored. Mezhan Kwaad, a Master among Master Shapers, spoke highly of Qesh's alacrity and cunning in fleshworks. Carr would gladly kawt'tou before the Warmaster's wisdom and accepted the Shaper without question, welcoming her personally to his new command and offering her the sweetest prizes of his conquests. It always paid great returns to reward allies richly, with both hands.

He bled freely as Qesh teased nerve bundles free, clipping away flesh with clicks of her crustacean fingers. Still, there was little pain, only jolts and electric discomfort as the Shaper unthreaded nearly invisible, pale white nerve tendrils from the meat of his amputated limb. She had not questioned his request for a replacement, only asking the most essential of questions: time of death, length of preservation. It was to Harrar that Carr went to beg the Gods for their favor. Qesh did not say it, but there were mutters from her assistants.

To graft the great fang of a yammosk was unprecedented.

Harrar admitted no great knowledge of the Shaping arts and ways, but he spoke from his own contacts and said that it may yet strain the holy protocols. Yet, Qesh made no protest, no argument, leaving Carr to assume that from her elevation into the greater mysteries, she would know best if the ancient protocols allowed such a shaping. She delved in the secrets of the higher Cortices, where without question the blessed Yun-ne'Shel sequestered many wonders.

The war-coordinator had been his ally. Between a Commander and a Yammosk there is an understanding, a personal connection. Malik Carr knew the creature's thoughts as well as his own, knew its urges and emotions. He had felt its quaking terror in the final moments of its life, before the cursed jeedai slew it without a mark. He wished to honor his martyred friend in the only way he knew how, as a warrior.

From the yammosk's own corpse Carr clove out its fang by his own hand, using sanctified coufee alone. The ritual knife scored muscle and flesh with ease while Carr prayed for his friend, that the Slayer would take his devoted child and elevate him most high.

Qesh bore the tooth with reverence from where it sat aside, bathed in sacred unguents and preserving oils. It was long and bone-pale, stained just slightly yellow, serrations visible only at close regard. Bladelike, it once was anchored in the wise mouth of his yammosk by a ring of dextrous muscle, which now trailed from the root of the fang as bloodless ribbons, braided and interwoven and ready. She placed it beside him and he saw it reach to his knee. A mighty, ferocious tool; a great ascension. Qesh did not speak as she worked. Harrar chanted quietly, gently swinging a thurible from side to side, which gently burped eye-watering smoke most pleasing to the palettes of the Gods.

The old priest's fingers were stained red and black with blood and ichor, remnants of the anointing marks left on Malik Carr's body at forehead, lip, abdomen, bicep and feet.

Qesh wove the flesh of the yammosk to the flesh of Malik Carr and he let his eyes slide shut, focusing on the feeling of fingers probing beneath his skin, digging through muscle, sculpting bone. It was a delicious, cleansing sort of agony and he twitched not once. Harrar looked on in pride, incised lips never ceasing to spill invocations. Qesh worked and Carr dreamt of what heights he would climb to.

The Bloody Slayer would see only his bravery and how he honored the flesh of his God in this moment.

And if he did not - Carr had a thousand slaves set aside, purified by sound and oil, who would die by amphistaff before the night fell, regardless. The Slayer would have Carr's entreaty and would sup well on it.

The Yuuzhan Vong ships fell from hyperspace like a sideways hail. Like meteors, the rocky warships shuddered to a halt with a flicker of psuedomotion, staying still for just a moment, as if they had always been there, a fixture in the firmament. Then they came to life, flinging coralskippers from launching arms and erupting along their lateral sections entire firefly clouds of magma missiles.

One miid ro'ik - a cruiser equivalent, nearly equal in tonnage to the fearsome Star Destroyer, alone with escorts of frigate-analogs, gunship-analogs and several 'battlecruiser' analogs. Smaller than a miid ro'ik, but without coralskippers and with fiercer broadsides.

Answering them was an old Victory Star Destroyer whimsically named 'Pure Pazaak' and a veritably ancient Venator cruiser, held together more by rust and hope than anything else. V-wings and E-wings dumped into space from a small space station, whose half-dozen turbolasers powered up in a vain hope to assist the local defense force fleet.

"Alright Rogues, they took the bait," Colonel Gavin Darklighter said, voice thin and modulated across Jaina Solo's comm. The thrill had faded after too many midnight scrambles and too much death, too little sleep, but a little part of Jaina still glimmered with pride when 'Rogues' also meant her. Dutifully, she clicked affirmative along with the rest of the squadron.

"Bola will lead us in, prepare for hyperspace in thirty."

She stole a glance to her left, at the spread of still-strange starfighters hanging in the void alongside the classic lines of X-Wings, A-Wings, B-Wings and even Y-Wings. Months hadn't taken the unique edge off of Chiss Clawcraft, the way they looked just familiar enough to be startling, with their Sienar cockpits, but alien enough to be dissonant with their peculiar curving 'claw' wings that clutched at the spherical cockpit.

They were a menace either way, familiar or alien, as had been proven over and over again. Though all the clawcraft were painted the same dull, blue-grey finish, Jaina knew exactly in which starfighter one particular pilot waited with the same baited breath as she.

He'd never admit it of course, always as outwardly cool as the homeworld he came from, but she'd felt the cracks in his facade when they clashed in the sims and when he'd nail an especially canny 'skip. Jagged Fel pretended to be as severe as Hoth and twice as grim, but Jaina knew better.

No one could fly like that and not run a little hot.

"Ten seconds," Darklighter called and Jaina tensed a finger over her hyperdrive switch.

"Hey, Colonel," she called over the comm, "Bet I'll bag more skips than you."

All Colonel Fel replied with was a single comm click, but that alone spoke wonders.

"Settle down, Sticks," Colonel Darklighter admonished, but without any real force behind his words. In the Rogues, if you could hack it, you could hack it, and Darklighter kept a light but guiding hand on them all. "Three. Two. One-"

She flipped the lever and the starfield around had just enough time to elongate - and snap back into pinpoints as brand new stars bloomed all around her. Stars, comets, and all of them were warships spitting plasma and magma and a whole lot of turbolasers.

"Break by flights, clean up the skips so our friends can make their run."

Ahead of Jaina, Major Varth's X-Wing rolled and dove out of formation, dragging along Varth's wingman in her wake as Jaina hauled on her yoke and kept pace.

The furball was evolving into a full on gorax as the New Republic reinforcements dove into the thick of it, Rogue Squadron leading as usual. Bola, slim shape marred by four enormous gravity well generators, hung back, the Interdictor cruiser screened by Champion, a Bothan Assault Cruiser and a squadron of the new Ranger gunships. It had one duty, and that was keep the vong in play and unable to run. Privately, she thought the idea of Yuuzhan Vong willingly retreating to be laughable.

Jaina's board lit with contacts, swaths and swaths of red. Target rich environment, she didn't have to get picky.

That also went the same way for the vong.

Coralskippers burst out of the free-for-all, plasma spitting, and without thinking, Jaina split left, Rogue Twelve sticking to her like slime on a Hutt, Major Varth and Rogue Ten cutting right. Ferocious green lasers spat in almost continuous lines and one-two went Colonel Fel and Major Nuruodo, plasma splashing over their clawcraft's shields.

Like a pair of scissors, the pairs of Rogues cut back in. Jaina settled her crosshair over a coralskipper, the lumpen, ugly starfighter already visibly slowing as pin-point black holes bloomed to suck up the endless hail of low-powered lasers spit out by the Chiss craft.

One squeeze of the trigger and a quartet of blood-red laser blasts pinned the coralskipper, blasting through hastily raised and much weaker voids. The rocky ship came apart in a spray of gravel, glowing hot.

That was the real trick - tease the dovin basals with low-powered but numerous shots until they overextended themselves, then punch a full powered blast through. "Tickle the teeth, then ram a fist down their throat", or so the saying went. Now a secondary trigger sat beneath the primary on all starfighters, ready to spit out impressive but impotent sprays of lasers.

"Eleven, split left!"

Her pulse spiked even as she hauled her X-Wing to the side, reacting before Rogue Seven finished speaking. Plasma wicked past, bright and orange, lighting up the inside of her cockpit and hissing at the edges of her shield.

She felt, more than saw, the 'skip slice past, an A-Wing hot on its tail and then it was out of sight, out of mind. Knowing what to focus on, what to discard - she'd seen the 'Mission Failed' screen too many times in the sims before that lesson truly sunk in. Whoever was after that scarhead, it was their deal.

Right now, she had another 'skip dead ahead, harrying a flight of Y-Wings trying to line up a torpedo run and he had no idea she saw him.

"Sparky, shields at thirteen meters." Her astromech woo'd and just in time - from nose to tail the starfighter trembled, but though the screen flicked and refreshed with interference - Jaina grinned at the digits reading 100. "Try and suck my shields again, I dare you…" she muttered. The coralskipper seemed to stutter, dovin basals left surprised.

We keep matching their tactics, she thought, spraying splinters of crimson light that bracketed the rocky starfighter. Can't grab our shields if the inertial dampener covers them, but they just keep coming anyway!

She sent a full powered burst, gritting her teeth as the bolts bent, yanked off course by a sudden, full-power void.

Sithspawn, they're learning too.

One bolt bent and arced away, passing aft of the 'skip. One bolt lanced right into the void and vanished, as eerie after months as it was the first time.

The other two bolts were yanked down and right into the coralskipper's cockpit, igniting everything inside in a greasy flash of light.

Of course, they can't expect that.

She'd aimed high and the void hauled her shots right where she wanted them. That's two, Colonel.

Bursting out the other side of the starfighter ball, Jaina chanced a glance around at the capital ship clash. Champion was holding its own, screened from coralskippers and magma missiles by the Ranger gunships. Bola still had her gravity well online, trapping the Yuuzhan Vong against the nearby moon. The original Vicstar and Venator were holed and bleeding atmosphere, but still in the fight. With Ralroost wading in as well, the vong were outnumbered - meaning it was as close to an even fight as they'd had in a while.

Two Bothan Assault Cruisers to match one single miid ro'ik. An awful calculus, but Ithor had proven that the stutterfire that worked so well for starfighters failed utterly against the big basals of the vong capital ships. All that worked was beating them down in ugly, desperate brawls.

Out of the corner of her eye she caught the last ship in - a single Nebulon-B, hanging back, well out of the fight. Alright Anakin, she thought, yawing hard and chasing after another 'skip, listening to chatter on comms. Let's see what those 'Imperials' are about.

He ran his gauntlet over the smooth oceanic blue finish of his chestplate one more time. Ceramite on ceramite rasped a little, but the gloss finish let his digits glide easily. He tapped his fingers in a rapid tattoo, clacking loudly in the confined space and beside him Solidian cocked his helmet.

Zalthis flushed behind his own helmet, squeezing his hand to a fist about his restraint harness.

It was hard not to revel in the feeling. His joints still felt hot and a little tender and the half-remembered feeling of tight skin after a sunburn spread across his chest. Underneath the dense mass of his Mark IV plate, beneath the thick, reactive bodysuit that clad him head to toe, he kept picturing the look he saw in the mirror. His chest, broad, muscled, and off-color. Tinted a faint bluish-black, like a deep bruise, from groin to collarbone. The angry red lines that traced implantation incisions.

His Black Carapace, just like the one Solidian now bore with pride.

The very act of moving his hand was a reminder - only weeks ago, he could never wear full Astartes plate, not without the intricate workings of the carapace to interface. Now he looked as Sergeant Ascratus did, as invincible and impervious as the ideals of the Imperium. As inviolate as adamantium. An Astartes. An Ultramarine.

Nodding to Sol, who inclined his own head in return, Zalthis looked up and down the darkened hold of the Stormbird. Sergeant Optarch was locked in closest to the aft hatch, across from one Magos Thul Hybos, whose stooped and spindly form was inelegantly stuffed into an Astartes-scaled seat. Along the left side of the Stormbird, ranged down from the Magos, were twelve unblinking, unmoving, unnerving skitarii, feet mag-clamped to the deck as they managed to admirably fill out the transhuman-scaled seating. Short-barreled radium shotguns kept Zalthis' helmet ticking ominously in warning, red idents and alerts constantly highlighting the softly glowing weapons.

Solidian was locked in closest to the Sergeant, then Zalthis, then Brothers Tercinax and Varian. Then - and what settled the strangest for Zalthis - were Qario, Lyros, Altraedar, Tolon and Petran. Neophytes. His brothers, his brothers, who only a single month ago had been his equal. Now he looked at them in their half-plate, the void-sealed bodysuits with armorweave fatigues overtop and their full-mask breather helms and felt strange that he ever wore such a thing.

There was a gulf now, between them. He felt it immediately after Obroa-skai.

Their training cadre welcomed them back but the mood was different. Qario joked less and looked more in awe. Isidiran asked them questions that sounded more like the ones Zalthis remembered him once asking Sergeant Ascratus.

Then, when Lieutenant Thiel himself came to inform them they had earned their Carapace - a shock to Zalthis and Solidian both, as it had to be months - years! - too soon - the gulf stretched into a chasm.

The cadre had cheered them both as they left, but Zalthis felt he was leaving a part of himself behind, a strange melancholic bent when he should have been full of pride.

"You'll be part of my Company," the Lieutenant informed them as he led them to the apothecarion, crested helmet tucked beneath one arm. "The Primarch has commanded me to gather those I see particular potential in. That's you. Your orders will be with Sergeant Optarch, brothers, whose squad is your new assignment."

It was already humbling enough for the Red-Marked himself to escort them to their ascension - scarcely more honored could Zalthis have been, save if Master Gage had, or, Throne forbid, the Primarch - but his words shook Zalthis to his core. To be hand-selected by the Hero of the Halls. The man who had the ear of the Primarch, whose fortune turned from censure to laurels in one day of stunning, incomparable bravery and true fortitude.

Zalthis shook himself from his memory, as clear now as it was in the moment, forever preserved by the miracle of his making, looking again at the neophytes, his once-brothers.

Sergeant Ascratus trained them all well. They would rise to the occasion and transcend it. And if they needed aid - that was what he was here for. Sol too. They'd not leave their brothers behind. This galaxy needed every Astartes.

Ralroost nosed alongside the embattled miid ro'ik cruiser, lashing out with ion cannons and turbolasers. Plasma splashed over the Assault Cruiser's shields but Jaina was pleased to see them holding.

"Rogues, we're going to be generous and let the Tiervan Aces and the locals clean up the rest of the 'skips. Admiral Kre'fey wants us defanging that cruiser."

"Listen here, kid, you can admit the Aces have to pick up your slack 'cause you need a break."

Jaina snorted, vectoring in behind Major Varth again, glancing to the slightly-singed form of Rogue Twelve tucking in beside her. Her hair was lank and soaked with sweat, strands pulled free from her tight bun to stick across her forehead, irritating behind her sealed visor. Her legs burned from pulling g's the inertial dampener just couldn't quite keep up with, fighting her own body weight to work the etheretic rudder in that perfect, endless dance of a starfighter duel.

Salt-sweat flavored her lips as she wet them and Jaina lived for this.

Six 'skips knocked down and she still had all but one proton torpedo. Sparky, behind her, tootled a happy note as Colonel Darklighter led them closer to the blitzing battle between Ralroost and the vong flagship. Champ had pulled away from Bola, the vulnerable Interdictor quite out of danger with the vong cruiser-analog engaged and the scarhead's escorting squadron being picked apart. Frigate-analogs looked like asteroid fields where they'd been shattered by the Vicstar's old but brutally powerful concussion missile swarms.

That lingering Nebulon-B crept closer, now just out of the main battle and a new contact on sensors appeared. It flagged gold compared to the green icons of her wingmates and the dwindling red dots of the vong. A little tag appeared, appended: Stormbird 1098.

She shook her head at the audacity of the request. Jaina tried to imagine what the scene had looked like when Kre'fey met with the Exiles - Imperials, they called themselves, but there already were Imperials - and announced their intentions.

Oh yes, let's board a yuuzhan vong capital ship in the middle of a pitched battle.

It sounded like something insane Kyp might try and her Uncle would frown at.

Her job, at least, was much simpler.

"Rogues, you have your priority targets. 'Roost is keeping them occupied, so we should be clear to pull teeth. Watch your sixes, there's still 'skips, and this is a capship. If you get singed, get out. Don't risk it."

A target package downloaded rapidly, Sparky whistling as he unpacked it and the wireframe of the miid ro'ik lit with markers for expected dovin basal pits and known plasma projectors. Jaina still had seven proton torpedoes and the Exiles had been ambivalent about if they boarded a ship with atmosphere…or none at all.

Checking again for any 'skips running to defense, she heard Colonel Darklighter give the clear for weapons free. Vong ships like this had spindly, coral-like fans that grew out of their midline, where coralskippers nested like parasites. It seemed fitting to hit those first, so Jaina slid her reticle over the nearest, coasting toward the capital ship at a leisurely pace for a starfighter, until the torpedo lock toned and flicked to red. One, two proton torpedoes leapt out, burning hard, joining the sudden spears of others launched from Rogues coming in from all angles.

Holding down the secondary trigger, Jaina hosed the ship with low-power fire, half-hearted dovin basals popping up here and there and evaporating even under the reduced bolts. They were nearly exhausted, sucking up the punishment Ralroost dumped in buckets on the ship's port side and both her torpedoes struck home.

Almost elegantly, a hundred meters of spindly yorick coral arms splintered and span away. Nowhere to come home to, she gloated, looking for another target.

"Varth, what's left of the 'skips have reformed and are making a run on Pure Pazaak. The Vicstar's shields are down and the Aces need a hand. We'll wrap this here. Take your flight over there."

"Yessir," Alinn Varth replied and Jaina sighed, letting her targeting lock fade out, flipping away from the embattled vong cruiser.

Blue-grey metal loomed up next to her and she started, craning her neck to see the slight silhouette of a TIE pilot's helmet through the thick, anodized tansparisteel of the clawcraft's cockpit.

"Spike's with you, Major."

It was the first time Colonel Fel spoke the entire battle and Jaina scowled at how conversational he sounded.

"Thanks, Colonel. Ten, Eleven, Twelve, let's go."

The last thing Jaina saw before following her flight commander toward the besieged Pure Pazaak was the little icon for Stormbird 1098 starting to creep forward.

A drop-pod insertion, a teleportation extraction and now a boarding action. Solidian had joked that in no time at all, they had managed to run the gauntlet of danger only Astartes could measure up to. His brother had laughed about it, making it a joke, but Zalthis mused over it. Just a short time ago they had been on quiet Calth. Now they were battle-brothers in truth, doing things that veterans twice their age still had not. How quickly fortune changes.

The Stormbird rumbled as its retrojets fired and a solid thud reverberated through the reinforced adamantium frame, transmitted by clawed landing gear. Sergeant Optarch pounded a fist against the aft ramp, vibrations transmitted easily through the transport where the sound could not in the airless hold. His words came through the vox, clear and only slightly static-laced. Zalthis felt a moment of odd vertigo to hear Optarch's lighter tone and refined accent, compared to Ascratus' rougher brogue and gravelly inflection.

He saw Sol rest his palm against the butt of the bolt pistol at his hip, unassuming and plain, but for the small etched marking of the name 'Ascratus' on the grip.

The aft ramp winched downward, leaking in flashed of actinic light and revealing a craggy, stony field stretching away to a disturbingly close-by horizon. Two skitarii bounded out first, hauling a massive melta charge between them and the restraints snapped up and away. Sergeant Optarch pounded down the ramp after them, reaction thrusters on his void-harness hissing to keep him in contact with the warship's hull. Zalthis shared one last look with Sol, unreadable behind the flat, stern mask of a Maximus helm, before they followed their sergeant into the void.

The problem with vong wasn't that they didn't know when they were beaten, it was that they did. Jaina sensed it - not through the Force, but from skills honed across the Mid Rim - when something changed. The last of the swarm of 'skips had reformed, harrying the stricken Victory Star Destroyer 'Pure Pazaak', peppering its unshielded hull with plasma until it looked as pockmarked and cratered as Utapau. The Aces, along with Jag's flight of Clawcraft and the other Rogues of Major Varth's flight chased them, almost uncontested. The scarhead pilots were completely fixated on getting the kill on the foundering Star Destroyer.

It felt almost unfair as she sent 'skip after 'skip flaming out, almost doubling her full total in the battle, wondering idly how many Jag had claimed - when the shift came.

She was just settling in behind another skip, repeating the process of withering its voids with splinterfire when suddenly the weak bolts started chipping little sprays of coral from the aft of the starfighter. It surprised Jaina enough that she actually eased off the trigger. At first she thought its dovin basals had somehow been overwhelmed, until the 'skip rocketed away at almost double its speed.

Straight at Pure Pazaak.

Swearing something her father had once said in a language she'd never heard of and that he refused to translate, Jaina slammed her throttle forward, firing early, full-charge bolts bracketing the 'skip.

"Major, they're going suicidal!"

"I see it Sticks, I see it-"

Voices overlapped, all shouting, all warning, including cries for support from Pure Pazaak as at once, the remaining coralskippers yanked themselves onto crash courses with the Vicstar.

Jaina's second shot blasted the skip into thirds but Pure Pazaak was growing fast - too fast. With senses only a Jedi could claim, she actually saw a 'skip plow into the Star Destroyer's port side, so fast that the durasteel seemed to ripple. An entire turbolaser turret peeled away. Others came in like sudden darts, Republic starfighters scrambling to react and chase after them.

Another careened into the rear of the ship's bridge, like a punch to the back of the head and fire burst from the fore of the bridge tower, voices suddenly cutting off mid-sentence on comms.

"Sithspawn, break, break, everyone break-"

She heard Major Varth, but at her angle and speed, there was no time to turn away.

Another coralskipper, time seeming to slow and stretch out like rubber, punched through the nose of the Vicstar, shredding entire sheaves of armor off.

"Eleven!"

Hutt slime, she thought. There was no other way about it. The only way out was through. Wincing, Jaina pushed her throttle to the maximum, Sparky screaming behind her. More coralskippers came in with her, like perverse escorts. Pure Pazaak whipped past, just below her. A little further, a little further-

Something touched off behind her. She felt it like hair bristling on the back of her neck, moments before an overwhelming sense of DANGER screamed to her through the Force.

Jaina sank into the Force for the first real time in the skirmish. Jacen's sense felt startled, then worried, then alarmed. From Anakin, she felt the same shock, swiftly tamped down by sudden and surprising steel. More than she'd expected from her little brother.

A little help, guys…

Her world swelled and she felt Pure Pazaak die. Some thirty-seven concussion missiles, capital ship killers all, still waited in the Vicstar's magazines. The Star Destroyer was behind her, dwindling away, but the radiation flash as every single missile went up and hard dumped the hypermatter reactor made the world feel like an x-ray went off in her head.

There were moments left.

Jaina hauled on the yoke, nosing down, bringing the belly of her X-Wing to face the detonation, imposing as much armor and hull between her and the incandescent globe that had been two thousand lives just in time for it -

On Coruscant, Jacen sat bolt upright. Leia jumped, caught off guard, fork clattering to her plate. The apartment was otherwise empty, the two sharing a very rare dinner together. SELCORE matters on Duro had seen Leia return to the capital to beg, borrow or steal more supplies and make some private inquiries about Cor-Duro.

"Jaina!" he gasped as his mother's face went white.

Grabbing the edge of the table, she managed to ask the only words that mattered:

"Is she alive?"

Jacen winced, flinching, rubbing at his eyes and considered a moment.

"Yeah," he said, taking a deep breath. "But she's really, really mad."

It was a little different looking at a Clawcraft like this.

She could make out Jag's silhouette in the cockpit, barely ten meters from her. And upside down. He did that on purpose. Her X-wing was mostly atoms and twisted, molten wreckage spreading across several kilometers of local space. The last intact piece was strapped to her - the ejection seat.

Sorry, Sparky.

"Keep talking, Lieutenant," he encouraged.

"I am talking," she muttered, fisting her hands in her flightsuit hard enough her knuckles ached.

"And keep looking at me," he continued.

That part was the easiest, because looking at the looming Clawcraft meant she wasn't looking at her leg, or the really, really, really large piece of durasteel in it.

Not looking there at all. It didn't even hurt, but then, that was the Force at work. All her nerves from the hip on down she deadened, leaving her leg to feel like a lump of meat stabled to her. Awful, unsettling, but with how deep that - her stomach churned and Jaina squeezed her eyes shut.

"Rescue is coming. You know, Lieutenant Solo, Major Nuruodo tells me that I downed thirteen 'skips today. Did you?"

Even though she didn't grace him with an answer, she just knew the bastard could tell from her Shyriiwook profanity that the answer was no, no she had not.