“And Tarkin?” the Mon Cal asked.
“He gets back what’s left of his precious corvette,” Knotts said before Teller could reply.
“Tarkin won’t be held accountable for any of it,” Teller added. “He’s a Moff. And besides, it wasn’t his idea to go to Murkhana.” He shook his head with finality. “I’m guessing he retains command of Sentinel Base.”
Knotts nodded in agreement. “The question is, will he come after us?”
“Oh, you can count on that,” Teller said. “We’re going to need to scatter far and wide. The Corporate Sector’s probably our safest bet.”
No one spoke for a long moment; then Knotts said, “Once the convoy is history, how far will we have set them back?”
Artoz replied: “Work on the hyperdrive components alone had been in progress for three years before I was sent to Desolation Station. Even with perfected plans and a redoubling of their efforts, I suspect that we will set them back four years.”
Teller smiled lightly. “I wish we had a better sense of what they’re up to at Geonosis.”
“A weapons platform of some sort,” Knotts said. “Do we need to know more than that?”
Teller looked at him. “I suppose not. If we can just keep delaying them with strikes … Once the rest of the galaxy gets to know the Emperor as well as we know him, we won’t be alone in the fight.”
Doubt surfaced in Artoz’s huge, glistening eyes. “With shipyards turning out Imperial-class Star Destroyers, any revolt will be hard-pressed to make so much as a dent in the Emperor’s armor. Even if we can continue to impede construction of whatever they are building at Geonosis, something unexpected is going to have to enter the mix in order for any rebellion to succeed. Yes, people will begin to recognize the truth about the Empire, but numbers alone will never make the difference — not against the likes of the Emperor, Vader, and the military they’re amassing. And don’t expect the Senate to restrain them, because it is even less effective than it was during the Republic.”
Teller gave his head a defiant shake. “We can either decide right now that it’s hopeless and call it a day, or we can hold out for hope and do what we can.”
“That decision has never been in dispute,” Artoz said.
“For Antar Four, then, and for a brighter future,” Knotts said.
Heads nodded in concert.
While the assembled pilots were moving toward their starfighters, Cala hurried into the hangar. “The supply convoy has dropped from hyperspace. HoloNet and communications jammers are enabled, and all weapons systems are standing by.”
Knotts extended his hand to Teller. “Good luck out there.”
Teller shook his old friend’s hand and tugged the helmet down over his head. Turning to Cala, he said, “Tell Anora and Hask that we expect nothing less than a galactic-class holovid.”
The attack on the battle station convoy was well under way by the time the Executrix reverted from hyperspace close enough to a small moon to all but tweak its orbit. Tarkin and several officers were at the viewports as the stars shrank back into themselves. With his booted legs spread, hands clasped behind his back, graying hair swept back from his high forehead as if blown in the wind, the governor might have been the vessel’s figurehead, taunting the enemy to face off with him personally in mortal combat.
“Sir, they’ve jammed the local HoloNet relay,” a spec reported from behind him. “That’s why our alerts weren’t received. For the moment our countermeasures are managing to keep the battle and tactical nets open.”
“Can we communicate with any of the convoy transports?” Tarkin asked without turning around.
“Negative, sir. It’s possible we’re not even registering on their scanners.”
“Keep trying.”
The boxy cargo ships and transports that made up the convoy had drawn together to allow the escort gunboats and frigates to fashion a defensive circle around them, but enemy lasers were chipping away at the perimeter, allowing droid fighters to dart through openings and prey on the larger vessels.
“Sir, battle analysis is showing one capital ship reinforced by a Nebulon-B frigate, multiple tri-droid fighters, and three — make that four starfighters. Two friendly tugs, two escort gunboats, and more than a squadron of ARC-one-seventies are already out of the fight.”
Tarkin took in the scene.
Same cobbled-together Providence-class warship, same swarm of droid fighters and antique starfighters. Only this time he was commanding the counteroffensive, and instead of Sentinel Base the enemy’s objectives were the hyperdrive components he had been worried about since leaving for Coruscant.
Pivoting away from the viewports, he made his way down the observation gallery to watch a simulation of the attack resolve above a holotable. The spherical defense mounted by the Imperial escorts was being dismantled by steady fire from the warships; pieces of gunboats and frigates drifted through a frenzied nimbus of ARC-170s and droid starfighters in pitched combat.
“V-wing fighters are away,” the noncom who had followed him down the observation gallery updated. “Tactical net is viable, and the wing commander is awaiting your orders.”
“They are to engage with the frigate and the carrier and leave the droid fighters to the convoy escorts.”
Tarkin regarded the simulation for a moment longer, then paced forward to rejoin the officers at the viewports. By shunting ships to systems imperiled by the Carrion Spike, Naval Command and Control had left the convoy defenseless; like Tarkin, taken in by the dissidents’ ruse. Had he not been called to Coruscant, he never would have allowed the convoy’s defensive escorts to be redeployed elsewhere, and it irked him that he had not made a stronger case for his remaining at Sentinel. He could only hope that the Emperor had made a wise choice in allowing Rancit’s and the shipjackers’ ploy to unspool, and that all of them were now caught up in the net. He narrowed his eyes at the enemy carrier, wondering whether the crew that had pirated the Carrion Spike was aboard, or if the shipjackers had gone into hiding after deserting the corvette.
“The enemy carrier is repositioning,” the bridge officer said. “Looks like they’re trying to put the convoy between us and them.”
Tarkin nodded to himself as he watched the hodgepodge ship disappear behind the convoy and — recalling the tactics the dissidents had employed at the Phindar fuel tank — thought: Yes, this was the same crew.
“Wing commander reports heavy resistance from the enemy fighters,” someone behind him said. “They’re having trouble reaching the capital ships. Assessment scans indicate that two of the convoy transports have sustained significant damage.”
Tarkin turned to the spec. “Still no communication with the convoy leader?”
“None, sir. We can’t penetrate the jammers.”
That was not welcome news. Tarkin couldn’t be certain which of the transports was carrying basic supplies, and which contained components critical for the mobile battle station.
Jova’s voice whispered in his ear: Only glory can follow a man to the grave.
“Commander,” he said, with an abrupt turn to the officer central to the rest, “set us on a course into the midst of the battle.”
A tall man with a fringe of black hair, the commander stepped away from the viewports to approach him. “With permission, Governor Tarkin, we have no way of warning the friendlies in our path.”
Tarkin firmed his lips. “They’ll get out of our way or they won’t, Commander.”
“I won’t argue with that. But even if we manage to penetrate the defensive sphere without incident, we’ve barely enough space to squeeze between the transports.”