Light of the Jedi(98)
“Heh,” he said to himself. “We are all the Republic.”
He keyed the comm back on.
“That’s it!” he cried. “Smash a hole right through them! I’m with you all!”
He keyed off the comm system and lifted his hand to chew the edge of his thumb—a nervous habit—until he realized he no longer had a thumb on that hand.
“Any word from Marchion Ro?” he called over to Wet Bub.
In response, just a shake of the head, long, dangling ears flopping against Bub’s skull.
Not that he had expected anything. It was Kassav against the galaxy. Just like always.
* * *
Admiral Kronara couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He didn’t expect a bunch of criminals to fight with anything resembling honor, but this was…despicable.
One of the larger Nihil vessels had just released a huge swath of reactor by-products from its engines, creating a tail of invisible, deeply toxic radiation that not only snarled sensors, but poisoned any pilot that happened to fly through it. They’d be condemning them to a slow, agonizing death unless they reached medical facilities immediately.
That will catch some of their own ships, too, he thought. It has to. They’re killing their own people.
The Nihil didn’t seem to care. About that, about anything, beyond causing as much damage as they possibly could.
That strategy was succeeding. He was down two of his Pacifier-class patrol cruisers, the Marillion of Alderaan and the Yekkabird from Corellia, along with their crews and a good number of the Longbeam attack ships and Skywing fighters.
He wouldn’t say the Nihil were winning, exactly—their tactics were all offense, no defense, and they were taking hits, their numbers decreasing…but they weren’t exactly losing, either. This had to end, and soon. It was time to escalate his response.
Admiral Kronara checked the displays again, looking at the position of the small Eriaduan flotilla moving inexorably toward the battle.
Not close enough yet, he thought.
“Get me the Ataraxia,” he said, calling over to his communications officer.
Master Jora Malli’s voice came over the comm a few moments later. “Admiral,” she said. “How can I help?”
“The Nihil are using unorthodox tactics, ugly moves. We can beat them, but RDC pilots don’t train for things like this. It’ll take time, and it’ll cost lives. If you and your people are willing—”
The Jedi agreed before he finished the sentence. “We’ll see what we can do, Admiral. The Force provides quite an edge in battle.”
“We’d be grateful for the assist,” he said.
“Of course,” she said, and ended the transmission.
* * *
Jora Malli strode into the Ataraxia’s primary hangar, Sskeer at her side. She held a comlink in one hand.
“Avar, we’re going to take out the Vector squadron. The Republic pilots need our help shutting the Nihil down before things get any worse out there. Can you establish your link to all of us, to help to make that task simpler?”
“I can,” Avar Kriss responded. “I’m already hearing the song.”
Jora knew that Avar interpreted the Force as music. She didn’t see it that way. To her, the Force was…a force. But you couldn’t deny the effectiveness of what Master Kriss could do.
All around her, Jedi ran toward waiting Vectors, the Ataraxia’s non-Jedi crew fueling and prepping the delicate ships for flight. She saw Elzar Mann and his friend Stellan Gios, Nib Assek and her Wookiee Padawan Burryaga, the Ithorian Mikkel Sutmani who had been part of the illfated mission during which the Order lost Te’Ami…all strong pilots. They’d need to be. She had reviewed the tactical data from the battle, and the Nihil ships seemed willing to go to any lengths to hurt or destroy their enemies.
“You ready, old friend?” she said to Sskeer as they approached their own Vectors.
“You should be on the Starlight Beacon,” the Trandoshan Jedi hissed back. “You’re supposed to be dealing with supply requisitions and unruly younglings, not leading an assault on a bunch of pirates. Let me go by myself—there’s no need for you to fly.”
“You can die in bed just as easily as in battle, Sskeer,” she said, climbing into her ship’s cockpit.
“That is certainly untrue,” Sskeer called over, putting an oxygen mask over his broad snout and settling into his pilot’s seat. “What if we both just agree not to die?”
“Deal,” she said as the canopy closed.
Jora took her lightsaber—a golden cylinder with curved platinum guards swooping back down toward the hilt like wings—and placed it against the weapons activation panel on her Vector’s console. The targeting systems lit up bright white, the color of her saber blade. She had retrieved its kyber crystal, then a bright blood-red, from an ancient Sith lightspear and healed it, purging the rage and pain instilled in it by its original owner. She performed the ritual mainly as an intellectual exercise, to see how it was done, but once the process was complete she found herself tightly bound to the crystal, and now used it as the core of her primary weapon.
She pushed her control sticks forward and shot out of the hangar into open space.