The problem, as both men considered in solemn silence, is that they had also recieved the transmission from King Mercutio, the New Republic envoy, stating that the hostilities were over and demanding they return to Baltimn. The message was certified both with New Republic codes and with Baltimn Defense Force codes, but not the proper Baltimn Defense Force codes. Only Stomwell or, under the circumstances, General Preston could order them to return according to regulations. They were also obliged to maintain radio silence. "For all we know," Rand mused, "Stomwell and Preston could be dead, or anyway, they might not be able to contact us with so much infrastructure down, bases abandoned, etc."

"The instructions said to stay put, that assistance was on the way," said the other pilot, Rand's subordinate.

"Well sure," Rand shrugged, "but it's all procedure. The government is on the brink of collapse back there. Who knows if there's really assistance coming or not? We might just be sitting here when Baltimn needs us the most. It's not right, running away like that."

It wasn't the only thing that wasn't right. Rand still had the fresh image in his mind of Alpha Two's quad lasers tearing into the austere government building in Murmamn City. He could see its windows and marble columns being blown out, even from far above. They had killed many people who, he knew well, were largely not combatants. He understood that there might be consequences for this upon their return, but he was not a coward and neither were his three subordinates on the ship, who he served with for years and knew quite well; they would live with the consequences of their actions, not run from them.

"Hey Captain," said the voice of one of the gunners in the recesses of the ship, "How long ago you think those coordinates were programmed?"

"Long time ago," Rand said, "Could be the government, or what's left of it, doesn't even know where we are right now. I have to be honest, gentlemen," he said, his words being transmitted to the others via the comm in his helmet, "I don't think we should wait around. There's no word from Baltimn except this textbook stuff about 'assistance rendered soon.' What we do have is word from the Republic and from someone in the DF that the fighting's over. If that's the case, there's no reason for us to be here, and they probably need our help back there."

"Sir," the voice said again, weaker this time, "I pulled the trigger, on those people."

"I know you did, Whilm. You did what you were told," he assured him, "We're all in the same boat here. Whether what we did was right or wrong, I don't know. But that doesn't mean we shouldn't do the right thing now. We don't run from trouble, right Alpha Two?"

"Right, Sir," the gunner acknowledged. "Yes, Sir," said the other gunner. Rand's co-pilot nodded his head, gravely.

"Okay," Rand said, taking a breath as he forced the implications of this decision out of his mind for the time being, "We're going back. You two stay sharp back there. Keep your weapons primed, in case Baltimn is still hot." He glanced over to his co-pilot and noted that the man was speaking to their fighter escort with the new instructions. He let him work, as he turned back to his own instruments and pulled the Patrol Boat into a lazy arc in the direction they'd come. "I'm going to take us in system some distance away," he said, making sure the co-pilot relayed it to the fighters as well, "We'll be able to get a visual on Baltimn and get in communication from a safe distance away. If it's still hot, we'll turn right around again."

Rand allowed a moment for the fighters to confirm their orders and form up. "Stand by for hyperspace," he said. A memory of his wife and young, infant daughter occurred to Rand just then, as his hand hovered over the hyperspace throttle.

the crisp snap in the voice of wing commander robert honfalla came over the channel from where he sat in the cockpit of his z-95. the barge drivers, as he thought of them, were different from his well-trained and disciplined pilots. those pilots he could trust to a man to follow the rules. the barge drivers, well, that was another matter.

"we wait and see. give stomwell or general preston ten more minutes. if we don't get a response by then, we'll head back, fair enough? if not, you're heading back alone."

He craned his neck behind him, toward the recesses of the Patrol Boat behind him, and gave what could turn out to be a fateful order. "Relax, gentlemen," he called to the gunners, "We're here for a few more minutes."

simultaneously, a yz-775 freighter exited just below the bulk cruiser, and likely as not the captain of the patrol boat would notice a warhead lock on his craft as well. of course, things were still heating up. from the rear of the fighters and indeed, the patrol boat, a dp20 gunship emerged, flanked by a yt-2000 freighter, a mynock-class assault transport, six r-41 starchasers and a full squadron of z-95 headhunters, as well as a sentinel-class landing craft, all running dark and all locking a multitude of weapon systems on the baltimn craft within a matter of seconds.

it was then that the transmission came through on the open channels.

"baltimn craft, you are ordered to stand down by chairman ulyanov or baltimn. power down all systems and prepare to be boarded. you are guilty of war crimes and are being retrieved to stand trial."

"Ulyanov," the co-pilot corrected him, grimly.

Tighe shook his head. "Pirates," he said again, firmly, "They're unmarked, and we would know if Ulyanov had this many ships. They're pirates, or mercenaries. Ulyanov must have hired them. In either case," he said, his measured tone of voice radiating calm to the rest of the crew, "I don't like the idea of being captured by pirates or being tried in some kangaroo court. This much we know, gentlemen; the New Republic is at Baltimn, and I'd rather take our chances with them—hell, even with the Neimoidians—than with this lot, whoever they are." He clicked on the comm to answer them, tersely. "One moment please, over," he said, then clicked it off once more.

"Whoever they are," the co-pilot echoed him, "they knew we were here. Stomwell or Preston are the only ones supposed to know that."

Tighe shrugged. "Sounds like the government's not in good shape. Ulyanov must have found the records and sent this bunch after us. Point is," he said, before pausing. "In fact," he went on, "Change our comm frequency. They might be listening in. Ping it to the fighters, too. We're going to need to be on the same page, here. Are we good?" There was a tentative pause while the co-pilot went about his work, then nodded to him. "Good," Tighe said, "Point is, we need to get to Baltimn. Fighter wing, are you still with me?"

"Yes, Sir," came the familiar voice from one of the Z-95s. "I'd like to apologize also, Sir, for the—"

"We may need to pull some maneuvers with this boat if we stand any chance of getting out of here," Tighe continued, speaking over him, "If we do, I want you to loose your chaff, break off in as many directions as you can, and make a blind jump. You should be fine, and once you're clear, you go straight for Baltimn and tell them what's happening here."

"Sir—"

"Are we clear?"

There was a moment of apprehension on the line, followed by a reluctant acknowledgement. "Clear," the pilot said. He was obviously reluctant, however, to leave Alpha 2 alone, but he'd already been wrong once today and wasn't going to argue the point. He and the other Z-95s also had no interest in being captured, either.

"Okay," Tighe said, craning his neck again to address everyone in the ship, "I need to know, are you all with me on this? We're in the same boat here, remember."

Silence in the ship, except for the soft humming of its engine. They had essentially two options; 1.) submit to be boarded and face probable execution, with varying degrees of humiliation or torture depending on whether these were pirates, mercenaries, or Ulyanov's people, or 2.) run for it and stand a chance, however small, to get past them without being vaped. And if they were vaped, at least it'd be quick. "We're with you," said Whilm, the gunner. There were nods of agreement throughout the boat.

"No one wants to stay behind?" Tighe asked. No one did. "Okay, good. Everyone stay clear of the escape pods, then. I have something else in mind for them. We're not going to need gunners, either, so one of you stand by the escape pod controls. And Whilm? Do you know how to set up a feedback loop on the reactor?" Whilm did, and told him so. "Do it," Tighe said to him, gravely, "But let's try to reason with them first." He picked up his comm handset once again and keyed it on.

"Unidentified vessels," he said, "Boarding will not be necessary. We're headed for Baltimn now; check my heading if you want to confirm. Drop into parade formation around us and you can escort us in, over." Tighe's voice was calm, but the bead of sweat he wiped from his forehead suggested otherwise.

the transmission ended and all hell cut loose. thr bulk cruiser fired a single salvo at the rear of the patrol boat, targeting the engine area, with the full ten frontal quad laser cannons. the yz-775 freighter did the same with its dual turbolaser emplacement.

simultaneously, as they all had lockons, despite being outnumbered by six craft, the snubfighters fired. each z-95 was locked on to one of its sister craft on the baltimn side, and each fired a single proton torpedo. the six r-41s were locked on to six of the razor fighters, each also firing off a single torpedo before firing their ion cannons as rapidly as possible.

the yt-2000 was locked on one of the extra razor fighters and fired a quad laser burst from its pair of quad laser turrets before engaging with its ion cannon. locked on to another razor, the sentinel landing craft engaged with laser and ion cannons. this left four craft of baltimn unaccounted for.

to make up for this, the assault boat had one set up, engaging with the quad laser and two medium ion cannons. the remaining three vessels were fired upon by the gunship's six laser cannons and eight dual turbolasers.

As Alpha 2 bolted forward, directly at the bulk cruiser in its path, Tighe put it into a tight corkscrew down and to starboard. "Fire escape pods," he ordered, clenching his teeth through the G forces that caused the bulkheads around him to moan in protest. In the middle of its maneuver, the patrol boat's two escape pods fired from either side and sailed away from it in a frenzy. It wasn't much, but it might confuse the gunners on the bulk cruiser and the YZ-775—especially if one of them hit an escape pod and exploded it into debris. Or, in other words, cover. A moment later, the patrol boat leveled out of its corkscrew beneath the bulk cruiser and above the YZ-775, and gunned it between them toward freedom. They would fire at it at their own peril, as both ships would risk hitting the other.

"The loop is running," Whilm reported from behind the cockpit, "I'd say we have a minute at most."

Tighe nodded, sparing a glance at the diagnostic display and noting that Alpha 2's reactor was heating up, fast. And not just from his maneuvers, either. "I just want you to know," he said, turning his attention back out the viewport, his knuckles white on the controls, "However this turns out, it's been a privilege to fly with all of you."

Meanwhile, most of the Z-95's were indeed destroyed. The chaff would help, however, and no complicated maneuvers were necessary for them to escape—only a pitch of a few, scant degrees in any direction to face empty space and a punch on the hyperspace controls. It could be done in a matter of 1 or 2 seconds, and some of the fighters were bound to escape to lightspeed.

it was true the bulk cruiser could not fire against the patrol boat without fear of striking the smaller and less shielded yz-775 transport. the transport though, could and did fire on the patrol boat with its turbolaser twice. the bulk cruiser's shields could handle a missed shot. there was something else in the making still, for the pirates never traveled without a backup plan.

breaking hyperspace on the same path the bulk cruiser had done, the cavalry arrived in the shape of a trio of odd wing-shaped snubfighters. locking on was quite easy with their dedicated control systems (produced by r&l enterprises, of course) and a single ion warhead issued from each one to strike at the patrol boat. meanwhile, the bulk cruiser was trying to get a tractor lock on the smaller craft.

"Tossed the lunch about a bit, but we're fine back here," Whilm said from the engine compartment. There were acknowledgements from the others, too. "I'm good," the co pilot said, "but the shields are gone, and we—missiles inbound!" he shouted as warning lights sounded throughout the cockpit.

Ion warheads, Tighe recognized immediately. The patrol boat still had some momentum, and its engines, and he prepared to put the ship into another, identical corkscrew that would bring the missiles down onto the YZ-775 when, to his frustration, the bulk cruiser caught them in a tractor beam. The ship wrenched again as Tighe tried to shake the lock, to no use. The missiles impacted a moment later. A long, white flash seemed to surround him as an ionizing blast washed over the ship. Then the lights went out, as did the monitors. A second later, a red glow filled the cockpit as the emergency power kicked in. "Sithspit," Tighe cursed, "What do we have left?"

"Life support," the co pilot answered him, with some relief in his voice, "and the insular circuits—lights, doors, and not much else. Some of the diagnostics, I think."

"What about the reactor pressure and temperature?"

The co pilot grimaced. "Yeah," he said, then swivelled in his chair to find the appropriate display. "Both falling," he reported, "Thirty point six and eight hundred eleven, now ten over two."

"Whilm?" Tighe shouted into the recesses of the ship.

"We're drawing no power from the reactor," he answered the question that Tighe hadn't needed to ask, "The loop is dead. There's some portable deionizers back here, though. I might be able to get some draw from the reactor in a moment or two."

"Enough draw?" Tighe asked.

"Enough," Whilm said, grimly.

"Okay, then we need to buy some time," Tighe glanced to the co pilot, "You said the insular circuits are up. The doors, and so on. Do we have any control from here?"

The co pilot raised an eyebrow. "You mean, if they board us and take the cockpit, can they open all the doors and vent the oxygen?" he asked, guessing where the captain was going with this.

"Yes."

"No," the co pilot shook his head, "They knocked out all the control from here. If we lock a door back there, it stays locked. Even if they take the cockpit. I mean, they could have things up and running again in, oh, an hour or so." He looked away, unable to meet Tighe's gaze as he added quietly, "But I don't suppose we plan to be holed up for that long."

Tighe didn't answer him. Instead, he loosened his restraints and stood. "Everyone to the engine compartment," he said, "We'll lock the door and help Whilm on the reactor."

"No," Whilm's voice said, authoritatively. "You three work on the reactor. I'll loot the weapons locker and hold them off as long as I can."

"Whilm—"

"I killed innocent people today, Tighe," he interrupted him, "Women and children, probably. If we're all going to die anyway, I want to go out doing something good. Something useful. It's either that or we all die in the vaccuum of space, like those poor bastards on the Ithorian Peace. Or we're tortured, or worse. I hold them off, you three get the loop back up, and at least we can go out with some dignity."

There was a pause. Tighe looked at the co pilot, who nodded to him. Tighe sighed. "Okay," he said. "Let's move!"

He and the co pilot met up with the other gunner a short distance down the corridor, where he'd launched the escape pods. He looked sick, but nodded to them to assure them that he was all right. They hurried aft into the engine compartment, exchanging a brief, meaningful glance with Whilm as he hurried past in the opposite direction with four blasters stuffed under his arm and small, explosive charges cradled in both hands. All four of them were covered in sweat—from nervousness, mostly, but also because the small ship had become very warm with cooling system knocked out.

Tighe spared one last glance at Whilm before closing the door and locking himself, the co pilot, and the gunner in the engine room. The co pilot switched on a glow lamp to augment the dim, red glow of the backup lights, and tossed one of the deionizers to Tighe. He went to work, forcing Karen and Dylan out of his thoughts.

There wasn't much time.

the patrol boats were not the primary targets of usefulness; it was the razor fighters that were owed that honor. as the cruiser approached each electronically dead craft, one zero-g worker per craft motored out of the cruiser's bow hangar, each armed mainly with a cutting torch; their mission to make a small enough incision in the cockpit to vent the atmosphere and kill the pilot, allowing the cruiser to tractor in the craft with no worries.

the patrol boat was the secondary objective. equipped with standard lifesign sensors, it was easy enough to discern the location of the crew. once it was determined none were near the bridge or the closest access point, the mercenaries commenced operations of cutting through the airlock.

None of them simply sat and waited to die. Several turned their pistols on themselves, while most of them, having done as much damage to the cockpit as they could, turned their pistols on the pirates. An impressive number of the pirates, perhaps 4 or 5, would probably die in this fashion, as a blaster bolt would shatter the cockpit and tear through their fragile spacesuits. It would kill the pilots too, of course, but that was going to happen anyway—at least this way the pirates would lose more of their men, their equipment, and their expensive suits. Not to mention their time.

Meanwhile, on the patrol boat, Whilm was being no less obstinate. He planted his explosives everywhere the pirates would be likely to go inside the ship, especially close to the vulnerable transparisteel viewports in the cockpit and the gunnery stations. And, of course, on the airlock where he heard the cutting on the other side. The explosives were small, like the improvised one on the Razor starfighter, but they would be enough to blast the pirates with hot fragments of durasteel—more than enough to tear through their suits. Whilm would close doors behind him as he set the explosives and retreated farther into the ship. Then he pulled on a spacesuit of his own and brought the blasters with him into a maintenance closet just off the main corridor, out of sight. He kept the door open, ready to pop a few shots at anyone who approached through the explosive rigged door, one of several they would have to pass on their way inside.

It was then, in the engine compartment, that the feedback loop began to draw once again. "Pressure and temperature both rising," the co pilot reported, glancing at a portable indicator he'd attached to the reactor. It seems the deionizers had done the trick. "The loop is up."

Tighe sat down with his back to the reactor and wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. He took a long, slow breath. Then smiled. "Were you guys there when Preston's moustache was stolen?" he asked. There was some chuckling in the hot, cramped compartment. "Yeah," the gunner said, grinning, "He looked twelve years old without it." They went on reminiscing in what little time they had left.

the initial trap on the patrol boat netted the crew four dead pirates from the airlock hatch, leaving the pirates with no option but to continue from that point rather than two seperate breach teams. once inside the initial airlock, they moved more cautiously, using short range explosive sniffers to discern where trapped areas were and do their best to circumvent them on their way to the small bridge. one of the pirates would remain there while the other three headed towards the aft, moving slow and armed with repeaters.

In the quiet of the engine compartment, the three heard the Tap, Tap, Tap, Tap of metal on metal as Whilm tapped one of his blasters to a bulkhead to signal them that he was all right and had killed four of the pirates. "Good on him," the co pilot said. After that, there was a long silence throughout the ship that lasted until the next boarding party arrived, some minutes later.

Whilm was ready for them. Back during the height of the Rebellion, the mechanical genius General Airen Cracken had found a way to rig blaster power packs to explode. All it took was two or more packs fastened together with their overload sturm dowels removed, and in 30 seconds they would blow with the power of a medium-sized grenade. Like many former Rebel troops, Whilm was familiar with this technique. He hadn't needed all four of the blaster rifles he'd taken from the weapons locker, and so had popped the power packs from three of them and rigged them in the manner described, not unlike how the pilot in the Razor starfighter had done. Only this explosive was a far more immediate danger to the pirates.

Whilm waited until he heard the door to the corridor open, and the pirates moving slowly—perfect!—toward him. From his hiding spot in the maintenance closet, he held the improvised weapon in one hand and counted, sweating so much that he felt it run down his temple. Twenty three, twenty four, twenty five. And then he tossed it into the corridor in the direction of the pirates. His aim didn't need to be precise; the artificial gravity in the corridor was down, and the grenade would bounce about the wall and ceiling once or twice before exploding. Ready for trouble though they were, it was still likely to take the pirates by surprise. Especially since it exploded unexpectedly soon, at 28 seconds—not enough time to catch the weapon and fling it back.

He hugged as closely to the wall of the maintenance closet as he could, shielding himself from the blast that seared through the corridor, tearing asunder maintenance panels, circuits, cabinets, and miscellaneous items like a medpack that was mounted to the wall. And, of course, the pirates. It seemed likely that now, this afternoon, the Ebon Fist would have 12 fewer men than it had this morning. Assuming the three in the corridor were killed—their suits, after all, were quite fragile—that would leave the rear guard in the cockpit as the only surviving pirate on the patrol boat at the moment.

Whilm took a breath and clinked his one remaining blaster rifle on the bulkhead above him. Tap, Tap, Tap. In the engine compartment, Tighe and the others took some comfort in the thought that they weren't going to go down easy. "Readings?" Tighe asked to the co pilot, who glanced at his indicator. "Forty point one and nine hundred seven over two." Tighe nodded, and said nothing. No one did. It was a time for reflection now. He thought of Karen and Dylan back on Baltimn. He closed his eyes and saw an image of them, in his imagination, on the porch of their home in Murmamn City—Karen was standing, holding Dylan in her arms, looking out over the smoke that rose from the buildings. Massive vessels in orbit could be seen in the sky.

Tighe had a sudden impression of Karen's emotions, the way he had always been accustomed to reading or, if you will, "sensing" her emotions when he was with her. Tighe had always been very intuitive. He always seemed to know what Karen was thinking, and knew exactly what Dylan wanted when he cried (his intuition had served him well as a pilot, too). Now, somehow, he knew that they were safe. Frightened perhaps, and concerned for him. But safe. Tighe wanted Karen to know that he loved her and Dylan so much that not even his death here could keep him from them—that somehow, though he would be gone, everything would be alright for them.

Alpha Two sat in utter silence, as the crew in the engine compartment thought quietly to themselves, and Whilm waited in the maintenance closet, hands clutching his blaster rifle, listening closely to the remaining pirate in the cockpit.

a pair of r-41s engaged the craft at maximum distance with ion cannons, aiming to douse the buildup of power within the reactor. however, there was always a chance it wuld not work out. it was a shame there was no way to contact the crew on board, though hejin attempted it anyway.

"patrol boat, this is gold leader. you seem quite resourceful. we could use a few new bodies in our little group."

perhaps the spacesuit's comm would pick up the broadcast.