Armitage balls his fingers into fists as he steadies himself. “I want you to hit the boy to the right of you. Hard.”
The dark-haired boy turns to a sandy-haired, sallow-cheeked lad. Then he raises a fist and clubs that other boy in the side of the head. The boy cries out. A line of blood crawls from a small gash in the victim’s cheek.
Armitage feels a strange and sinister buzz of excitement.
Once again the light of Jakku presses hard against Sloane’s eyes as she and Brentin are ushered forth by Norra Wexley and that mad droid. When her eyes adjust anew, the first thing she sees in the sky is her ship.
The Ravager.
Sloane has a pang deep inside, like a string being plucked, the resultant vibration humming in her marrow. Regret courses through her like a poison. A choice presents itself, now: She could run, or overpower Norra, in order to steal a ship. She could take that ship up to the Ravager. She could land and regain control. Not an easy task, no, but she is confident in her ability to get it done. Then she could take her ship and just…go.
It would not be an act of cowardice. It would be one of survival. The Ravager is a Super Star Destroyer—a dreadnought of mighty proportions. It is by itself a massive flying city. It has enough room to contain a powerful remnant of the Empire. It has the weapons to hold off a whole fleet—as it is doing right now by pushing back the New Republic armada. She could take the Ravager. She could spare some portion of the Empire and flee into the stars with that massive vessel. With it she could start over again.
The Empire could start over again.
But that would mean setting her vengeance aside.
And that is something she just cannot do. The urge for revenge is like a hook in her cheek, and it’s drawing her miserably toward it, tug, tug, tug.
Rax has ruined it all. He has touched the Empire with a filthy hand, and foul streaks of his treachery are everywhere, corroding all that she loves. The Empire to Sloane was an entity of order and discipline. It was about upholding stability in a chaotic galaxy. It was about vanquishing uncertainty and providing a way of things: a schematic, a backbone, a path for all to follow if they wanted to be safe.
And now it’s this. A wild, brutal remnant, like a broken spear stuck in the sand. The troopers have turned to common thugs. The officers are haunted and overwhelmed. This is a primitive place, and it has made them primitive in return. The Empire that she loved is gone. That revelation reaches her again, and this time for the last time.
In her heart, she lets the Ravager go.
Just as she let Adea Rite go.
And just as she is letting all the hopes for the Empire’s future go.
Norra’s blaster prods her in the back. “You want to keep moving? We don’t have time for sightseeing, Admiral.”
“Just Sloane,” she says. “I’m an admiral no more.” Just a rebel like you. She keeps moving toward the shuttle.
And toward her vengeance.
—
Ackbar’s chair swivels from station to station as he examines the battle map—his massive gelatinous eyes flick their gaze among screens, assessing the situation. And the assessment is not ideal.
This should have been easier. The New Republic fleet is larger. The Empire has been waning. On paper, it’s an easy victory—
And yet, so far, it has been anything but. They’ve already lost a contingent of corvettes. Two frigates are down. Countless starfighters have been lost to the swarm of TIEs that fill the void.
Of course, Admiral Ackbar is a student of history, and in many cases smaller, lesser forces have outmatched and outfoxed their betters. The Ghostfinder fleet versus the Sith armada. The Mandalorians versus the Grand Army of the Republic. And, of course, the Rebel Alliance versus the Empire.
History is rife with examples of weaker forces routing the stronger. And that may happen here, too, if they’re not smart and cautious.
The Empire has changed their tactics—they are fighting with a brutality and a chaos that has never been seen in their repertoire. One frigate broke in half when a single TIE bomber crashed head-on into the bridge connecting the two halves of the ship. They expend their weapons in every direction. Their attacks offer no rhyme or reason—the old Imperial maneuvers, always so neatly predictable and textbook, either are being willfully ignored or have simply been forgotten. That lends their defense a desperate, dangerous edge. It is, quite honestly, hard to combat. (It’s also, Ackbar supposes, exactly what made his own fleet so difficult to fight as rebels.)