Great Muff Tarragon stood on the main bridge of the Devastator Station, his hands clasped loosely behind his back.
"The Rebel base is on a moon on the far side of the planet Yawn," said one of the bridge scanner officers. "We will be within firing range in thirty minutes."
"I trust you won't miss this time," said Vapour.
"Yes, thank you," said the Great Muff tightly. He turned to look at the Hard Lord. "If we do miss, I shall send you down to give the targeting personnel a good swift kick."
"Most amusing, Tarragon," snarled Vapour. "Do not make the mistake of underestimating my powers. Or of overestimating my patience."
Barth Vapour, Hard Lord of the Stiff, was confined to a floating hover-chair, a blanket thrown over the stumps of his legs. Young Splitwhisker's light rapier had sliced neatly through both of Vapour's robotic legs partway between the mechanical knee joints and the place where they had been fused with what remained of his organic limbs. The severed ends were buckled and charred by the intense energies contained within the blade.
Vapour held Boadicea in his lap. Without being aware of it, he was idly stroking her plush pink head.
His defeat at the hands of the young, untrained farm-boy had been an embarrassment. He had quickly quelled rumours that he had lost his Source powers by breaking the necks—from across the room—of the two people he had overheard spreading the gossip. However, he had been meditating upon his defeat, trying to understand how the impossible had happened. Young Lurk had somehow changed Vapour's light rapier into a harmless object, a stick of bread.
Barth Vapour was a Stiff Lord, an Agent of the Machines, with an understanding of the true nature of the Source, and he was unable to perform such a trick. He knew the lad could not have learned it from K'nobby; the Jubblies did not understand certain vital aspects of the nature of the Source, and of the Hard Side. They certainly did not have such power.
Perhaps what the boy had said was true. Perhaps Lurk Splitwhisker was 'The One'.
Vapour ignored the impulse to scratch his foot.
It had been twenty years since his robotic limbs had first been fitted. Vapour was taking advantage of this momentary setback to have new limbs fashioned, using the latest in modern technologies. Unfortunately, this meant he would be confined to the hover chair for the two weeks required to create new legs to his exacting specifications, and have them shipped out from Coruscate Primus.
Tarragon turned back to gaze at the main view screen. The planet Yawn rolled away beneath them as they swung around the planet towards the distant forest moon. Superimposed upon the image of the planet, computer graphics displayed the location of the target moon and counted down the time remaining until it was within range.
The Great Muff frowned. "Our targeting systems are fully operational, aren't they?" he asked of the bridge crew.
"Yes sir," said an officer. "Fully operational. The glitch which caused the—problem—at Alderbark has been rectified, and an extensive diagnostic has been run on all systems. Nothing can possibly go wrong."
"Good," said Tarragon, pretending not to hear an amused snort from Vapour.
The Rebel hangar bay was a hive of activity. Pilots in their orange flight suits ran back and forth, helmets under their arms, looking for their fighters. Ground crews bustled—as they are wont to do—ensuring that the fighters were all fully fuelled and ready for combat. After that unfortunate incident at Dentakleen, they were double-checking everything! 'Bots trotted and rolled everywhere, getting in the way.
"You're just leaving, is that it?" said Lurk hotly to Mal. "You've been paid and you're off, just like that."
Mal and his tall green companion were loading crates of money into the Serendipity Sparrow; the Rebel Coalition had managed to scrape up enough funds to pay the smuggler his reward.
"Look, Lurk, this money will pay off a lot of old debts." Mal shrugged. "Besides, what could I possibly do to help? This old bird is a great little freighter, and she can fight off a few attacking ships when she has to, but she's not a fighter. Besides which, she's too big to get through the shields of that Station anyway."
"Yeah, but..." Lurk trailed off. "Okay," he said after a moment, "that's a pretty good point. Well, take care of yourself, old buddy. It seems to be what you're best at."
"Hey!" said Mal. "I'll come back when I can. Once I get this bounty off my head, I'll be free to help you guys out. We'll meet again. Don't know where, don't know when. But I know we'll meet again, some gorram day."
"Uh, yeah," said Lurk. "Whatever." He turned away.
"Hey Lurk," Mal called after him.
Lurk turned back expectantly.
"How's the hand?" asked Mal.
Lurk raised one gloved hand, and flexed his fingers. Beneath the glove, the robotic hand looked and felt almost as real as his old hand had, right down to the fuzz of light hair on its back. "As good as new," he said.
Mal nodded. "May the Source be with you," he said.
Lurk smiled at him. "And with you." He turned and wandered off to look for his fighter.
Shaggus grunted something.
"No," said Mal, "I'm not sure we're doing the right thing."
When Lurk got to his Cross-wing Fighter, Princess Labia was waiting for him. She wore another of her plain white dresses. Beside her stood Seepy Weepy, polished and gleaming, watching as the ground crews hoisted the stubby Arty Farty into the astrobot socket behind the fighter's cockpit.
"Hello Lurk," she said, and she threw her arms around him and hugged him tightly.
"Libby," he said, returning the hug.
"I just wanted to thank you for everything," she said. "But now you're racing off to fight more battles for me, and we don't have time."
"I'll be back," said Lurk. "Hold that thought."
"Take care," she said. "Come back to me." Raising herself onto her toes, she pressed her soft body firmly against him, and touched her soft lips tenderly to his mouth. Then, as he blushed, she whispered into his ear, "My, you are a big boy, aren't you?" Then she turned away with a swirl of her diaphanous dress, and ran from his view.
"I am," whispered Lurk. Watching her go, Lurk surreptitiously reached inside his flight suit and adjusted himself. She certainly had an effect on him. "I mean I will."
Arty Farty trilled and whistled.
"You take care of yourself," said Seepy. "And take care of Master Lurk, too!"
"Don't worry," said Lurk, "she'll be fine with me."
"Hey Lurk," called a familiar voice. Lurk spun around to see an old friend from Ratatouille approaching.
"Hey Bates," he yelled. "Wow, what are you doing here? I didn't see you in the briefing. Last time I saw you, you were heading off for the Imperial Academy. And now here you are with the Rebellion. Hey, you're not a spy, are you?"
"What?" said Bates. "No. Don't even joke about such things. You know as well as I do that the Imperial Academy is the best place to go to get your flight qualifications. Besides, weren't you going to meet me there?"
"True," laughed Lurk. "So what happened? How did you get here?"
"Luck, really," said Bates. "Our transport to Coruscate Primus broke down somewhere near Correlation. While we were hanging around the nearest spaceport waiting for it to be repaired, I fell in with some guys who knew some guys—and here I am!"
"Well, it's gonna be good flying alongside you again, old buddy."
"Yeah," said Bates. "But never mind that. How'd you get your hands on a sex 'bot like this?"
Bates nodded at Seepy. Lurk glanced briefly at the 'bot. After everything they had gone through together, he had quite forgotten Seepy's primary functionality.
"Well, y'know, I just came across him," started Lurk.
Bates laughed loudly. "Oh, Lurk, always the comedian!"
"What did I say?" said Lurk. "Anyway, Bates, this is Seepy Weepy. Seepy, this is my old friend Bates from Ratatouille."
"Pleased to meet you, sir," said Seepy. Oh dear! Another farm-boy!
"Call me Bates," said Bates. "I'm sure we'll get to know each other a lot better when all this is over."
"Um, yes, sir Bates," said Seepy.
"No, no," laughed Bates. "Just Bates."
"Very well, Master Bates," said Seepy. "Pleased to meet you, Master Bates."
"Uh..."
Lurk shrugged. "It's the best you'll get out of him, I'm afraid, Master Bates."
"Right," said Bates. "Uh, perhaps we'll just go back to 'sir' then!"
"Right you are, Master Bates, sir," said Seepy.
"Uh, perhaps I'd better go get in my fighter," said Bates uncertainly.
"Good luck," Lurk called after him. "May the Source be with you!"
The sentry watched from his tower as wave after wave of fighters launched from beneath the dense jungle canopy and angled towards the huge sphere of the planet Yawn which dominated the afternoon sky.
Once the fighters—a mix of old Y-wing fighters and the newer Cross-wing fighters—had cleared the base, a decrepit old freighter lifted slowly from the ground, her VTOL jets roaring, and flew slowly away in a different direction.
"Twenty-five minutes to firing range," said an officer.
Tarragon stroked his chin thoughtfully. "What is the deal with this planet?" he said. "It is all marbled and multicoloured. It just doesn't look right. Is it a marble planet?"
"Uh, no sir," said an intelligence officer. As was often the case with Imperial Intelligence officers, he was not particularly imaginative. "The planet Yawn is a variegated mixture of a multitude of differing terrain types. It has desert regions, and swampy regions. It has forest and jungle, and woods and plains, and swamps. It has..."
Tarragon yawned. "Bored now," he said.
"Uh, indeed, sir," said the officer. "Hence the name."
"Sir," said another officer, "I am detecting multiple launches from the forest moon."
"Damn," said Tarragon. "They have detected us. Track them, do not let them escape."
"Uh, sir," said the officer. "They appear to be coming this way. They have sent fighters out to face us."
"Fighters? Against this Station? How very—interesting." Tarragon studied the main screen thoughtfully. "I think, perhaps, we should take a closer look at those plans they stole."
"I agree," said Vapour. "I have a bad feeling about this."
As the formations of fighters roared their way silently around the planet Yawn on an intercept course for the Death Tube, their pilots counted off.
"Red Five standing by," said Lurk into the comm-link in his flight helmet.
"Uh, actually Lurk, you are Puce Five," said Commander Armada, who was also Puce Leader.
"Oh, sorry," said Lurk. "My mistake. It's just that it looks red from here."
"Definitely puce," said Puce Leader. "The colour was very carefully chosen to be distinct from red."
"Sorry," said Lurk again. "It's just that I'm colour-blind in one ear. Puce Five reporting in."
"Puce Six standing by."
"Puce Seven standing by."
"Puce Eight ready to rumble."
"Puce Wing," said Puce Leader, "Lock your Cross foils into attack positions."
"Really Dark Grey With Just A Tinge Of Blue Wing, report in," said Really Dark Grey With Just A Tinge Of Blue Leader.
"Really Dark Grey With Just A Tinge Of Blue One, standing by," said Really Dark Grey With Just A Tinge Of Blue One.
"Really Dark Grey With Just A Tinge Of Blue Two, standing by."
"Uh, Indigo Leader to Home Base," said Indigo Leader, interrupting the roll call of Really Dark Grey With Just A Tinge Of Blue Wing, "perhaps this is not quite the time to bring this up, but exactly what the hell is the deal with Really Dark Grey With Just A Touch Of Blue Wing?"
"That's 'tinge'," said Really Dark Grey With Just A Tinge Of Blue Leader, a little indignantly.
"What seems to be the problem, Indigo Leader?" asked Commander Bekkalu from base camp.
"I'm sorry, Commander," said Indigo Leader. "I don't care whose idea it was, and I don't care how accurately the name matches the colour scheme, but 'Really Dark Grey With Just A Tinge Of Blue' is not a good name for a squadron. It's too long, and it will get people killed. Besides which, the battle will be over before they finish their roll call."
"You may have a point, Captain," said Commander Bekkalu slowly. "What do you recommend? We could probably drop the 'really'."
"I was thinking of something a little shorter," said Indigo Leader.
"I bet you were," sniggered Really Dark Grey With Just A Tinge Of Blue Leader.
Indigo Leader ignored him. "How about 'grey'?" she asked. "Or 'slate'?"
"I really don't see what is wrong with 'Really Dark Grey With Just A Tinge Of Blue'," said Really Dark Grey With Just A Tinge Of Blue Leader.
"With a name that long," said Indigo Leader, "you must be over-compensating for something pretty darn small!"
"Please, Captains," said Commander Bekkalu, "can we save the bickering for later?"
"Sorry sir," said Really Dark Grey With Just A Tinge Of Blue Leader.
"Sorry sir," said Indigo Leader.
"Now," said Bekkalu thoughtfully, "I can see Indigo Leader's point here. We'll review our squadron nomenclature at a more convenient time, but for the purposes of this exercise, Really Dark Grey With Just A Tinge Of Blue Wing will be redesignated as Grey Wing."
"What?" said the erstwhile Really Dark Grey With Just A Tinge Of Blue Leader.
"I trust there will be no more complaints, Grey Leader?" said Bekkalu.
"Uh, no sir. Ma'am." Grey Leader was silent for a moment and then, chastened, he said quietly, "Grey Wing, report in."
"Really Dark Grey With—uh, Grey One, ready," said Grey One.
"Grey Two, standing by."
"Thank the gods for that," said Grey Three. "Grey Three, all set. Let's party."
"We have reached the magnetic shielding," said Fuschia Leader. "Brace yourself for some turbulence as we pass through it."
"Of course," muttered Indigo Seven, "if they have underestimated the strength of this thing, we may experience some minor turbulence and then explode."
"All right, can the chatter," said Indigo Leader. "You're giving out some major bad vibes there, Indigo Seven."
The ominous grey cylinder of the Devastator Station loomed hugely before them, filling their field of view. Even the Imperial Planetary Dominator Isosceles, still maintaining her parking position, was dwarfed by its immensity.
"Look at the size of that thing," said Puce Four—Bates. "I mean, I know they said it was big, but this is just beyond big. I mean, I thought it was a long way down to the corner store, but..."
"Hush now, Puce Four," reprimanded Puce Leader.
"THIGH Fighters coming in," said Grey Leader suddenly. "This is it. Fuschia Leader, you can start your attack run. Aqua Wing and Grey Wing, follow me; we have to keep those Fighters off of Fuschia."
Attacking waves of THIGH Fighters suddenly swept into view, and the sky filled with the blaze of laser fire. The battle had begun.
THIGH Pilot Lieutenant Colonel Javamaprandarah Rajamajarandaibuggah viewed a space battle as a dance. It was a fast, complex, ever-changing dance, to be sure, but a dance nonetheless. Keeping track of all the individual dancers was next to impossible; even the finest battle computers struggled to provide up-to-date data. One could either stand back, and watch the grand pattern, or move in close and select a single partner with whom to dance.
Joe had his current dance partner—a Rebel Y-wing with a pink stripe down its side—locked firmly in his sights. He pressed the fire button under his thumb, and red death streaked out towards the enemy craft. Its shields flared briefly as he hammered the weak spot behind the generator, and then the Y-wing blossomed into a fireball. Joe threw his control stick hard over to the right, and he shot past the dissipating wreckage with room to spare. The exploding debris swirled briefly in his wake, tugged by the gravitational field of his ship's drive.
Joe looked around for his next partner.
Fuschia Leader spiralled his Y-wing down out of the swarming mass of combatants and headed for the trench. Fuschia Four and Fuschia Seven followed him, keeping in tight formation. Two THIGH Fighters peeled out of the thick of the battle to follow the three Y-wings.
"Grey Three, follow me," said Grey Leader. "Target the Fighters that are on Fuschia Leader's tail."
"Roger that, Grey Leader." Two Cross-wing fighters, each sporting stripes that were really dark grey with just a tinge of blue, left the main conflict to follow the procession heading for the Death Tube. One of the THIGH Fighters opened fire on Fuschia Four; the Y-wing's shields flared briefly, and then the Rebel pilot took evasive action, allowing the deadly laser fire to streak harmlessly past. Before the THIGH could get another lock on the weaving Y-wing, Grey Three opened fire; as its structural integrity failed, the THIGH Fighter imploded into its own gravity drive and boiled away into space.
Grey Leader fired briefly, his precision shot shearing off one of the remaining THIGH's solar panels. Unbalanced, the Fighter spun away and exploded against the surface of the battle station.
Fuschia Leader dropped down into the trench. Fuschia Four and Fuschia Seven slid into covering positions behind and above him. The two Cross-wings from Grey Squadron turned back towards the battle, to face another three THIGH Fighters which were moving to intercept the Y-wings.
"Aqua Leader, this is Grey Leader. We could use a hand here."
Lurk fired, destroying an oncoming THIGH Fighter. His Cross-wing beeped a warning as he flew straight through the resulting fireball. Despite his brave words back in the Rebel briefing room, he had to concede that this was nothing like Bugger Canyon back home.
During their teen years, Lurk and Bates, and their mutual friend Chip, had revelled in screaming along the floor of Bugger Canyon at high speed, sweeping around one bend after another on their speeder bikes. They had stopped playing the game after Chip had lost count of the turns he had taken and rounded the final sharp bend to find himself faced with the sheer rock cliff which gave the canyon its name. He had barely had time to say "Oh bugger" before becoming fatally flattened against the rock wall.
Bugger Canyon could be dangerous, but it didn't shoot at you from six different directions simultaneously. Lurk was wrenching his control stick back and forth so hard, he was worried it was going to break off in his hand.
A THIGH Fighter streaked past overhead, so close that Lurk felt the brief pull of its gravitational drive. The near miss flipped his Cross-wing crazily through space, and he fought to bring it back under control.
Give me a wimp hamster any day! he thought.
"Almost there," said Fuschia Leader. The range markers on his targeting computer were converging as he approached the vent. "Almost there."
Suddenly laser fire raked briefly across the nose of his Y-wing. An incoming THIGH Fighter dropped towards him.
"Get this guy off of me," he said into his comm. "I only need another few seconds."
"On it," said Fuschia Four. He broke formation and rolled upwards to intercept the approaching Fighter. He blasted wildly, without having acquired a lock, in an effort to distract the Imperial Pilot. The THIGH turned to meet the new threat.
"Almost there," said Fuschia Leader. "Now!" He fired his neutron torpedoes, and pulled back on his stick to lift himself out of the trench. "Torpedoes away," he said. "Torpedoes away." All three Fuschia ships fired briefly at the lone THIGH, and it exploded as laser energies ripped through its hull. There was a brilliant flare as the neutron torpedoes exploded, and an expanding shockwave rocked the three Y-wings. Another THIGH Fighter which had been too close to the point of impact flared briefly and disappeared.
"Negative hit," said Fuschia Leader. "They just impacted on the surface."
"Five minutes to firing range."
Great Muff Tarragon nodded, his eyes never leaving their sockets. His gaze was upon the main view screen, where the scope of the battle outside the Devastator Station was unrolling.
"What are they attacking?" he asked.
"Sir, we have analysed the pattern of their attacks. They seem to have identified a weakness, although I'm not quite sure..."
"What?" demanded Tarragon.
"Well, sir, we were told that the plans that the Rebels stole were at Revision Six?" said the officer.
"That is correct," intoned Vapour sonorously.
"Uh, well, it's just that the plans at Revision Six clearly show the numerous failsafe mechanisms that are in place, so that even if they manage to destroy one of the generators they seem to be targeting, it will be little more than an annoyance for this station." The officer paused. "Those failsafes were missing from the plans at Revision Five, which is, uh, why I wondered."
"If they only have Revision Five," mused Tarragon, "they may think that destroying the reactor will cause a complete cascade failure. But if they have Revision Six..."
"It is a diversion," said Vapour.
"Are you sure?" asked Tarragon.
"Quite sure," said Vapour. "They want to lull us into a false sense of security. They have another target."
"Why not just attack that directly?" asked Tarragon.
"Because," said Vapour, "it is not yet accessible."
"My Lord," said the officer. "I believe you are correct. An analysis of Revision Six reveals a vulnerability in the main focussing crystal for our primary weapon. They must be waiting until we prepare to fire upon their base, at which point we will need to open the iris."
"I see," said Tarragon. "The obvious question, of course, is whether this vulnerability actually does exist?"
"No sir," said the Officer. "The Station was finally built to Revision Eight. If the Rebel Coalition had the latest version of the plans, they wouldn't even have considered such an attack. The focussing crystal is protected by several additional shields which do not appear in the plans they have, and numerous internal gun batteries."
"So the Rebel assault is doomed?" asked Tarragon.
"Yes, sir, it is."
"Jolly good!" said Tarragon. Something vaguely resembling a smile slithered briefly across his face.
"Two minutes to firing range," said another officer.
"Can we lock our target now?" asked Tarragon. "Can we be ready to fire the moment we clear Yawn?"
"Oh yes, sir," said the targeting officer. "With the new software, we can lock on to the calculated position of the moon and..."
"Thank you," said Tarragon. "Commence primary firing sequence."
"Yes sir."
The four surviving Y-wings of Fuschia Squadron regrouped and wheeled as one towards the trench, following the Cross-wings of Aqua Leader and his two wingmen. Aqua Leader arrowed into the trench, levelling out at the last possible moment.
"Aqua Leader," said the concerned voice of Commander Bekkalu, "you're going in too fast."
"I know what I'm doing," said Aqua Leader tightly. He brought his targeting computer online.
"You won't be able to pull out in time," said Bekkalu.
"Don't you worry about me," said Aqua Leader. "I promise I'll pull out."
"Abort, Aqua Leader," said Indigo Leader into the pregnant pause. "The iris is opening. I say again, the iris is commencing its opening cycle. All fighters switch to primary objective."
"But I'm almost there," said Aqua Leader. "I don't want to pull out yet."
"Your call, Aqua Leader," said Indigo Leader. "Take your shot if you've got it. All other fighters, primary objectives are now a go."
"Almost there," muttered Aqua Leader, watching his targeting computer. "Oh yes," he cried. "My load is away. Pulling out now." But he was too fast, too close; the torpedoes detonated at the edge of the port, and Aqua Leader was vaporised as he flew through the blast. Aqua Two and Aqua Five barely managed to swing around in time to avoid his fate.
"Commencing my run," said Puce Leader.
The intense battle had moved up to the slowly opening orifice of the immense battle station, although all fighters of both sides were steering clear of the cavernous barrel of the Death Tube's primary weapon. Nobody wanted to be in front of it if—when—it fired.
Puce Leader broke free of the pack. Puce Four and Puce Seven followed him towards that cavernous maw. After a moment's hesitation, several THIGH fighters moved to follow the Rebel ships.
The three Cross-wings from Puce Wing swept across the axis of the station. In tight formation they looped up and over until they were facing directly into the enormous well. Puce Leader fired his neutron torpedoes.
"Torpedoes away," he shouted. "They're dead on target. Looks like..."
His voice was lost in a crackle of static as the neutron torpedoes detonated in space directly in front of his fighter. There was a brilliant flare, and all three of the Cross-wings were instantly consumed by the hellish blast, along with a couple of the pursuing THIGH Fighters.
"What the fuck was that?" yelled Indigo Leader. "We just lost Commander Armada."
"Oh crap," said Indigo Seven.
For a moment all channels were flooded with a confused babble as the Rebel pilots tried to determine what had gone wrong.
"It is shielded," shouted Grey Leader over the noise. "The barrel is shielded."
"We've lost," said Indigo Leader quietly, but her tone of despair was enough to cut through the turmoil and silence it. "The plans we intercepted were incomplete. There's no way to stop them from firing."
"There may be a way," said Lurk.
"What do you have in mind, Puce Five?"
"Use the Source, Lurk," whispered Bent's voice in his head.
"Way ahead of you," muttered Lurk. He reached out with his mind, seeking the Source which made up the battle station. There was a shield generator. Lurk groped around through its definition, seeking that critical node of data and code. He tweaked, and the shield generator went dead.
"Thirty seconds to firing position," said the Imperial officer.
"We've just lost one of the shield generators," said another officer. "We're, uh, I'm not entirely sure what happened to it; we just lost signal. Do you want me to prepare your escape shuttle?"
"Leave? In our moment of triumph?" Tarragon stared the officer down. "I think you overestimate their abilities."
"Indeed," said Vapour quietly. But his attention was elsewhere. He could feel a disturbance in the Source. Young Splitwhisker was up to something.
"Fifteen seconds."
A cheer went up from the assembled Rebel pilots—those that weren't actively engaged with enemy THIGH Fighters, anyway—as the shield flickered out. Their delight was short-lived as another snapped up in its place.
"This is taking too long," muttered Lurk. "Move everybody back, away from the station." Lurk's own Cross-wing drifted, dead in space, until Arty Farty asserted control from her socket, and moved it back with the other Rebel ships.
Lurk reached deeper, digging through the code. He could feel the ripples through the Source as the energy built up within the monstrous weapon.
"I can't do it," he despaired. "It's too large. I tried, Libby, I tried."
"Do you think," said Bent's ghostly echo of a voice inside his head, "that physical size has any relevance in this place? Inside this Array? Do you think that's air you're breathing?"
Lurk reached deeper. "Of course," he said aloud. "No matter how big it is, it's still just an Object."
"What was that, Puce Five?" asked Indigo Leader, but Lurk ignored her.
Five seconds. He reached deeper. Energy pulsed and grew. Deeper.
Four seconds. There, past the component level, past the details of each individual Object which, assembled, made up the Station.
Three seconds. The Death Tube cleared the planet Yawn. Its lethal maw pointed directly at the distant forest moon. Deep inside, something began to glow.
Two seconds. Further up the hierarchy he probed, until he found the definition of the battle station itself. A single declared instance of a single, complex Object.
One second. Lurk tweaked.
For a second, the giant cucumber floated improbably in space before the astounded Rebel and Imperial forces. Then it began to implode, collapsing under its own weight. Then, as the energies which had been built up within it during the firing initialisation sequence sought an escape, it exploded with devastating force. The Imperial Planetary Dominator Isosceles was torn apart by the massive blast, shredded by a million fragments of cucumber, and by seeds the size of shuttlecraft.
Most of the Rebel fighters managed to escape the blast relatively intact, their shields absorbing the wash of energy which swept over them.
Most of the unshielded Imperial THIGH Fighters did not.
Lieutenant Colonel Javamaprandarah Rajamajarandaibuggah spiralled helplessly through space, his THIGH Fighter damaged beyond repair. Two of the three solar panels had been torn off. An impact with—Joe had difficulty believing what had happened—with a giant cucumber seed had trashed his controls.
He activated his emergency beacon. Even being picked up by the Rebels would be preferable to a slow death by asphyxiation as his oxygen generator faltered and failed.
The mood amongst the Rebels was exuberant, albeit a little confused. Reports coming in from the fighters were conflicting and nonsensical.
"Does it matter?" asked Princess Labia. "We can sort out the details later. All that matters now is that that battle station is destroyed."
"True," said Commander Bekkalu. "My biggest concern is that, with Commander Armada fallen, I am going to have to write up the paperwork on this one."
"Let's just bring our boys home," said Libby.
"Lurk," whispered Bent's voice, "there is something you need to know." Lurk was in formation with the remaining fighters of Puce Squadron, returning to the forest moon.
"What?" demanded Lurk. "That it was you who drove my father to the Hard Side? That you left him for dead?"
"Is that what he told you?" asked Bent. "I am sorry that you were not ready to face him. His lies can be very convincing."
"Lies?"
"Perhaps that is the wrong word, because Vapour himself believed them to be true." Bent paused. "Perhaps they were true, from a certain point of view."
"Yeah, yeah," said Lurk dismissively, "and the truths we cling to, blah blah blah."
"Unfortunately, Vapour was mistaken," said Bent. "His mind was twisted, whether by his injuries or by the Imperator we may never know for sure. I see that you need the distance of clarity. You must go to my old teacher, Yodel, in the Daggyboil System. He will train you; he will teach you to see what is truth, and what is merely point of view."
"Okay," said Lurk quietly. "Perhaps you are right. A little clarity would be welcome, I think, after the confusion of the last few days."
"Yodel will be able to help," said Bent as his presence faded away.
"Bent, wait," said Lurk.
"Yes?"
"Is my father—is Vapour dead?"
"I—I cannot feel his presence in the Source," said Bent. "But I do not think he is dead either. I do not know what has happened to him."
"Oh," said Lurk. "Okay. Thank you."
Bent began to fade again. Just before he disappeared, his ghostly voice whispered one final thing. "Lurk, I forgot to tell you earlier: Labia is your sister."
Lurk blinked.
"Nooo!" His cry rang out across the Rebel comm channels.
"Lurk, what is it? Are you okay?" But nobody could get a word out of Puce Five; all was silent save for the occasional sob of despair.