After a hurried meal in the cafeteria, Solo and Ahsoka rushed to the training hall for several hours of lightsaber sparring.
Ahsoka's skills were rapidly improving, gradually allowing her to keep pace with Solo's rhythm. This wasn't surprising; she spent far more time practicing with her lightsaber than he did.
After training, the two headed to the hangar to inspect their "mounts" before they went into combat.
Navigating through the labyrinthine corridors, they entered the central hangar. In a corner stood two Delta-7 light starfighters, side by side, having just completed their final maintenance checks by technicians.
Each fighter was about seven meters long and four meters wide, with sleek, wedge-shaped fuselages. One was painted in the iconic red of the Jedi, while the other was a bright yellow. Beside each fighter stood an R-3 series astro-mechanic droid, its paint scheme matching the corresponding fighter.
Red with red, yellow with yellow.
Ahsoka's eyes immediately locked onto the red fighter. She hurried over and turned to look at Solo with her big eyes. "Master, can I fly this one?"
Solo couldn't refuse such a request. "Of course! This one's yours. I'll take the yellow one."
He approached the yellow fighter and gently ran his hand along its icy fuselage.
Beside him, the R-3 droid emitted a series of electronic chirps and beeps, as if greeting him.
"Sorry, Little Yellow," Solo said casually, giving the droid an impromptu name. "I don't understand binary."
The droid's "head" swiveled, its optical sensors fixed on Solo, and it let out another string of "beep-boop-bim" sounds.
"Right, the situation is exactly as you say," Solo replied nonchalantly, pretending to understand.
"Beep-boop-bim?" The droid's electronic voice seemed to carry a hint of confusion.
"Don't look at me like that!" Solo chuckled helplessly.
"Hahaha!"
Ahsoka watched the interaction between the man and the droid, doubling over with laughter.
Just then, the hangar's public address system crackled to life with the dispatcher's urgent voice: "All pilots, immediately man your stations and prepare for combat! I say again, all pilots, man your stations! Readiness time—five minutes!"
***
Meanwhile, TX-07 was observing the battlefield through the flagship's command cabin viewport.
Everything was progressing strictly according to plan. After executing the ET-27E and WQ-239w maneuvers, his fleet had nearly annihilated Dietmar's fleet. Although the remaining Republican ships were still resisting, their doom was only a matter of time.
"Report: The Second Fleet will arrive in the target area in one minute," a B-1 battle droid reported.
No sooner had the words left the droid's mouth than another operator's voice chimed in: "Unknown ships detected exiting hyperspace... Identity confirmed: it's the Republic Fleet!"
All the robots in the command team turned toward TX-07, awaiting his orders.
"Initiate Protocol D-3912. Order the Second Fleet to execute Directive Q-3234 and immediately assume the GH-4 Defensive Formation," TX-07's electronic voice stated, utterly devoid of inflection, as if he had anticipated this all along.
***
"Hyperspace exit countdown: five minutes!"
The Clone Trooper operator's voice echoed across the *Dingyuan*'s bridge.
Rinuan nodded silently, his brow furrowed. This operation was too hastily planned, lacking proper preparation and prewar reconnaissance. They were essentially being sent to "clean up the mess."
Fortunately, since the Donovia relief battle, his fleet had been replenished with new vessels.
Six *Hailfire-class* attack ships formed the core combat power, supplemented by Solo's *Dingyuan*, providing over six hundred fighters for aerial support.
Among the ten frigates, four were *Consular-class*, while the remaining six were brand-new *Pelta-class*. To counter the Separatists' overwhelming fighter advantage, two of the *Pelta-class* frigates had been outfitted with additional air defense modules.
Though less maneuverable than the *Consular-class*, the *Pelta-class* boasted a sturdier construction and modular design, making them easier to retrofit.
These two air defense-configured *Pelta-class* frigates sacrificed all cargo capacity and reduced their troop transport capability by three-quarters to accommodate extra reactors. However, their weapons systems were significantly enhanced. In addition to their original ten light turbolaser cannons and fifteen light laser cannons, they now boasted four additional gun emplacements, each equipped with four quad-barrel light laser cannons. This formidable array of firepower could weave a dense anti-air curtain, capable of tearing apart Separatist fighter formations.
"Hyperspace exit countdown: one minute! All hands, prepare for battle!"
The operator's voice echoed again.
The moment Rinuan exited hyperspace and saw the battlefield, he realized the situation was far worse than he'd imagined.
Dietmar's Fleet was on the verge of annihilation. Several Hailfire-class ships were surrounded by Confederate vessels, their armor being torn apart by relentless fire.
He immediately pressed the communication button and contacted Solo: "General! Deploy fighters immediately to provide close support for the fleet! We must rescue Dietmar's remnants!"
"Remnants?!" Solo's voice was filled with shock. "What the hell is Dietmar doing?"
"There's no time to explain! Dietmar has lost contact, and his Hailfire-class ships are being crushed by the enemy!" Rinuan's tone was urgent. "Worse still, the Separatist Second Fleet has arrived!"
Rinuan quickly scanned the monitors. The size of the enemy reinforcement fleet made his heart sink. Victory was no longer possible. The only goal now was to rescue the survivors.
He shouted into the communicator, "General, there are too many enemies! We can't face them head-on! I'll lead the fleet in a surprise attack to create an escape route for Dietmar's remnants, then immediately withdraw! You handle the fighters and keep the enemy air force occupied!"
"Understood! Fighter units are under my command. We're launching now!" Solo's response was decisive and forceful.
Rinuan immediately issued orders: "All ships, switch to A-7 wedge formation! TP-4561 and TP-4625, Pelta-class vessels, cover the fleet's rear! The rest of you, slice in from the flanks! Objective... rendezvous with Dietmar's survivors and open a retreat corridor!"
The Republic Fleet swiftly repositioned into the wedge formation, its sharp tip piercing the Confederacy's encirclement. Turbolaser cannons fired in unison, blue-green energy beams streaking across space and slamming into enemy ships.
"That fool Dietmar... how could he lose an entire fleet in twenty minutes?!" Solo muttered, settling into the cockpit of his yellow Delta-7 fighter. His mind churned with questions.
His armor seamlessly integrated with the fighter's systems, real-time displays of the fighter's parameters, communication channels, and radar data filling the built-in screens. He needed no additional flight or space suit—this armor was his best equipment.
"All flying squadrons, this is Yellow Leader!" Solo switched to the fighter's common channel, his voice steady and authoritative. "Mission objective: protect the main fleet while it retrieves the remnants of the forces. Everyone, stay vigilant and do not act independently! Gray Team, defend the airspace above the fleet. Pink Team and Blue Team, cover the left and right flanks respectively. Green Team, guard the rear hemisphere. Red Team, protect the mothership's hangar! Yellow Team, follow me to engage the enemy head-on!"
The clone pilots responded in unison.
"Gray Team, roger!"
"Blue Team, ready!"
"Ahsoka!" Solo switched to the channel of the red fighter.
"Master, I'm here!" Ahsoka's voice brimmed with excitement and anticipation.
"You lead Red Team to defend the hangar. Keep your team in check and no reckless moves," Solo cautioned, knowing her impulsive nature could lead her into danger.
"Don't worry, Master!"
At that moment, a message from the R-3 droid popped up on the internal screen: "Fighters are operational. Reactors are preheated and ready for launch."
"Good job, Little Yellow! Let's move out!" Solo switched to the Yellow Team channel. "Yellow Leader to all fighters: follow me!"
The fighters slowly ascended. Solo gripped the stick, executed a nimble turn, and shot out of the hangar exit at the bottom of the mothership.
Behind him, dozens of V-19 Torrent fighters followed in formation, wings extended and systems switched to combat mode, forming a disciplined squadron.
***
Chaos reigned in space.
Blinding explosions, crisscrossing energy beams, drifting wreckage, and plummeting fighters filled the void. Ahead, a dozen Confederate ships surrounded four battered Hailfire-class vessels, unleashing a torrent of firepower.
Rinuan's fleet charged forward in an A-7 wedge formation, desperate to break the encirclement.
Separatist reinforcements approached from another direction, transport ships slowly moving toward Togoria under the protection of frigates.
"Yellow Leader to all squadrons! Enemy fighter group approaching! Prepare to engage!" Solo's voice cut through the chaotic comms channel.
He closed his eyes, clearing his mind of distractions. The Force flowed slowly through him as his hands, seemingly guided by their own consciousness, subtly adjusted the control stick while his finger tightened on the trigger.
A green energy beam erupted from the Delta-7's cannons, striking a Vulture droid fighter head-on and reducing it to shrapnel.
***
Seeing the Republic Fleet launch its counterattack, TX-07 immediately adjusted his tactics.
Part of the fleet continued to suppress Dietmar's remnants, while the rest maneuvered to join the Second Fleet.
The core of the latter was the transport ship, carrying the main force for the Togoria landing—its loss could not be tolerated.
TX-07 issued the command:
"All ships, execute S-3 maneuvers! Prioritize protecting the transport ship formation!"
***
Rinuan watched the movements of the Confederate Fleet, his tense nerves finally relaxing slightly.
His tactic had worked!
To protect the transport ships, the enemy had adjusted their formation, creating a gap in the encirclement.
"All ships, advance at full speed! Torpedo tubes, target the enemy frigates and clear a path for the remnants of our fleet!"
The Hailfire-class ships' turbolaser cannons fired continuously, providing cover for the torpedo launch.
Dozens of proton torpedoes roared out, striking two Munificent-class frigates with pinpoint accuracy and reducing them to blazing fireballs.
The four battered Hailfire-class ships immediately ceased resistance and raced toward Rinuan's fleet, joining its rear. The remaining two Consular-class ships, shielded by Pelta-class escorts, took up positions at the fleet's center.
"Immediately transmit the hyperspace jump coordinates to the remaining ships!" Rinuan ordered. "Contact General Viktor and inform him to prepare for withdrawal!"
"Left bank, fire! Right turn, strafe! Decelerate to evade missiles! Roll, fire!"
Solo's maneuvers flowed like water, the Force guiding him to evade every lethal attack while delivering precise counterstrikes.
The comms channel buzzed with reports from the various squads:
"Three Vultures closing on our right flank!"
"Sixth fighter locked on, requesting assistance!"
"I took down two, but there are more behind them!"
"Seventeenth Fighter down! I say again, Seventeenth Fighter down!"
At that moment, Rinuan's command cut through the chaotic transmissions: "All fighters, return to the mothership immediately! The fleet is preparing to withdraw!"
"We're finally pulling out!" Solo sighed in relief, adrenaline still surging through his veins. "Yellow Leader to all squadrons! Fire torpedoes to cover our retreat and return to base immediately!"
Dozens of lightweight proton torpedoes launched from the wings of V-19 Torrent fighters, fanning out toward the Confederate ships. Though a single torpedo couldn't cripple a large vessel, the concentrated barrage forced the Confederates to divert firepower for interception, buying time for the fighters to return to base.
Meanwhile, the Vulture Droid Fighters, running low on fuel, were gradually returning to the mothership for refueling, temporarily clearing the airspace—the perfect opportunity for withdrawal.
A few minutes later, under the cover of Hailfire-class fire support, the last V-19 successfully landed in the mothership's hangar bay.
Solo smoothly landed his Delta-7, pushed open the canopy, and removed his helmet, gasping for breath.
"Master, are you alright?" Ahsoka hurried over, leaping onto the wing and scrutinizing him with concern.
"I'm fine, Ahsoka," Solo replied with a forced smile, inwardly alarmed that Ahsoka had sensed his earlier anxiety through the Force. He needed to compose himself more quickly.
***
"Reporting: The last Republic ship has left the system!" a B-1 battle droid reported to TX-07.
TX-07 reviewed the combat report. The mission objective had been achieved with 100% success, but the emergency endgame activation of the I-8 Emergency Contingency Plan resulted in fleet losses exceeding the planned target by 172%.
Even more incomprehensible was the Republic commander's decision to rescue his remaining forces rather than attack the transport ship. Such behavior was neither rational nor tactically logical.
Additionally, the performance of a yellow Delta-7 fighter caught his attention. Although the fighter's performance was average, the pilot's combat record far exceeded the norm. Database comparisons strongly suggested this was a Jedi.
"All ships, switch to GH-4 defensive formation and provide cover for the landing force deployment," TX-07 ordered, crossing his arms. "Connect me to Count Dooku's communication channel. I will personally report on the mission."
Below the observation window, dozens of landing craft emerged from the *Munificent*-class ships and slowly descended toward Togoria.
The Confederacy's ground occupation officially began.
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