“Our shields are already down to forty percent, Sentinel … jamming our transmiss … lost communication with the Brentaal. Request immediate … Sentinel. Again: request immediate reinforcement.”
A skeptical frown formed on Tarkin’s face. “A sneak attack? Impossible.”
“Rampart reports that the attack ship transmitted a valid HoloNet code on entering the system,” Cassel said. “Rampart, can you eavesdrop on the comm chatter of those starfighters?”
“Negative, Sentinel,” the reply came a long moment later. “They’re jamming our signals net.”
Peering over his shoulder at Tarkin, Cassel made as if to cede his position, but Tarkin motioned for him to stay where he was. “Can the image be stabilized?” he asked the specialist at the holoprojector controls.
“Sorry, sir,” the specialist said. “Increasing the gain only makes matters worse. The transmission appears to be corrupted at the far end. I haven’t been able to establish if Rampart initiated countermeasures.”
Tarkin glanced around the room. “And on our end?”
“The HoloNet relay station is best possible,” the specialist at the comm board said.
“It is raining, sir,” a different spec added, eliciting a chorus of good-natured laughter from others seated nearby. Even Tarkin grinned, though fleetingly.
“Who are we speaking with?” he asked Cassel.
“A Lieutenant Thon,” the commander said. “He’s been on station for only three months, but he’s following protocol and transmitting on priority encryption.”
Tarkin clasped his hands behind his back beneath the duster and glanced at the specialist seated at the authenticator. “Does the effectives roster contain an image of our Lieutenant Thon?”
“On screen, sir,” the staffer said, flicking a joystick and indicating one of the displays.
Tarkin shifted his gaze. A sandy-haired human with protruding ears, Thon was as untried as he sounded. Fresh from one of the academies, Tarkin thought. He stepped down from the platform and moved to the holoprojector table to study the strafing starfighters more closely. Bars of corruption elevatored through the stuttering holovid. Rampart’s shields were nullifying most of the aggressors’ energy beams, but all too frequently a disabling run would succeed and white-hot explosions would erupt in one of the depot’s deep-space docks.
“Those are Tikiars and Headhunters,” Tarkin said in surprise.
“Modified,” Cassel said. “Basic hyperdrives and upgraded weaponry.”
Tarkin squinted at the holo. “The fuselages bear markings.” He turned in the direction of the spec closest to the authenticator station. “Run the markings through the database. Let’s see if we can’t determine whom we’re dealing with.”
Tarkin turned back to Cassel. “Did they arrive on their own, or launch from the attack ship?”
“Delivered,” the commander said.
Without turning around Tarkin said: “Has this Thon provided holovid or coordinates for the vessel that brought the starfighters?”
“Holovid, sir,” someone said, “but we only got a quick look at it.”
“Replay the transmission,” Tarkin said.
A separate holotable projected a blurry, blue-tinted image of a fantailed capital ship with a spherical control module located amidships. The downsloping curved bow and smooth hull gave it the look of a deep-sea behemoth. Tarkin circled the table, appraising the hologram.
“What is this thing?”
“Begged and borrowed, sir,” someone reported. “Separatist-era engineering more than anything else. The central sphere resembles one of the old Trade Federation droid control computers, and the entire forward portion might’ve come from a Commerce Guild destroyer. Front-facing sensor array tower. IFF’s highlighting modules consistent with CIS Providence-, Recusant-, and Munificent-class warships.”
“Pirates?” Cassel ventured. “Privateers?”
“Have they issued any demands?” Tarkin asked.
“Nothing yet.” Cassel waited a beat. “Insurgents?”
“No data on the starfighter fuselage markings, sir,” someone said.
Tarkin touched his jaw but said nothing. As he continued to circle the hologram, a flare of wavy corruption in the lower left portion captured his attention. “What was that?” he said, standing tall. “At the lower — There it is again.” He counted quietly to himself; at the count of ten he fixed his gaze on the same area of the hologram. “And again!” He swung to the specialist. “Replay the recording at half speed.”
Tarkin kept his eyes on the lower left quadrant as the holovid restarted and began a new count. “Now!” he said, in advance of every instance of corruption. “Now!”
Chairs throughout the room swiveled. “Encryption noise?” someone suggested.
“Ionization effect,” another said.
Tarkin held up a hand to silence the speculations. “This isn’t a guessing game, ladies and gentlemen.”
“Interval corruption of some sort,” Cassel said.
“Of some sort indeed.” Tarkin watched silently as the prerecorded holovid recycled for a third time, then he moved to the communications station. “Instruct Lieutenant Thon to show himself,” he said to the seated spec.
“Sir?”
“Tell him to train a cam on himself.”
The spec relayed the command, and Thon’s voice issued from the speakers. “Sentinel, I’ve never been asked to do that, but if that’s what it’s going to take to effect a rescue, then I’m happy to comply.”
Everyone in the room turned to the holofeed, and moments later a 3-D image of Thon took shape above the table.
“Recognition is well within acceptable margins, sir,” a spec said.
Tarkin nodded and leaned toward one of the microphones. “Stand by, Rampart. Reinforcements are forthcoming.” He continued to study the live holovid, and had begun yet another count when the transmission abruptly de-resolved, just short of the moment it might have displayed further evidence of corruption.
“What happened?” Cassel asked.
“Working on it, sir,” a spec said.
Repressing a knowing smile, Tarkin glanced over his right shoulder. “Have we tried to open a clear channel to Rampart?”
“We’ve been trying, sir,” the comm specialist said, “but we haven’t been able to penetrate the jamming.”
Tarkin moved to the communications station. “What resources do we have upside?”
“Parking lot is nearly empty, sir.” The comm specialist riveted her eyes on the board. “We have the Salliche, the Fremond, and the Electrum.”
Tarkin considered his options. Sentinel’s Imperial-class Star Destroyer, the Core Envoy, and most of the flotilla’s other capital ships were escorting supply convoys to Geonosis. That left him with a frigate and a tug — both vacant just then, literally parked in stationary orbits — and the obvious choice, the Electrum, a Venator-class Star Destroyer on loan from a deepdock at Ryloth.
“Contact Captain Burque,” he said at last.
“Already on the comm, sir,” the specialist said.
A quarter-scale image of the captain rose from the comm station’s holoprojector. Burque was tall and gangly, with a clipped brown beard lining his strong jaw. “Governor Tarkin,” he said, saluting.
“Are you up to speed on what is occurring at Rampart Station, Captain Burque?”
“We are, sir. The Electrum is prepared to jump to Rampart on your command.”
Tarkin nodded. “Keep those hyperspace coordinates at the ready, Captain. But right now I want you to execute a microjump to the Rimward edge of this system. Do you understand?”
Burque frowned in confusion, but he said: “Understood, Governor.”