The second wave was precise, and they dropped in on time.
The people on board the spying ship received the ping just in time, as twenty transponder-silent contacts emerged from hyperspace in an opening-fan formation, their vectors already pre-determined. The tactical board painted them in two groups for them: twelve 'irregulars' flying high and wide toward the first Golan killbox, followed by eight 'regulars' running knife-straight for the primary station, staying behind the irregulars. The captain of the spyship, the only warrior aboard in full beskar-made armor, sat in his command chair with one gauntleted hand on the armrest, visor fixed on the holoprojection.
"Confirm their types," he ordered.
"Breakdown," the sensor tech replied at once, "Irregular element: four Marauder-type corvettes, three up-gunned bulk haulers with dorsal batteries, two barge gunships, three Skipray trios riding low. Heat signatures are dirty; shields are inconsistent."
"Pirate trash," someone chuckled, but kept it low, not wanting to interrupt the official reporting.
"Regular element: two MandalMotors corvettes, four Kom'rk-class flights, eight hulls total from the third retaliatory fleet, running in tight pairs."
"Good." The captain's head dipped a fraction. "Ready for initiating the micro-jump. When they break the defense ring of the main station, we will jump in. Full fire on the command deck and eliminate their leaders before we break for the escape vectors."
"Understood." A chorus and a flurry of clicks answered around the darkened crewpit, while their leader sat back into his commanding chair.
"Christophsis' stations are engaging," the reporting kept coming, "Outer ring is hot... Golan Three and Twos cycling to intercept... Point-defense wakeup in three… two…"
The tactical repeaters flashed emerald just as they anticipated. The closest Golan platforms began with the same disciplined rounds of turbolaser fire, followed by torpedoes being launched at the incoming fleet. The irregulars didn't flinch, but this time, they weren't completely helpless either. Their point-defense systems picked off the torpedoes before they could do real damage, and those that got through were jammed, spiraling away from the group.
"Timer," the leader asked.
"We are T-plus twenty-four seconds since their first salvo."
"Matches trial one," the zabrak initiate at the sensors murmured, comparing details.
Soon, as they looked at the battle, the irregulars' vanguard ships started to suffer some damage. First, a rust-red corvette got punched through the bow, then a freighter's port nacelle was sheared off... Then, in a bright explosion, a barge gunship was vaporized midships, becoming space garbage. The Golans' killbox was closing in on them, and if everything was going as they planned, they would finish off the attackers... Too bad they didn't realize they were focusing on the wrong ships. They were just... the shield for the regulars, the ships manned by the Mandalorians.
"Regulars' range to primary station?" the captain asked.
"Eight-one thousand and closing," the officer replied, "The irregulars are absorbing the damage, and Christophsis is holding their doctrine. No change at all..."
"Backdoor path?"
"Alive," the slicer answered at once. He sat two stations to the left of the captain, his eyes fixed on his console, hands moving over a slab as he keyed to a narrow-beam transmitter. "Injection vector is the same... maintenance subnets seeded from the R-series scomp carrier. I detect no scrub-signs. We are clear... package is ready for delivery!"
"Upload it."
The Kom'rk fighters from the regulars, just as the upload began, already reacted and arrowed in close formation, followed by the MandalMotors corvettes, breaking out from behind the irregulars. Some would say they had low, ugly hulls with ventral teeth and armored cheeks... But they were ships that could punch way above their grade... and they were here to show it.
With the backdoor open and the packet uploaded, it was only a matter of timing. On each kill-box cycle of the Golans, the platforms spiked in their fire control and drew reserve power into their weapons from their shields. From their measurements, it meant twenty percent up, twenty percent down in their representative systems, a momentary change before equalizing that would never have mattered to anyone who couldn't get inside the systems.
"Payload activating," the slicer smiled. "It's in the shield management layer... Aaaand... Showtime."
On the mark, the three Golans winked, hammering the bulk of the attacking fleet… and then lost all their shieldings. From their point of view, the captain of the spyship watched as the fleet finally got their teeth sunk into the Golans' bodies, tearing off turbolaster installments, shattering torpedo launchers, and suddenly becoming the defenders' worst nightmare.
Complete shield collapse...
The pirates did what they were told... Not that they had any other choice. They attacked Mandalore on behalf of Christopsis. Now, captured, forced into service, given a chance to atone for their sins, this was their trial. If they tried to even think about escaping, they would be blown apart. Atonement through service... or through death. That was the choice given to them, and that was way too lenient a sentence, as some of the voices on Mandalore argued.
But it worked. Especially when the shields disappeared from the Golans, the pirates finally saw the light at the end of the tunnel. They could do this, so, like frenzied animals, they threw themselves at the Golans, ripping them into shreds, diverting all their energy from shields to the weaponry.
"Christophsis is out of step," the spying ship's sensor officer said, almost smiling to himself, bringing his emotions under control at the last moment, "The second Golan ring is trying to re-establish the killbox formation... But they are slow... They are panicking."
"Their leaders are sub-par," The captain hummed, his voice modulated through his helmet. "Send the scrambling protocol and disable their targeting."
"Uploading..." The slicer's hands were already moving, "Packet is away. Acceptance… good. Executing..."
In the meantime, in the distance, there was another explosion as another Golan sagged at the worst possible moment. The Mandalorian ships, jumping on the opportunity, finally opened fire, joining in the assault. As a result, a gunship that had no right to threaten a fortress of that size put a cluster of warheads into the corner joint between the Golan's main hull and its sensor tower. In the following explosion, the tower peeled away like it had been torn off, followed by panicked turbolaser fire on the far side, which kept firing for half a second at nothing, then went out for good.
"It's venting atmosphere," the zabrak girl said, smiling, "Core spike detected... Secondary detonation in three... two... one..."
It bloomed exactly on the countdown.
"We are heading in," the captain declared, watching as the Kom'rk fighters were already five seconds from knife-fight range on the primary station. "Initiate the upload on the station itself."
"Standing by," the slicer nodded, his fingers resting on the appropriate commands, "This one will also hit their fire-control ladders and dump white noise into the EWR busses... We should have ten seconds before they can even see and lock onto us."
"On my word," the captain answered, raising a hand, ready for the main assault.
"Uploading now," the slicer breathed, while the rest of the crew were priming the main engines, ready for a micro-jump, bringing their ship straight over the space station to deliver the killing blow... "Payload hooked into the power lattice. Fire-control dump coming online in three… two..."
Already in, it was doing its job... The tactical holo flared, marking Christophsis' primary station in amber. One by one, its heavy turbolaser emplacements had gone offline, their targeting reticles collapsing into static. The Mandalorian ships loosed their first coordinated salvo in perfect synchronisation, looking like brilliant red streaks hammering straight into the station's flanks...
The captain waved his hand, and their ship made its jump, emerging at the designated, perfectly calculated location. Its weapons then blasted straight at the control bridge of the station, aiming to eliminate Christopsis's commanders and leaders. But it was when the issue arose, like a sudden slap from nowhere.
Their attacks splashed against the station's shielding, still up.
"What?" the slicer yelled, stabbing at his console. "No... no, I seeded this myself! The packet is firing, it's in there!"
"Then why do their shields still hold?" The captain's voice cut his yells off, his own tone remaining flat, modulated, unflinching. War was, after all, unpredictable.
"I don't know! Weapon relays are fried, sensor ladders too, but the shields... someone… someone shut the path down from the inside! The backdoor is being compromised!"
"..." A ripple of unease swept the initiates in the crewpit as they exchanged confused gazes, their earlier bravado stripped away with one neat trick. "Impossible… no one even noticed the carrier…" But... it seems that was no longer the truth.
The captain remained still, hand tightening on the armrest of his chair, visor fixed on the outside world, at the figure of the station that was shrugging off their attacks. Outside, the irregulars were still tearing into the Golans with frenzied abandon and were bringing them down. So, that part was still working... But the main target was now... no longer viable.
"They should be broken by now," one initiate muttered, almost to himself.
"They are apparently not," the captain replied. "Shield strength?" he asked, wanting to know if it was being kept online by some desperate but capable splicer or...
But before anyone could answer him, the comm board flashed with an incoming, open message. Flicking the switch on his own board, a voice echoed across the cabin, broadcast on wide-band from the station itself.
"Attention, attacking fleet! Cease fire at once! Jedi ambassadors are aboard this station! Any further assault will be seen as a direct act of war against the Jedi Order! Stop your assault right now!"
For the first time, even their captain flinched as he straightened in his chair and behind his visor, his pupils shrank to pin-sized little dots. Not to mention the initiates, whose entire bodies froze, their eyes darting to their captain as all of them turned around. The word Jedi... meant something, even if most of the Galaxy thought otherwise.
"..." The captain's visor tilted after the third second, being unreadable. "A bluff," he said finally, but even his modulated voice was a bit unsure of it, "No Jedi would waste themselves here. Christophsis lies, continue attacking and bring down the shields!"
Of course, the initiates half-believed him, but their movements were slower now, something that couldn't be helped. The slicer hesitated at his console, reluctant to fire the next upload, but then his training won over and he began sequencing.
"Re-seed the packet," the captain ordered, unmoved by their response, "If their shields will not fall, we will blind them further. Force them to choke in the dark while we—"
But, then again, another transmission cut him off. This one was different, though, coming on a frequency that was tuned to their ship and to all the other Mandalorian vessels.
"A traceback!" The slicer yelled, "Someone is trying to get into our system, using the backup's connection! Damn it! They are taking over our communicators!"
"Shut them out!" the captain yelled.
"I am trying!"
Yet, even as he did, the static coming from the ship's internal speakers turned into a clear transmission.
"This is Jedi Kael Varo. I am here under the authority of Grandmaster Luke Skywalker and the Jedi Council of Yavin 4. We are on a diplomatic mission. Mandalorians... end your attack now. Whatever the issue is, I am sure we can work it out amicably. There was enough bloodshed for one day... It is time to end it."
Every head turned again on the ship, looking at their captain. The initiates, going through dangerous and painful training back home, now felt their throats go dry. It was no longer a bluff... Even the captain did not move and only his helmeted head tilted a fraction toward the sound.
"Jedi…" one of the crew whispered, respectful, maybe a bit afraid.
In the end, the captain's gauntleted hand tightened on the handrest until the metal groaned... and then relaxed.
"Call off the attack." He said calmly, "Let us hear what the Jedi are doing here..."