A/N: I'm thirteen, so if anyone doesn't like this, keep your reviews polite please, cheers!
Jaws of Defeat
I: Hoth.
1400 Hours, Hoth Standard Time. Echo Base, Hoth System. Two and a half years after the Battle of Yavin.
Han shivered in the biting cold, his breath appearing as a ghostly white cloud in front of him. The craggy but youthful face of the cocky Corellian Captain was red at the cheeks, a result of the temperatures that hovered a half degree above freezing.
Han frowned, the lines in his face deepening. Damn those Alliance techs, he thought huffily. How long does it take to fix the heating?
Han stormed away down the corridor, his lethal, modified DL-44 blaster pistol attached to his thigh by a quick-draw holster. He wore his usual clothes; a result of his stubbornness to wear standard Rebel Alliance uniform, even if it did leave him a bit cold. His spacer's shirt, which had once been white but was now stained to something darker, was worn under a small sleeveless Corellian jacket. On the outside of his trouser legs, small horizontal red stripes were sewn in, one above the other. They ran all the way down his trousers. They were the famous Corellian bloodstripes, given to only the most famous, or, in Han's case, infamous, Corellian Spacers.
Han turned a corner in the icy tunnel, almost losing his footing as he stepped off the brown grip-panels laid haphazardly on the icy floor, and bumped into Starfighter-Captain Wedge Antilles.
Wedge was a small guy, about five foot-eight, with a round, cheery face and eyes that hid a world of grimness beneath a veil of happiness. He was an X-wing pilot, an exceptionally good X-wing pilot. He had scored more than a hundred kills against Imperial TIE fighters, TIE Bombers, TIE interceptors, and a Corellian Corvette that he'd taken out by firing a proton torpedo into the bridge.
Wedge, also a Corellian, acknowledged that he had no regard for odds; that claim was backed up by the fact that he'd flown against the Death Star, and survived.
"Han," Wedge smiled. "General Riekan sent me to look for you. Why isn't your comm on?" inquired Wedge.
"Because I don't want to be disturbed," snarled Han, who was a little tired.
Wedge shrugged nonchalantly. "Fair enough. But the General Suicide might have a mission for you soon," Wedge muttered a 'see you later' and hurried on down the corridor.
'General Suicide' was the nickname for the brilliant tactician that was General Riekan. The grim man blamed himself for not ordering the evacuation of Alderaan once an Imperial defector had said that it was due to be destroyed. The General had seen it as a bluff from the Imperial, who he considered a double agent, and did not send ships to bring the citizens of Alderaan off world. The General held himself personally responsible for the billions that perished when the Death Star's huge emerald super-laser had disintegrated Alderaan.
Han wondered why he continued to do missions for the Alliance. The matter was of more urgency now particularly as he'd stopped taking payment for the missions. But, as he wasn't an official member of the Alliance, he could turn down missions as he pleased.
Still deep in his thoughts, Han hunched his shoulders against the cold and walked towards the pilot's recreation room; he'd speak to old General Suicide later.
Commander Luke Skywalker's chest heaved as he raced down the corridors of Echo Base, a DH-17 blaster carbine, the Rebel Alliance's standard weapon, nestled in his right hand. He wore the orange jumpsuit and white flak vest of a Rebel pilot, his suit's life support control board clipped onto the flak vest. A twenty-centimetre tube with a black handgrip and diagonal blade-emitter hung from his utility belt, bouncing against his thigh as he ran. The lightsaber, which had belonged to his Jedi Knight father, inspired awe from every fellow Rebel freedom fighter look came across.
Luke had been running for fifteen minutes at full speed. His athletic body was only just beginning to perspire; the coolness of Echo Base's frigid corridors stopping most of the sweat.
Luke rounded a corner and swerved to avoid a pair of technicians, who shouted out angrily until they recognised Luke's dark blonde hair and thin face. They then saluted and muttered apologies. Luke was righteously well-respected and well-liked amongst Alliance members; he'd saved the lives of most of them when he'd destroyed the Death Star.
Luke was running to get to the pilot's briefing room. He'd received a call from General Riekan, surprising considering the General's busy schedule had allowed him to call Luke personally, and had requested his presence ASAP in the pilot's briefing room. Luke had sent back and affirmative, but the briefing room was on the other side of the base, and he'd had to go the long way around the base as the Main North to South Corridor had encountered a cave-in, blocking Luke's easiest path with tons of blindingly white snow and glass-like ice.
Luke had his blaster out to deter anyone from stopping and questioning him about why he was running; several security members, mostly new recruits, had taken to ordering people to stop and searching them for no reason other than to annoy them, no matter the rank of who they searched. Even Mon Mothma, the head of the Rebellion, had been stopped.
The security man had had to go into temporary hiding because of the uproar from Rebel veterans, to whom Mon Mothma was a god.
Luke past a security man in his late teens, odd for security personnel, who were mostly grumpy old men. The teenager had bad acne, and as he smirked at Luke, the spots seemed to move.
"Not keeping in shape, sir?" he sneered, leering at Luke.
Luke suppressed the urge to shoot the teenager. I'm spending too much time with Han… He's rubbing off on me! Luke thought, half-smiling. But a Jedi, even a half-trained one like me, knows no anger. Even if Chewie hugs me when he knows that I'm allergic to him!
The teenager laughed as Luke wilfully ignored him.
The door ahead of Han slid slowly open, its frozen servomotors squeaking horribly. The door jammed three quarters of the way up from the ground, and Han had to stoop to get under it.
Han stepped into the cavernous pilot's lounge, which usually held about two hundred pilots at one time. But on that day it was nearly empty, with its huge couch running from the east wall to the west wall virtually empty. The bar, unsurprisingly, had two members of Rogue Squadron, the Rebellion's elite X-wing squadron, (which also featured Luke ands Wedge as leader and second in command, respectively), situated around it. The bar was manned by a rusty, copper-coloured 2P0, better known as a 'Two-Pee-Oh' droid, the predecessor to the more common 3P0, 'Threepio'.
Han swaggered up to the bar, his mind set on downing a large amount of Corellian Brandy and a few Ruby Bliels to ease the sure-as-ever hangover.
Han took a seat at the Rogues' left, and nodded a greeting at them.
Sitting next to Han was the baby-faced Lieutenant Wes Janson, an excellent pilot and gunner with a mop of black hair on top of his cheery face. He was a renowned prankster and joker, and was generally considered to have the emotional maturity of an eight year old until it came to shooting, flying and taking orders. Wes, who was more commonly called Janson, also had a fiery temper, and he was often in barroom brawls.
Sitting next to Wes was the narrow faced Lieutenant Derek 'Hobbie' Klivian. His shock of blonde hair was typically curly and out of control, matching his electric blue eyes which had a hint of wildness to them. He was also a bit of a joker, but very mature the rest of the time, the perfect offset to his best friend Janson. Hobbie was Rogue Three, therefore taking third in command of Rogue Squadron, ranking one above Janson, who took the number four slot in the twelve-fighter group.
Janson's hands were curled around a large glass of Bothan wine and a deck of sabacc cards. Everyone, particularly good players, steered clear of Janson when it came to sabacc; not only was Janson exceptionally good and lost rarely, when he did loose to better players, he would lose his temper and fly into a rage.
Janson smiled sweetly. Even though he could be furious sometimes, everyone liked Janson. "Care for a game?"
"No," Han said quickly, trying to ignore the fact that he'd wounded his pride by backing down. "I've already wiped the floor clean with Chewie, so I'm all done for today."
"Shame," muttered Janson, finishing his drink and setting it down on the chipped synthetic-wood surface of the bar. He gestured to the Two-Pee-Oh, who was wandering stiffly and slowly towards the trio of pilots. "Another."
"Of course, sirs," The droid said, and moved off to find the wine amidst the Rebel Alliance's meagre liqueur supply.
Han remembered General Riekan's request, and decided against ordering a drink, just in case he decided to take the mission on; it wouldn't be right for him to walk into the Generals briefing room completely steaming.
Han flinched as a tremendous ripping sound came from behind him. He turned, frowning, to see his furry Wookie first-mate, co-pilot and best friend, Chewbacca, ripping the room's door off so he could get through the doorway with his three metre tall and metre wide Wookie body.
Chewie roared a greeting in his native language, and gestured at the pack of cards he had, poking out of one of his ammunition bandolier's pockets. Janson shot a look at Han and mouthed I thought you'd wiped the floor clean with him?
Han sighed and waved the Wookie over just as the Two-pee-Oh began voicing annoyingly high protests at the Wookie ripping the door off.
Chewbacca looked at the droid, bared his ferocious looking fangs, and roared, showering the droid with Wookie saliva.
"Please, sit down, good sir," The droid said quickly, and scuttled away.
Luke reached the briefing room a minute later, and stepped into the dark room. He noticed Wedge Antilles sitting in the corner, and Princess Leia Organa's pale face, illuminated in the blue light of the briefing room's hologram projector. General Riekan, his old but still authority-commanding face covered in stubble, paced back and forward.
Leia turned to him, her brown hair swaying as she turned. "Did you get in touch with Hobbie, Janson and Han?" she asked, waving at Luke as he entered.
Riekan shook his head, but Wedge cut in. "Han's not coming on this one, I think. He might change his mind," Wedge shrugged elaborately. "Who knows?"
"I couldn't get through to Hobbie or Janson," said Riekan, wincing as he realised he'd used the pilots' nicknames.
Hobbie heard his comlink bleep for the first time. He realised it must've went off multiple times, as its readout told him that General Riekan had been trying to contact him for over an hour.
Damn that stupid droid! Its squeaky joints must've drowned out the bleep. Riekan's gonna kill me.
"Janson!" Hobbie said, standing up so quickly that he knocked his stool over. Janson looked at Hobbie, surprised at the sudden movement. "It's Riekan! He's been trying to get through to us for the past hour."
Janson's big baby-eyes widened, and he leapt from his seat without saying a goodbye to Han. Then he and Hobbie bolted off out of the room, leaving Han and Chewbacca sitting on their own, slightly amused by Hobbie's peculiar short-legged sprint.
"I can't stay here and listen to that blasted droid, pal," Han said a few minutes later. "Let's go and see what the mission General Suicide's setting up," Chewbacca snarled an agreement and the two smugglers stood up. Han flicked a credit-chip over at the droid for his fruity drink, and sauntered out of the room.
Han and Chewie walked slowly into the briefing room just as the General started the briefing. He paused when he saw the two smugglers, and harrumphed his disapproval over their lateness and casual manner. Princess Leia shot a disparaging look over at Han and shook her head.
Luke, Wedge, Hobbie and Janson sat at the back of the room, eyes fixed on the briefing-holo. Leia sat in the front row next to C-3P0, whose golden metal coverings reflected the holo's blue light eerily.
"Now," Riken said in his gruff voice. "We have an important mission for all of you; we have selected our best pilots, and our best diplomat."
"That would be me," said Janson, trying and failing to ease the tension that was building up in the room, thick as the ice that surrounded the base.
The General raised an eyebrow threateningly, and then continued. "It involves travelling to the very heart of Imperial Space: the Core Worlds," There was a general mutter at the surprising orders; the Core Worlds, such as Kuat, Commenor and Coruscant, built up the very heart of the Empire. "Once there, all of you shall be designated as Task Force One. Nebulon-B Frigates, an MC80 Mon Calamari Star Cruiser, and a squadron of X-wings, and a mixed squadron of Y-wings, and A-wings are available should your mission go wrong and you need cover to escape."
"But what's our mission?" Han said sharply, drawing another annoyed look from Leia. "Hey, I take it you've already discussed it in a committee?"
The General raised his formidable voice and continued. "You must identify and destroy three Imperial Bulk Cruisers, each carrying four squadrons of Imperial prototype fighters, designated TIE-Eagles. The difficulty in this mission is that there are more than a hundred other Bulk Cruisers in the convoy, serving as decoys. We do not know which three carry the fighters, so you must get close enough to every single one of the freighters to identify the cargo. The convoy is being guarded by six Imperial Star Destroyers, and at least twenty anti-starfighter Lancer frigates."
"But, as well as Luke, Wedge, myself and Bantha Brain over here," Janson gestured at Hobbie. "Why aren't we bringing the rest of the Rogues?"
Riekan smiled tightly. "Because they'll be running distraction on the Kuat shipyards with one of our fleets; hopefully a few Star destroyers escorting the convoy will pull out to lend Kuat support, leaving you clear to smash though the convoy."
A murmur ran through the small crowd; a Rebel fleet engaging the Imperial Kuat defences? That was unheard of, because the Rebels didn't have the ships to spare for a direct ship-to-ship, fleet-to-fleet battle. They fought, and usually won, using guerrilla warfare tactics.
"But as soon as we enter the system, provided the Star Destroyers have actually left, the freighters will just send a quick hypercomms transmission, and the Star Destroyers will come right back and vape us," Han said.
Riekan shook his head. "The freighters have been modified to increase cargo space; they're all slave-rigged to a small transmitter attached to the lead freighter. There's no crew, no viewports, no alarms, and no sensors. If we take out that transmitter, the freighters will be disabled."
Luke and his little blue R2-series astromech, R2-D2, worked away on Luke's X-wing. Luke had sustained some heavy damage during his last mission, a raid on an Imperial TIE fighter plant, and had lost two of its laser cannons, the shield generator, and one of the two proton torpedo launchers mounted in the nose. Most of the damage had been repaired, but the top-starboard cannon was still acting up.
Artoo trilled a happy confirmation that the cannon was fixed. The metre tall droid rolled over to Luke, he grinned and gave it a pat on the head.
Hobbie, Luke's rapid-attack wingman, who was over working on his own X-wing, looked up at Luke and shook his head. Hobbie had never really liked droids, owing to a bad experience aboard an automated ship that'd ended with Hobbie loosing one of his arms. Hobbie had since had his arm replaced by a prosthetic, which saddened him even more, because he considered himself part-droid.
Luke shuddered and made a fist with his own right hand. He could only imagine the searing pain that he would experience should he lose an arm.
Luke, Hobbie, Janson and Wedge were on rapid-attack duty. Rapid-attack duty basically involved sitting and waiting in an X-wing for a few hours, ready to respond in minutes should an Imperial attack come. And, on that particular night, with the stormy night sky of Hoth, usually visible through the Rogue Squadron hangar door, obscured by a huge tornado-like blizzard, Luke was uneasy. The back of his neck tingled slightly, and the hairs around the tingle suddenly stood on end,
He knew that sensation well; danger sense, one of the few Force abilities had learned to use.
Luke reached out and keyed on his comlink. "Rogue Flight. I think we've got a problem. Get ready to lift off and head for orbit as soon as I give the order."
Wedge responded, surprised but ready. "Roger that, Rogue Leader."
"Copy that," Janson's voice was distant, distracted; he was probably going through a pre-flight checklist. "Rogue Four ready to dance."
"This is Rogue Three. I'm your wing, leader," Hobbie assured Luke that he would cover the Jedi-in-training's back.
Hobbie was Rogue Three, but he was also Luke's wingman. Because Luke was the best pilot amongst the Rogue's, followed by Wedge, it made little sense to clump the two best pilots together so Wedge was assigned Janson as a wingman, to spread the experience around.
Luke's danger sense's tingle became an unbearable itch and Luke found himself flicking switches on his ship's control board.
"All engines green," Luke muttered to himself. "Laser at ninety seven percent efficiency, good. Shields up and double-powered to two hundred percent. All systems read go."
Luke's comlink suddenly crackled. "Rogue Leader, you're powering up all of your systems; if you keep them all on without taking off, you'll damage your X-wing! Please—" The hangar controller on the comlink suddenly paused; Luke could hear the laboured breathing of the man. "A small capital vessel just entered the system, above Hoth I. It's a Nebulon-B Escort Frigate. It's broadcasting to an unknown location on Imperial frequencies; it isn't one of ours."
"Roger that," Luke said, fear chilling him to his very bones. An Imperial search party, perhaps? But what was it doing in the Hoth system? Official Imperial records designated it as a solar system lacking intelligent life and harbouring no natural resources, not to mention the fact that it had no strategic value. "Sit tight Rogues. Be ready to launch."
Luke keyed his comlink off before the pilots could reply. He took a deep breath.
Gotta relax, he thought to himself. Gotta relax. He then closed his eyes and cleared his mind. He let the Force flow through him, and concentrated only on sensing the Nebulon-B Escort Frigate's crew, their emotions.
Normally, Force-perception covered areas around a Force-user in a large 'sphere of sensing'. But Luke couldn't stretch himself far enough to reach the Nebulon B frigate by simply expanding his Force perception on all sides. So he focused, using his sensing powers like a hyper-charged laser, extending its range in a tight beam towards the gas giant that was Hoth I.
He picked up the frigate a few seconds later. The crew aboard the small frigate were anticipating something; a battle, perhaps? Terror, anger, excitement, worry, confidence, despair, resignation flooded through the ship.
Yes, they're expecting a battle. Luke began to sweat; in the climate-conditioned cockpit of his X-wing, the sweat felt cold. A battle with the Alliance.
Luke relaxed, letting his perception shrink in. He took deep breaths, surprised at how exhausted he felt.
I really need to work on my resilience.
A second later, Luke keyed his comlink back on, and moved his hand towards the transmission switch. And then he stopped. He had been about to open a channel to General Suicide, asking him to order an evacuation. Luke furrowed his brow, looking at his hand as it hovered above the comm switch.
And then he hit the switch.
Darth Vader swept across the austere command walkway in the Executor's bridge as the ship headed towards Coruscant a faster-than-light speeds. The two metre tall Sith Lord's cape hung behind him, billowing as he took his long strides. A breath mask covered his face; its shiny obsidian dome adding even more to the Dark Lord's imposing height. The mask was terrifying to look at, jet black, with round eye-windows that were only one way, stopping any Imperial officer from seeing the Imperial Commander's eyes.
Vader's breath came loud, a regulated hiss, the most terrifying sound known to an Imperial officer who failed a task. The mask of Lord Vader had been the last sight of so many, his breath and baritone voice the last sound heard by thousands.
The Dark Lord stopped and turned abruptly to gaze down into the port crew pit. Imperial officers in different uniforms suddenly began to work harder at their posts, hands frantically pressing controls. A few of them were shaking slightly under Vader's terrifying gaze.
Vader heard the clack of boots behind him, and turned to face Admiral Ozzel, the Executor's Admiral.
Ozzel was a pompous, self-important man, but a good tactician. Vader hated him with a passion, but had seen very few officers of Ozzel's quality, so the Dark Lord had neglected to throttle Ozzel.
"Lord Vader," Ozzel said, his pitted and wrinkled face beginning to thicken with the fat that came with age. "One of our scout ships have discovered an anomaly in the Hoth System, originating from around the eighth planet in that system. The system is believed to be unoccupied, but it's a rather large energy source surrounding a region of the planet. My plan–"
Vader raised a clenched fist, and Admiral Ozzel stopped talking at the threat. "I do not care for your glorified plans, Admiral. Inform the fleet that we will be dropping out of hyperspace in one standard hour, and then leaving for Hoth, to defeat the Rebel Alliance."
"Of course, my lord," Ozzel said, frowning from Vader's mild insult to his command strategy. "But, with all due respect, we can't even be certain that it's the Rebellion. Hoth is a freezing, icy world, with no sentient life. The perfect place for a smuggler hideout—"
"That is the system," Vader said in his baritone, ending all argument. "Now relay my commands, Admiral. I would be most displeased if we miss a good opportunity to crush the Alliance."
Ozzel bowed and hurried off, his usual swagger becoming even more pronounced at the thought of smashing the Rebellion.
Vader turned and looked at the tantalisingly beautiful, bright, and fascinating hyperspace view afforded by his Star Destroyer's bridge's nine triangular viewports. The vortex of hyperspace was a twisting, random, crystal-like mix of blue and black.
Padmé loved the hyperspace view, Vader thought. A black inferno of rage then engulfed his body at that one thought that betrayed his entire mindset. That voice in his head hadn't been the baritone of Lord Vader; it'd been the usually happy, if sometimes brooding, voice of Anakin Skywalker.
A Jedi Knight, a slave boy, a pilot, a general, a hero.
And a ghost from the past. Anakin Skywalker had died when his treacherous master, the now dead Obi-Wan Kenobi, had abandoned him on the scorching bank of a Mustafar magma river. He had died with Anakin Skywalker's last three fleshy limbs, which had rolled into the lava torrent that passed below.
He had died with Padmé Amidala's death.
In the past, a tear may have sprung to Vader's burn-damaged eyes. But now he only felt rage. Padmé had betrayed him, in the end. She could've burned on Mustafar for all he cared.
You don't mean that, a voice said quietly in Vader's head. Was it Anakin's voice? Could it have been Obi-Wan's?
The voice repeated itself, tearful now. It was Padmé's voice. Vader's eyes watered, his vision blurring, as he forced the thought away.
And then he was back, on the hot, dusty Mustafar landing platform. The air was hot, stifling, smoky and unbearable. Padmé stood in front of him, beautiful and heavily pregnant. She was begging him to do something; Vader blocked out the words.
The heat…
And the Obi-Wan appeared, walking down the landing ramp of Padmé's polished chrome yacht, bellowing something Anakin couldn't hear. Anakin roared something incomprehensible back. Anakin's mind, in the grip of a fiery fury, did something he would live to regret.
Anakin, Vader's former self, extended his gloved right hand. Padmé was jerked off her feet, her face a mix of terror, pain, shock and disgust as her hands leapt to her throat, trying to pry away the invisible hand that closed her windpipe.
As it should've been, thought Vader, as he watched the memory replay.
You sick monster, was the only reply.
Was it his mother's voice?
That brought real tears spilling down Vader's white, scarred face. The Dark Lord blinked, and his shoulders sagged.
Obi-Wan and Anakin met in battle a few seconds later, their sapphire blades igniting with a snap-hiss. Anakin's hate-driven attacks were like hundreds of blades attacking at once, each one parried by Obi-Wan's graceful defence, which was like a light-shield because his blade whirled and moved so fast it was little more than a blue and white blur.
Anakin, no, Darth Vader, jerked himself back to the present. He blinked away the tears and straightened up, pushing the memories away to the back of his bleak, twisted mind.
You've disappointed so many, and betrayed even more. It was Anakin's voice again. It was strange, Anakin calling Vader 'you'. It was obviously because the Dark Lord was so used to thinking of the two as separate entities; and, in a way, they were.
Vader's flagship, the Star Dreadnought Executor, nicknamed a 'Super Star Destroyer' was a nineteen kilometre long behemoth. It took the traditional triangular shape of Imperial-class Star Destroyers, but sported more than ten huge engines, each one spewing gouts of crimson flame. The hull, an imposing bluish colour mostly, was dotted with thousands upon thousands of launch tubes, turbolaser batteries, heavy turbolaser batteries, point defence cannons, ion cannons, and even one kilometre-wide hangar bay door mounted on the Star Destroyer's ventral side. The hangar bay of the immense craft carried six hundred fighters at the time; fifty full squadrons.
The Star Destroyer's rear dorsal hull was covered by a black superstructure, like a miniature city. Sitting amidst the superstructure, was a tall bridge-tower, exactly the same as the type used aboard standard Kuat Drive Yards Star Destroyers.
The Executor, assembled in secret in the Fondor shipyard system, had been unveiled a year ago. Since then, it'd taken command of Death Squadron, a Star Destroyer group consisting of the Executor, six other Imperial Star Destroyers, a Victory-class Star Destroyer, thousands of fighters, and a collection of Lancer class frigates for picket/scout duty. Nebulon-B escort frigates were also a common sight.
Vader turned, fists clenched at his sides, and marched off of the Executor's bridge, cape swirling behind him.