Note: Mostly a story about Hera, Kanan, and the Force. Also a story about how the Ghost crew found Sabine. Standalone, precedes The Physics of Glitter.
All The Empire's Lost Children 1/2
Long missions in space are hard on the fragile mind. It's the artificial light, the recycled air, the stark contrast between the wide-open space that is too large to understand, and the confined cabin that offers but the barest protection.
If the Ghost were a more recreational sort of ship, Hera might have programmed the life support systems to create an illusionary planetary environment. There are even commercial sequences, Alderaan Summer being a popular one (a warm yellow light during the day accompanied by a light breeze of exactly twenty-two degrees, a cool purple emergency illumination during the night).
Instead, the Ghost is on the generic day-and-night cycle that came with the life support unit. After all, everyone's sense of time is shot after a few weeks in space, Alderaan Summer or not, and by then, they will have vowed never to set foot on that blasted planet again.
Therefore, it doesn't surprise her to hear someone move behind her, even at this ungodly hour.
"You're awake," Kanan states when he has made his way less than stealthily into the cockpit.
She looks back over her shoulder, and up. And up. He's tall.
"You're awake," she replies.
"…Why?"
He's barefoot, his long hair all over the place instead of neatly tied up. Leaning against the back of her seat, half for support and half for the hell of it, Kanan appears to be in a sleepier mood than he usually displays to the world. Hera finds it adorable.
"The damn hyperdrive motivator again," she says.
"Ah, yes," Kanan says. He peers at the screen, then down at her, then back at the screen. "I did notice we fell out of hyperspace. What's wrong with it?"
"Nothing much," says Hera. "The motivator has decided it doesn't process batch commands anymore. Means someone –" she yawns –" will have to get up after each partial jump and feed it the next line from the navcomputer."
"…I see."
"You do know modern spaceships don't travel long-distance in one straight line?" says Hera. "Partial jump navigation has been the height of technology for about thirty years now."
"…Yes?"
He deposits his warm human hand on the back of her neck, fingertips subtly working against the tension he finds there. He's not very precise today, but she is not going to complain. This time.
"Anyway," she says, subtly leaning into the touch as a sign of appreciation. "The navcomputer, in turn, has this wonderful security feature where it erases all previous calculations after two hours so idiots won't jump into hyperspace based on stale coordinates."
She doesn't think he's truly listening, so she is a bit surprised when he says, "So you're getting up every few hours to tell the navcomputer to recalculate the route to Lothal?"
"Exactly." She hides another yawn. Badly. "In case you were wondering, it takes seventeen minutes every time."
"Wake me next time," he says generously. "I can operate a navcomputer."
"It's okay, the Ghost is my baby," she says. "My beloved, teething baby. You can get up for the next one."
He regards her with a sceptical expression. "You're laughing now," he says. "Just because you trust me to tell apart the Ghost's bow from the stern –"
"Oh, I barely do," she says with a wink. "And you bet I'll still be laughing when the time comes."
Kanan gives up looming over her for the moment and plonks down into the copilot's seat, putting his feet up on the console. Hands folded under his chin, he's rapidly looking a bit too relaxed. Much like she'd left him earlier tonight.
"Seriously, Kanan, what are you doing out of bed?" she says.
Maybe he's sleepwalking, she thinks. Well. Long week. Long month. In many respects, long life. She doesn't expect a serious reply, but she gets one.
"You called for help," Kanan says, leaning back with his eyes closed.
"I didn't," says Hera.
"Well, someone did."
"Look," says Hera, "I'm not complaining about having company while I'm babysitting the navcomputer – again – but if you are truly in a helpful mood, how about you get us some coffee?"
She goes back to coaxing the navcomputer into calculating the longest partial jump in the general direction of Lothal that its software will allow, when her undercaffeinated brain catches on a hangnail in the conversation. She looks up at Kanan, whose eyes are open now. And a bit rounder than usual. He definitely doesn't look relaxed anymore.
"What did you just say?" says Hera.
"What did I just say?" says Kanan.
"You said, 'someone did'," she says helpfully.
"I did say that, didn't I?" he says. "Oh."
"Did you hear someone call for help?"
"I thought it was you," says Kanan.
Hera sighs. "It wasn't me. We have established that. Was it Zeb?"
"I really don't think so."
"Chopper?" she asks.
"Would I get up for Chopper?"
"Was it a Jedi vision?"
Kanan shields his eyes with his hand, but that doesn't change the fact that he's out of alternatives. "Bloody hell, not again," he groans.
For someone trying to use their gift as little as possible, Hera thinks, the gift sure has a way of clobbering him over the head from time to time. Especially lately.
She bets it means something.
"Was it a dream, you think?" says Hera. "Because you might want to go back to bed, Kanan, you're exhausted."
If anyone is going to hear people call for help in his dreams, it's probably Kanan. But in that case, nothing anyone can do now, they're all dead.
Hera has witnessed those dreams, though. She's woken him up from them. She's wrapped her arms around his rigid, shaking body and said his name, his chosen name, until he's back in the here and now and able to disengage his mind from everything he could potentially lose. No way would he just wander sleepily through the ship after one of these. No way would he seek out her company, or anyone's company, for the rest of the night. It's why, after all these years, he still has his own cabin.
Which is confusing the hell out of Zeb.
Kanan is probably thinking along the same lines. "Only one good thing about dreams," he says. "They fade so quickly. This isn't." He looks like the image of a man wanting to go back to bed and sleep for a hundred years. Dreamlessly.
The navcomputer gives a friendly beep.
"Can you get to the bottom of it while we're in hyperspace?" says Hera.
Kanan blinks. He looks so tempted, Hera almost feels guilty. After all, hyperspace is the ultimate running away.
"I," he says, that noble Jedi. "Five minutes? I'll just do a scan of the surroundings. That'll help."
"No," says Hera. "I'll do a scan of the surroundings. You go make coffee. A nice big one for you, and a nice big one for me, and then you bring them here and we look at the scans together. Sounds good?"
She dearly hopes that Kanan in his current condition is better at processing batch jobs than the hyperdrive motivator.
After ten minutes, the next partial jump is all set to go and she notices Kanan hasn't come back. After fifteen, the surroundings are more than thoroughly scanned. She finds Kanan in the kitchen, leaning over the boiling kettle with his head bowed, in the sort of quiet meditation he occasionally retreats to in his own room.
"Figured it out?" she says while she takes the kettle and pours its content into two giant mugs filled with coffee powder. So he got that far. Could be worse.
"Someone's here, Hera," he says. His voice sounds far away. "But it's really faint. Think I'm out of practice?"
To be honest, yes, Hera thinks Kanan is out of practice. Kanan probably thinks so, too. But then, he's the one not practising, so he should know best.
"We are in space over Corellia," Hera points out. "Sixteen billion people. One of the biggest systems this side of Coruscant."
"Corellia, huh?"
"You did not just miss Corellia on the screen, love," says Hera. She takes his unresisting hand and deposits one of the coffee mugs in there.
"Long day," he says.
"Concentrate, Kanan," she says. "Who is that someone? Why are they important?"
"I don't know, and I don't know," says Kanan, frowning, "but I think they're dying."
Hera swallows. "Sixteen billion people in this system," she repeats. "Someone's always dying."
"But this is the one we can save," says Kanan. At least he sounds a touch more certain now. "Did you see anything in the scan?"
"Not much," says Hera. "Traffic as usual. It gets a bit more interesting off the standard sublight corridors. Looks like there has been a skirmish somewhere over the night side, judging by the concentration of –"
"Debris."
"What?"
"There's debris everywhere and it's killing them," says Kanan.
"You know, Kanan, piracy is like a bloody sport on Corellia," says Hera. "There's debris all over the orbit."
"A sign is a sign is a sign," says Kanan. "Who am I to argue? Let's fly into a cloud of debris, we're needed there."
It's a very peculiar mix of sincere and sarcastic: one is directed at her, the other, presumably, at the Force.
He eyes the coffee in his hand, as if trying to figure out how it has ended up there, then takes a sip. "Bloody boiling," he says.
"Remind me why I ever doubt your judgment," says Hera, blowing into her own mug.
"Tell me about it," says Kanan. "I'll buy you a drink if this turns out to be, you know. Stupid. Again."
"You love buying me drinks," Hera points out.
"See?" says Kanan. "Everybody wins."
Hera sighs. "I'll go wake Zeb, shall I? Someone's gotta man the nose gun in case those pirates are still around."
Hera is reluctant to yield the controls to Kanan, but after twenty minutes of thoroughly non-standard directions such as "Turn slightly to the left until you just can't see Corellia IV in the bottom right corner anymore", she all but forces him into the pilot's seat.
Is that what Jedi visions are like? All impressions and imagery? No wonder Kanan resents them.
Watching is not much better. Standing behind him as he's operating the controls with eerie concentration, she hopes he can't see the way she's gripping the back of the seat. Well, he probably can't, she thinks, because he's got his eyes closed. All around them, high velocity scrap metal parts are barely deflected by the shields. A handful more of those, and they'll have to leave and recharge. If they are lucky.
"Looks like a mid-size fleet had a disagreement with a mid-size asteroid field," she says. "Any of those ping your senses? Take your pick."
She expects something sarcastic, but today is not the day. "That fighter," says Kanan. "The one over there."
He's pointing directly at it, and still she almost misses it until the Ghost's search light is upon it. It's an older model, Z-85 or maybe even 75, filling the screen as he manoeuvres towards it. The markings are hard to make out; the hull is bashed in, barely holding up. The inside is dark, the once transparent front panel sporting a spider web of fault lines. It is clearly drifting.
"I'm sorry, love," says Hera softly. It looks positively hopeless.
"Yeah, I see what you mean," says Kanan.
"I don't see how anyone could have survived in there," Hera continues. "Without shock absorbers, inertia alone – " She notices that Kanan has his eyes closed again. He's reaching out.
"No, that's the one," says Kanan. He sounds only slightly less sceptical than she feels. "Tell you what, I'll lower the shield, engage the magnetic lock, and then we'll see who the Force decided to surprise us with today."
Probably a desiccated, flash-frozen body, thinks Hera, but bites her tongue before she says it out loud. After all, she doesn't want to play into Kanan's resentments towards the Force. He's usually doing a pretty good job of that all by himself.
"Someone nice, I hope," she says diplomatically. "What? Let us please not save a pirate, they're bloody vicious around here."
"Promise," says Kanan. "If it's a pirate, I'll just throw them back."
Hera snorts, briefly puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes. "You old romantic," she says.
Then it's just Hera in the cockpit, holding position, occasionally conversing with Zeb and Chopper in the nose and rear gun on how best to blast approaching debris pieces out of the sky. After a while, Kanan's voice comes in over the intercom.
"Hera?"
"Here," says Hera. "How much longer?"
"Bit of a problem," says Kanan. He sounds thoroughly annoyed. "I've got the clamp on, but that fighter is so dented that the magnetic lock can't seal properly. I need you to depressurise the airlock so I can try and give it a wiggle from outside."
"Of course," says Hera. "Nice day for an EVA." She pauses. "Will you holler when you've suited up, or do you prefer a surprise decompression today?"
"Yeah," says Kanan. "Knew I forgot something."
He gives her the signal over the EVA suit's comlink a couple of minutes later, and swings himself outside to get to work. Meanwhile, Hera is scanning the surroundings for something to do.
Uh-oh.
"Spectre Two to Spectre Four," she says into the comlink. "See those dots moving against the flow starboard?"
"Yeah," says Zeb, not sounding very awake himself. At least that means he is too tired to complain that they woke him up because they fancied flying through a debris field. "Looks like company. You want me to shoot at it?"
"Spectre One here," interjects Kanan. "May I just preemptively remind all of you that it's a really bad moment to be rocking the ship?"
"What are you even doing outside, did you just feel like taking a stroll?" says Zeb. "Hera wasn't entirely clear on, well, any of this."
"Copy that, Spectre One," says Hera, interrupting. "And hurry up. Spectre Three, Spectre Four, let's pretend we're part of the rubble for now. See what they'll do."
The two moving dots turn out to be freighters – suspiciously heavily armed freighters – , and they are inching closer until they are hovering at either side of the Ghost, whose lights are out, shields are down, and transmissions are masked. Still, the Ghost is pretty big and pretty intact to be, well, debris. Hera is wondering whether the pirates might be looking for the fighter pilot, when suddenly a stranger's voice reverberates through the cockpit.
"Good evening, amigos," it says. "It's the end of a long day, I'm up to my ass in deadlines tomorrow, and boss says I can't go off to beddie-byes until I brought in some good haul. So, in sum, drop your cargo or we'll shoot you to pieces." The transmission clicks, then comes online again. "Sorry for the inconvenience," the voice adds.
Hera swears under her breath. "Kanan?"
"Busy!" Kanan shouts back.
He wants shouting? He can have shouting. "I'd like to raise the shields now," she shouts back.
"Well, you're gonna have to stall them," shouts Kanan. "It still won't lock on properly, and that hatch is all bashed up –"
"If it won't lock it will decompress anyway –" she shouts. If that carcass of a fighter is even holding any pressure. She wouldn't bet on it.
"I know that!"
"– so forget the hatch and just use your lightsabre, you complete Jedi!"
"Oh," shouts Kanan. "You're right! How about that!"
It's not Hera's favourite option, probably for the same reason why Kanan has delayed this for long, but if the pilot even loosely followed standard procedure when that fighter lost power, short-term pressure loss won't be much of an issue.
It's a slightly stronger 'if' than she is comfortable with.
In the meantime, she has two freighters full of impatient pirates to slow down. She flips a few switches: fast boot sequence for the sublight drive, transponder, radio.
"Imperial patrol ship Manowar to unidentified pirate vessels, Captain Lom speaking," Hera says firmly into the radio, using her best snotty Coruscant accent. "Prepare to be boarded. You will need to present your IDs and shipment papers."
There is silence from the other end of the conversation. Potentially, a cocky young pirate is frantically checking the Ghost's fake transponder signal, which is currently identifying it as the Manowar, captained by Dr Aszahi Lom, feared pirate hunter. Hera knows she might be overdoing it, but that ID is by miles her most authoritative one.
"Imperial patrol ship Manowar," says the unknown voice, a bit tamer, but apparently still feeling clever. "Sure! Sorry about that. We'll be preparing a warm welcome to your landing party. Please dock starboard, and excuse the mess. … We don't entertain much."
"Acknowledged, unidentified pirate vessel," she says. "Be advised that anything but your full cooperation will result in your obliteration. Manowar out."
Great, thinks Hera. Now it's all a question of who is willing to hold the bluff longer. She has no intention to dock or enter, but she's turning the Ghost. Nice and slow. Nice and –
Good time to get an update. "Kanan?"
"Inside, all clear!" comes his voice after a short pause. "You wouldn't believe –"
"Shields are going up. Magnetic lock disengaged, pressurising airlock."
"Slowly!" comes the prompt response.
Of course. Would be a shoddy rescue if they accidentally deafened whoever Kanan has brought in. She has got to admit she is a bit surprised. At the very least, the pilot they brought in is not obviously dead.
But first things first. Hera flips over to internal com. "Spectre 3, Spectre 4, how about a couple of warning shots? Target their screens. On my command."
"Spectre 1," she adds, "the turret gun is all yours whenever you find the time."
"…Depends," says Kanan, sounding a bit preoccupied. "How dead are we if I don't?"
"Oh, so mama will have to get us out of this mess, is that what you're saying?"
"Quickly. Yes."
Starting to feel like a switchboard operator, she flips the radio switch to outgoing. "Imperial command ship Manowar to unknown pirate vessels," she says slowly. "On second thought –"
And back to internal com. "Spectre 3, Spectre 4, now!"
Her turning manoeuvre has brought the two pirate ships in range of the nose and rear guns, respectively. Their concentrated laser beams bounce off the pirates' reinforced shields, not causing much damage, but hopefully blinding both crews momentarily. She jerks the Ghost forward, aiming to bring as much debris as possible between her and the larger freighters.
"Aw man," says the stranger's voice from the radio. "You're the second one trying this bullshit today. You do know we have you outgunned, don't you?"
Turns out he's not lying. Their heavy laser blasts are barely absorbed by the Ghost's deflector shields. The readings from the controls are worrying: Between the heightened energy demands of the shock absorbers and the shields, the ship is not going to be able to withstand much more before it loses energy.
Fortunately, it doesn't have to. Momentarily slipping behind a large asteroid, Hera scans the surroundings, trying to memorise the output; at least the big pieces and their velocity. She wants no surprises steering through the debris.
Unfortunately, the pirate freighters are advancing faster than they have any right to. She'd counted on them having to laboriously navigate around the bigger asteroids, but it turns out they simply blast them apart.
Is that how they hunt? She thinks suddenly. Maybe they have the debris field carefully mapped and just go after whoever tries to slip by the official sublight routes to Corellia, in the secure knowledge that anyone desperate enough to enter the debris field will be motivated to remain hidden.
She has an idea.
"So what's your great plan, Spectre mama?" says Zeb.
"They're counting on us having something to hide," says Hera, navigating the Ghost tightly between two large pieces of rock, wincing as a jagged durasteel beam barely misses them.
"We do have something to hide," Zeb points out. "A whole cargo bay full."
"And we're good at hiding it," says Hera.
The rubble gets thinner. And while the pirates are not advancing, she's not losing them, either.
But she's not going where they think she's going, which is deep space. Another minute and they'll be in sight of Corellian space traffic control.
"We're faster and more manoeuvrable," explains Hera between two evasive manoeuvres that would probably have won her awards if this were a certified flight simulator. "I'll run for it, and join the sublight queue over the Corellian moon. They probably won't shoot us to pieces in front of an Imperial Star Destroyer."
Finally they're out of the debris field, and it's as she predicted: the pirates are staying behind. Admittedly, it's probably to watch and laugh themselves silly.
"No, but the Imperial Star Destroyer might," Zeb points out.
"Are you new?" says Hera. "I have wonderful fake IDs for this ship and I've always wanted to try out my Bocce accent."
"Yeah, sounds like a great plan, Hera, well done," says Kanan. He sounds, unbelievably, more tired than he did half an hour ago.
"No, it doesn't," says Zeb. "What's wrong with you?" He, on the other hand, just sounds exasperated with the two of them.
"The plan just needs one minor alteration," continues Kanan. "We can't get stuck in a sublight traffic jam, the kid needs a medcenter."
Hera's hand pauses over the sublight controls. "I'm sorry, did you say 'kid'?" she says.
"What kid?" says Zeb.
"I believe I said 'medcenter'," says Kanan.
"Sure," says Hera, but she's already adjusting the course. "After just barely throwing off these pirates, I'll fly through Imperial space to an Imperial medcenter, while carrying a load of shield generators stolen, as it were, from the Imperials. And because none of that is conspicuous enough, how about I'll send off an emergency signal to the Imperial space traffic control in order to cut the traffic jam. Sounds like a plan."
"Knew you'd understand," says Kanan. "And when you're done saving us all, swing down to the nursery, I could use some help saving this one."
To be continued.