He was adrift in a void the colour of slate. It was as if the expansive deserts of Tatooine, rendered dusky in the half-light that followed sunset, had reared up and enfolded him; the entire galaxy consumed in a taupe fog.
It was cool, and more than that… damp - a sensation with which Luke was only passingly familiar. It felt so… alien. Something was wrong. He shouldn't be here. This damp void was a… a bad place.
And as if his awareness of its wrongness was some sort of catalyst, the void began to cool further, its hue shifting to that of shadowed durasteel. The dampness turned to a chilling coldness that felt as if it reached right into Luke's soul. He didn't know why, but it felt… black. Now it wasn't just this place that was wrong, there was something wrong with him; something inside him was being turned necrotic by-
"Luke…" Obi-Wan's voice echoed through his mind; kindly, comforting. In an instant it warmed the steely grey that encircled him, brightening it to a gauzy off-white.
He twitched, a brief spasm of surprise as the chill left him, and Luke found himself unable to resist a reply. "Ben?"
If he had hoped to reach out and grab ahold of that voice, to keep it from slipping away as it had before, Luke had failed. He could feel it there, this benevolent presence, but it remained elusive, immaterial… perhaps illusory? No. Fleeting it might be, but each time Ben Kenobi's voice echoed through Luke's mind, it was – without a doubt – tangible. It was the departed man's thoughts made real within Luke's own… somehow.
Luke hadn't known him long, but Obi-Wan Kenobi had been kind, and – for a lonesome day – a tantalizing link to his past, and his family. Ben had given Luke a sense of surety and purpose right as the rest of his life was collapsing around him.
And then Ben had died, cut down at the hands of Darth Vader, vanishing right before Luke's eyes, like some ghostly apparition giving up any pretence of physicality… and that seemed to fit. The moment of his death had been just as fleeting as his presence in Luke's life; no sooner had he walked in, than had he faded out.
"…Luke…"
A ghostly apparition… that was more apt than it had any right to be. This voice had come to him three times now, always to guide him through a moment of mortal peril. The first, just moments after Ben had been struck down and while blaster bolts sizzled past Luke's head, had implored him to run, and he had. The second, as he had barrelled down a canyon of steel and death, a trio of TIE Fighters snapping at his heels, had called on him to ignore his targeting computer and put his faith in the force as he took the shot that stopped the Death Star.
And the third… that had come as he faced down a wall of turret fire, tasked with ferrying a precious beacon that would stop the Imperial advance and save his friends. Ben's disembodied voice had told him to trust his instincts, and fly with his feelings. The manoeuvres he'd performed after that; rolling and diving, threading through gaps barely larger than his own ship… that had been orders of magnitude more incredible than even his most daring paths through Beggar's Canyon. What he'd done when his mission was completed, though – skimming beneath the shields of a moving Star Destroyer while evading an entire squadron of TIE Fighters – was something else, more fantastical than the most thrilling holodramas.
But Luke couldn't even take credit for it... not really. He couldn't think of a single turn he'd made in that whole battle that had been a conscious choice, rather than a force-attuned reflex. At times, his movements had been so automatic that it seemed wrong to even say that it had been him performing them. It was all the Force.
"…Luke?" The voice was changing, becoming… inquisitive? No… concerned. Why? It was no longer holding back the cold. The chill was taking him again, and he was sinking-
"Luke!"
A squall of anxious electronic wailing ripped through his awareness, and the void was rent apart.
An image flashed before him; a pair of charred skeletons, scraps of blackened flesh still clinging to the bones, sprawled across a bed of sun-baked sandstone and shrouded in acrid smoke. An empty robe fluttered down out of a brilliant, oversaturated sky to drape over the bodies, but as it settled, it didn't make the rustling of shifting fabric but instead the mechanical whoosh of air being sucked into a mask.
Luke's eyes flew open, and he took a shuddering breath.
He was in the cockpit of an X-Wing – his X-Wing, now – surrounded on all sides by the star-speckled black of deep space. The last thing he remembered was looking out at the mottled blue of Hyperspace, leaning his head against the edge of his canopy, and…
R2D2 was beeping and whirring, causing the snub fighter to rock as he shifted in his socket. The little droid must have handled the reversion to realspace.
"Kid!" Han's voice crackled in his helmet audio kit. "You okay?"
"Uh, yeah, sorry. I'm fine," Luke mumbled, rubbing at one of his bleary eyes. When he spoke, his tongue felt dry, and though his cockpit was at an unremarkably neutral temperature, Luke felt that he could still feel a trace of that chill, causing his extremities to tingle. He felt awful.
"You sure?" The smuggler asked, his voice dropping down to his normal Corellian drawl. For some reason, his words came with a sombre, weary tone. "You were drifting for a long time there."
"Yeah, I'm sure." Luke was glad the smuggler couldn't see his embarrassment. "I – uh – fell asleep."
This time the voice that came over the com channel was that of Han's co-pilot, Chewbacca. Luke didn't understand the Wookiee's bestial speech, but the tone of it seemed amused… and perhaps chiding?
"I'm sorry," he repeated, defensiveness colouring his words. "What's going on?"
"We're at the rendezvous point." Han said. "The rest of us are turning in. You should too. Get some rest."
Chewbacca growled something and the smuggler gave a single laugh. "Yeah, if he still needs it."
"Okay, right. You never know what tomorrow brings." Luke said. Now he controlled his tone carefully. Those words were Han's, spoken to him on Yavin IV just minutes before an Imperial Star Destroyer had entered the system. Then, Han was advocating his principles of 'not getting tied down' and 'seeking a more fluid state of employment', trying to explain to Luke why – after all that had happened – he still intended to leave the Rebel Alliance and resume his life as a smuggler. Luke had disagreed in the strongest terms.
Han grunted, the meaning of the sound indiscernible. Luke heard the beginnings of a second vocalization from Chewbacca, but it was cut off as the com channel closed. Perhaps he should have held his tongue.
Luke sighed, continuing to rub at his eyes. "How about you, Artoo? How are those new circuits holding up?"
The droid gave a content whistle, the translation scrolling across the X-Wing's terminal. Luke found that most of the time he could understand the Droid's meaning just from his tone. The text translations – rudimentary as they were – provided certainty, but seldom much detail. Only when the droid committed to a detailed explanation – which required long sequences of beeps and whines in the Astromech's binary language – was the translator a vital tool.
"Well that's good." Luke wrapped his hand around the flight stick and began to yaw the fighter, looking for the other ships. "Maybe you'll stick around."
The droid's answer was a descending set of concerned beeps.
Luke shrugged, although R2 couldn't see him. "I don't know. He'll do what's right for him, I guess."
R2 gave a low, sad 'Wooooo', and they lapsed into silence.
As he looped around, Luke caught sight of not just the Nautilian, but three other massive Mon Calamari star cruisers. Two of them had a wider design than the Nautilian, the wing-like flanges making them more reminiscent of growth-covered Star Destroyers. Luke didn't know them by sight or name, but the third ship – one which matched the Nautilian in basic shape, despite featuring fewer, larger protrusions – Luke had heard described by Alliance members during the evacuation of Yavin. It was the Home One, newly anointed as the flagship of the Rebel Fleet after the loss of its predecessor over Scarif. Luke knew that it had been leading the other two star cruisers to aid in the evacuation before the Imperials had pre-empted them, and had been diverted once the moon was successfully abandoned
He could see three smaller ships swooping in toward the Home One; an X-Wing, Y-Wing, and the Millennium Falcon, strung out in a long line as they made for the star cruiser's hangar bay.
Dourly, Luke throttled up from idle to follow them. The other craft were already inside and out of sight by the time Luke had fallen in for his own approach, and he was alone. For the minute that the Home One slowly grew to engulf the view of his cockpit, the frigates and other capital ships drifting behind and around it with nothing else but the pinpricks of stars for light years… Luke felt alone; alone and empty, like a hollow had formed in his abdomen that his stomach was threatening to topple into.
He had only been introduced to the X-Wing the previous day, Luke had never attempted landing it – or any other ship, for that matter – in a carrier. Stars, two days ago the only thing he'd ever flown was his skyhopper.
Luke elected to approach with extreme caution, so that he would avoid flattening himself against the hangar's interior wall. That would be an ironic end to not only his life, but his newfound reputation as a crack pilot.
He was skimming close to the Home One's surface now, almost as close as his death-defying sortie over the Star Destroyer, and close enough to distinguish the mottled patchwork of plates that demarked the countless points where combat modifications had been inserted into the ship's hull.
Luke throttled down to a trickle of thrust as his X-Wing reached the hangar opening, its lip demarked by the glowing white loop of the atmospheric shield. They crossed the threshold at minimal speed and Luke flicked over to the snub fighter's repulsorlifts and landing lights.
The hangar was sparsely populated, with ample room to land. Most of its complement, tucked into cradles recessed from the main bay, looked to be recommissioned A-Wings so aged and worn that they were little better than junk. In the hangar proper Luke could see another piece of junk – The Millennium Falcon – settled near to the back wall on the right side, while Wedge's X-Wing and Gold Three's Y-Wing had landed to the left. If they'd been guided to those places, was it because they were leaving room for more expected ships? And if so, where would they be coming from?
He thought to yaw right and settle by the Falcon, but a deck officer wielding glow-tipped marshalling wands was directing him to land alongside the other fighter craft. Luke lowered his landing gear and followed the instructions, settling beside the two ships and in front of a waiting fighter technician with a maintenance cart.
Luke powered down the X-wing's various systems, a process that he was sure would have been a quick task for a more experienced pilot, but which for him was a painstaking process of scrutinizing the labels of the various tactile switches arrayed around his cockpit, comparing them to a mental reference of his old skyhopper, and switching off the ones that seemed the least incorrect. After several arduous minutes, Luke was left with only the interface terminal still powered on.
"Artoo, are you going to stay here?" he asked.
The astromech chirped in the affirmative, and the terminal translated that he would need to help with diagnostics.
"Alright," Luke nodded – though, still, the droid couldn't see him do so. "Just come and meet up later, okay? I don't know where we'll be, so you might need to plug in to find us."
The droid gave a second affirmative sound, this one followed by a conclusory set of descending beeps.
Luke powered off the terminal and thumbed the cockpit release. As the canopy eased upward and gave him more clearance he undid his helmet strap and pulled it free of his head, and then stripped off his flight gloves so he could rub his brow.
Granted a moment to himself, Luke pondered his sour mood. Was it because of Han? Because of Biggs? Because of the transports that – despite their best efforts – had been shot down or disabled during the evacuation? He shouldn't feel this way; not after the incredible things he'd accomplished in the last day.
But, again he hadn't really done anything. Well, he'd rescued Leia Organa, but that had been much more the doing of Han, Chewie, Ben, and even the princess herself than him. And – as he'd realized – his impossible shot at the Death Star and manoeuvring over Yavin had been the Force acting through him; not his own skill. So maybe the outcome itself was something to be celebrated, but his part in it all seemed cursory, almost debatable. He was a farm boy from Tatooine that just happened to cross paths with two very important droids. Was that the force too?
"Hey!" someone yelled at him, causing Luke to start in his seat. "You going to take any longer, or should I get myself a damn chair?"
It was the fighter tech, leaning on his maintenance cart, a heavy scowl on his face.
"Oh, sorry!" Luke scrambled to his feet, fumbling to keep hold of his helmet and gloves as he climbed out of the cockpit and onto the landing ladder. "I didn't realize."
"Didn't realize," the tech grumbled at him, pushing his cart up beside the fighter even as Luke dismounted at the bottom of the ladder. "Damn cockpit jockeys. Always think the whole galaxy revolves around you."
"I…" Luke faltered. "I'm sorry."
"Sure." The tech flicked him an irritated look and started unspooling various interface-ended cables from the cart. "If you love the damn thing so much you can spend the night in it, just after I've done my job."
Luke didn't apologize a third time, cowed by the technician's scorn. Tentatively, he asked "Uh, you need my droid, right?"
"Of course I need the damn droid," the man snapped at him, and Luke instantly regretted asking. The technician went to bend over his cart, but stopped and gave Luke another irritated glance. "Will you get out of here? I can't work with you standing there, gaping like a stunned Mynock."
Luke couldn't comply fast enough, turning on the spot and walking away. He heard the pilot continue to grumble – so loudly that grumble seemed the wrong word – as he left, while Artoo responded with alternating defensive and accusatory tones.
It was when he reached the middle of the hangar, still flustered and abashed, that Luke realized that he didn't know where he was going. He stopped, the too-loud echoing of his steps ceasing, and looked around.
The deck officer that had directed him from this spot a few minutes earlier was gone, his marshalling beacons dulled and inserted into indentations in the floor. To his right was the shielded bay opening, which gave a fine view of a drifting frigate. To the left was the hangar's rear wall, which featured multiple sets of personnel doors at floor level, and rows of control room windows near to the ceiling.
Luke glanced back at the trio of starfighters – his now riddled with diagnostic cables inserted into various ports – and then looked ahead, at the Millennium Falcon. Perhaps Han was still aboard, or Chewie… but he doubted that they would know where to go either. Still, confusion together was better than confusion alone, and standing out in the centre of the nearly-barren hangar wasn't helping alleviate that gnawing sensation of being so fundamentally, existentially alone.
He approached the Falcon from behind, ducking under the lip of the wide engine nacelle. There came an echo from inside the ship of metal striking metal, followed closely by Chewbacca's frustrated growling. At least the Wookiee was around, although he sounded preoccupied.
The sound of people speaking reached Luke's ears when the echo of the clang faded, and he rounded the inside of one of the freighter's thick landing gears to find three people standing in front of the lowered entry ramp. There was Han, leaning against one of the hydraulic arms, and across from him was Wedge and a woman with blond hair, both wearing orange flight suits to match Luke's.
"It looks pretty bad," Wedge was saying. "I'm surprised you could make a jump at all with so many components fried."
The woman nodded her agreement. "I wouldn't even consider taking off until repairs are done if I were you. You'd better settle in."
"Well it's a good thing I'm not you, sweetheart," Han drawled, and the woman scowled. "The Falcon's tougher than you think. A quick patch job and she'll be fine. All you idealist types just love finding reasons why I should stick around. I already saved your damn skins twice now; you trying to convert me all the way?"
"Han," Luke reprimanded, not realizing what he was doing until the words were already spoken.
All three turned to him, Han's look of surprise lasting only a moment before turning into a smirk. "What're you doing under there? Think you can fix her up all by yourself?"
Luke flushed under their combined gaze, stepping into the illumination of the falcon's forward landing lights. "I think you're the one that needs fixing." The words came out more hostile than he'd intended.
Han's smirk broke into an open grin. "Well listen to you! Only one day and you're preaching with the best of them." He nodded at the other two. "Why you're just the ideal recruit, ain't ya?"
"More than you, I guess." Luke shrugged. "What's the problem?"
"Ugh." Han's smirk fell, and Luke was left with the impression that it had only been a façade; that the weary, hollow voice that he'd heard over the com channel was the truth that Han was trying to hide. "We got pinched by a couple of those interceptors in the battle and one of 'em managed to gave the Falcon a new set of piercings."
"Pretty bad?" Luke asked, to which Wedge responded with a nod.
Han sighed. "Yeah… We probably won't be going anywhere for a while." He inclined his head toward Gold Three, who gave a cool smile, vindicated. "Chewie's checking out the internals, but… well, he's got the know-how of a good mechanic, but let's just say he doesn't have the disposition."
Another clang of metal on metal and the roar of a frustrated Wookiee reverberated from inside the freighter, and Han lifted a hand as if to say, 'you see?'
"Looks like you're gonna need a hand from the idealist types." Wedge gave an amused smile, shaking his head. "Luke, where'd you say you picked this guy up?"
"I'm the one that picked him up," Han said, though Luke ignored him.
"In a hive of scum and villainy," Luke said, maybe because Ben's death was still weighing heavy on his mind. The others only gave him questioning looks, and he shrugged. "A cantina on Tatooine, and not a nice one."
Han gave a shrug of his own, though he looked irked at being compared to scum. "Hey, you came looking for me. You knew what you were going to find."
"I didn't. Ben did," Luke replied, and Han rolled his eyes.
"I don't think that old kook knew his left hand from his right. With how things turned out, he didn't even know how to hold that saber of his."
That was too much. Anger flared bright within Luke and – yet again without a thought beforehand – he found himself speaking.
"Why would you say that?! You know that's not true."
Han waved a dismissive hand, and Luke took a step closer.
"I mean it," he said. "Take it back."
Han gave him a look that Luke could only identify as dismissive. "What's got under your skin?"
"You have." Luke's face was set into a scowl. "Take it back."
Han sniffed, taking a laconic step back and turning sidelong to Luke. "I don't have time for this. I'm gonna find a tech that can help me get outta here." He turned to go, then gave Luke another glance. "Kid, I know you were probably enjoying your nap, but you don't gotta be so cranky just because I woke you."
And he walked away, toward one of the several blast doors that led out of the hangar. Where he was going, Luke had no idea. For the moment, he didn't care.
After glaring at the back of Han's head for a few seconds more, Luke's temper suddenly faded. He was left feeling even more hollow than before.
It was like his physical being was stretched thin. Was this how Han felt? Did he sound like Han had over the commlink? Was this why they were antagonizing each other?
Sheepish, Luke turned to Wedge and the other pilot. "Uh, sorry about that. I think we're both kinda stressed.."
The woman snorted. "Forget him. Can't expect a drifter to understand."
Luke looked at her, not knowing what to say. He didn't want to forget Han. He couldn't just write him off. The smuggler pair had put themselves in harm's way when it mattered most – not just once, but twice now. They couldn't toss him aside after that, especially not because he just wasn't as dedicated as her or Wedge… or him?
"Sorry about what?" Wedge asked, his face breaking into a grin as his words broke into Luke's train of thought. "Do you have any idea how many lives you saved today? Luke, that flying was incredible. I'm waiting to watch a holo because I can't believe some of the things I saw with my own eyes."
"Thanks," Luke said, a hesitant, abashed smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. It wasn't him. He didn't deserve this praise. "I didn't really do anything special. Without the cruiser backing me up I'd have been hot dust."
He tried not to think of the frigate they'd lost. How many had there been aboard?
"Are you kidding?" Gold Three said, aghast. "Nothing special? It looked like you were doing more than alright before the ship came in."
Luke looked away, not knowing what to say. She didn't understand. Neither of them did.
"You guys did great," he finally mumbled. "Holding off those fighters, just the three of you."
"Is he serious?" The woman looked at Wedge. He shrugged, and she turned back to Luke. "You need to learn to take a compliment."
"It's been a long day," Wedge said, much to Luke's relief. "How about I get our bunk assignments, and we all get some shut eye before the fleet moves out again?"
Luke wasn't tired, but it was a good excuse to get out of the conversation, so he nodded, as did the third pilot.
"Okay, I'll be quick. Oh, and we're probably expecting more ships, so you guys should clear out too." Wedge thumbed at an exit adjacent to the one Han had just used. "Meet up over there?"
"Sure," Gold Three said. "Come on, Major Modest."
Luke felt a flash of irritation, but he obliged her, falling into step while Wedge jogged ahead. Seemed like he knew his way around.
They walked in silence, footsteps echoing through the hangar, and Luke observed that the woman's face was set in a hard line, brow furrowed. They were all on edge after that close call with the Imperials. But with her it seemed like something else was at play, more even than Han's jibes – though he couldn't imagine what it was, and wasn't sure if he should ask.
Luke glanced up and down the length of the corridor when they reached the exit door. There was a steady stream of ship crew moving in either direction, one or two passing by every few seconds. Wedge had already disappeared deeper into the ship, with no indication as to which direction he'd gone.
The woman shrugged, leaning against the doorframe. "He said he wouldn't be long, but we might be waiting a while. I'd be surprised if there's already bunk assignments for all the new arrivals."
"Right." Luke stood in the centre of the doors for a few awkward seconds, then joined the woman in leaning against its side.
With the silence between them becoming uncomfortable he couldn't help looking at either end of the corridor. Each time he expected Wedge's vibrant jumpsuit to reappear… but he didn't, and so they loitered, awaiting Wedge's return with ever-dwindling patience.
The trickle of ship crew flowed by, some ignoring them, others offering nods of greeting. After a while, however, one came to a sharp stop, a surprised look on his face.
"H-hey! You're Skywalker, right?" He looked at Luke with something that was at the middle awe and deference. "Luke Skywalker? You took out the Death Star! That was incredible. I've seen the recordings a dozen times already and I can't figure out how you pulled it off."
There was something awkward about his praise. It was bumbling, almost abashed, like the man couldn't figure out how to address Luke. He was just a pilot, but one with now two incredible achievements under his belt. It was like his reflex was to treat Luke as a superior, even though – for all Luke knew – the crewmember might outrank him.
Only then did Luke realize that the crewmember had offered his hand in greeting and had been holding it outstretched for several seconds. He flushed with embarrassment, then grasped it and shook. "Uh, yeah, that's me. Pleasure to meet you."
"Oh no, Mister Skywalker, the pleasure's all mine. Really," the crewmember emphasized, vigorously pumping Luke's hand up and down. "You've done great things for the Alliance. I wish I could say I've done even a tenth as much."
"Oh, you know…" Luke shrugged, almost squirming with embarrassment, but trying to maintain a friendly demeanour. He couldn't slip away; not with the man's hands firmly enfolding his own. "Everyone's important, in their own way. I'm sure you do great work."
Aunt Beru would have been proud of that one. He wanted to argue that he hadn't done anything special, but if his conversation with Wedge and Gold Three was any indicator, it would just prolong the interaction and put them in an awkward loop of praise and denial.
"You're a good man," the crewman replied, still pumping Luke's hand. "The Rebellion couldn't even hope for better. Keep it up and we'll be sitting pretty in the Imperial Palace this time next year."
Luke didn't know what to say to that, so he just laughed, and managed to extract his hand from the melee. That seemed to be the crew member's cue to go.
He offered Luke an exaggerated nod – a gesture made all the stranger by the fact that he'd just spent a straight minute shaking Luke's hand. "It was a real pleasure to meet you, Mr Skywalker."
"You too… man." Luke returned the nod, well aware that he had no idea as to the man's name, but also knowing that to ask now would be to invite him to linger even longer.
The crew member nodded yet again and resumed his trip down the corridor, his pace brisk. When he was out of earshot Luke leaned back against the frame of the door and sighed.
"Mister Skywalker?" he repeated, under his breath. That sounded so… deferent. It was strange.
It was then that Gold Three leaned forward, holding out her own hand. "Luke Skywalker? Evaan Verlaine." She said it like they hadn't been standing beside each other for the last five minutes; as if they hadn't gone so long without introducing themselves that it had become awkward to try.
After a moment's hesitation, Luke accepted the offer and shook, finding her greeting more reserved than the crewmember's. "Pleased to meet you. You're a really great pilot."
"You're better," Evaan said, voice deadpan and without even a hint of hesitation. "What that guy said was pure Sabaac, you know."
"It was?" Luke asked. Was she already going to steer the conversation back to this? Couldn't she take a hint?
"Yeah. Your flying is incredible. It's like nothing I've ever seen before, and I've been with the Rebellion for a good couple of years now." She leaned back against the door frame, giving all the appearances of casual conversation. "What's your secret? How do you pull off all those crazy tricks?"
"I mean… it's not really something I do consciously," Luke said. It was essentially true, even if it did omit context. "I just… do."
"You turn off your targeting computer and make a bullseye on a two-meter-wide port… subconsciously?" Verlaine quirked an eyebrow, unconvinced and unamused. "What, your droid do it for you?"
Luke laughed uneasily, hoping that would be response enough. Evidently not.
"You know, you're pretty cagey for someone that just became a war hero overnight," Evaan said. "And pretty downtrodden for someone that just gave the Empire the nastiest black eye its ever had. I can appreciate not gloating, but being this modest is… it's weird, Skywalker."
Luke shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant and instead looking as if he'd had a minor muscle spasm. "I just don't really… uh… want to talk about it. You know?"
Evaan gave him a searching look. "You don't mean… you don't feel bad about what you did, do you?"
Luke started. Did he feel bad? Was that why he felt so empty? The idea didn't resonate with him like some hidden truth revealed, but it did seem like something he should have considered.
"There were a lot of people on the Death Star," he said, thinking aloud. "And not all of them were troopers." He didn't know how many people had died when his torpedo had gutted the station, and how many of them had been mere crewmen or maintenance workers?
That hadn't meant to sound like an affirmation, but it seemed that he'd said the absolute worst thing possible, judging by the way Verlaine's face suddenly looked like it had turned to stone.
"There were a lot more on Alderaan, and none of them were combatants," Evaan replied fiercely. "When you're an engineer that gets assigned to something that kills planets, if you don't desert, you're complicit. You're maintaining a heinous death machine. If you didn't do your job, it wouldn't be able to fire. Are you really better than the guy who actually pulls the trigger? You're helping pull the trigger."
"Uh, yeah," Luke said, a little taken aback and hoping to appease Evaan. "Yeah, you're right."
She was undeniably passionate, and obviously believed what she said… but it didn't do anything to lift Luke's spirits. Certainly, it didn't help Luke find the cause of this hollow sensation. That was something else.
Evaan looked ready to continue, when a medley of voices filled the hallway, growing louder as the source came closer. Luke looked over Evaan's shoulder, and she turned to watch as a cluster of important-looking sentients approached from down the hallway. There were several senior Officers Luke didn't recognize and a Mon Calamari sporting rank plaques he couldn't decipher. Among them, though, were some faces he knew. He saw General Jan Dodonna – who had devised the flight plan for the Death Star attack and the scheme for the slave-rigged shuttle – and Princess Leia Organa.
Luke gave Leia a small wave, and she responded with a familiar nod. Then her eyes moved off him and stopped on Verlaine, an unreadable look coming across Leia's face. She stepped out of line and reached out to the other woman, who likewise stepped forward.
They met halfway, grasping eachothers' forearms and sharing a look that was pure meaning and emotion – all of it indecipherable.
"We're not giving up. We're not," Leia said, and then broke the contact, slipping back into the assembly of Rebel leadership as they entered the hangar. What had that been about?
Luke watched them cross the bay, moving to meet a shuttle that was approaching the hangar's atmospheric shields. He looked at Verlaine, one eyebrow raised.
"I didn't realize you and Leia were working together. Have you known her long?" He asked.
"No," Evaan replied. "Well, I knew of her, and I was even tutored by her mother – Queen Breha – but we only met just yesterday, during the evacuation. Totally by chance."
Luke glanced back at Leia's group, who were now converging in front of the newly-arrived shuttle. Then he looked at Verlaine, the reason for her fury crystalizing in his mind.
"You're from Alderaan," he said, and she nodded. "I'm so sorry."
"Sorry?" She shook her head. "What does being sorry help? You got them back; just the beginning of getting justice for what they did. Now just do it a thousand more times and we'll be even."
It was like Evaan's entire person had been cast in a new light. She'd known Leia for only a day, and it seemed like the two already shared a meaningful connection – an instantaneous bond formed in the void left by a total loss. Luke couldn't imagine what sort of impact having everything you knew destroyed had. Knowing that not only was your home destroyed, your family and every important person in your life dead, but that there wasn't even somewhere to go to mourn them; the planet was gone. It was a loss so sudden and absolute that it was hard to comprehend. When Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru were killed, Luke thought he'd lost everything, but Evaan and Leia… they'd lost everything.
He didn't know how to respond to that. Eventually, he said the only thing he could think of; that self-same truth. "I… I don't know what to say."
"Nobody does," Evaan replied. "None that I've talked to, anyway. It's all like what you've been doing. The apologies, the sympathy, the silences. Nobody knows how to react to a whole… your whole planet..." her voice quavered, and she broke off. After a few seconds, she continued. "I don't know either."
Luke felt a tightness in his throat, which he remedied with a dry swallow and a cough. His preoccupation with his own worries suddenly seemed… not petty, or trivial, but insignificant; meaningful in their own way and meaningful to him… but dwarfed in every conceivable way by the scale of the tragedy that had befallen those around him.
The cluster of Alliance leaders were approaching again. They seemed to have only grown by one person; a woman with auburn hair and slender features, dressed in flowing white robes that were ornamented only by a metal amulet. She walked in the centre of the procession, seeming to be holding several conversations at once. Luke didn't know her by sight, but her presence exuded authority, and he'd put down credits – if he'd had any – that she was the Alliance's chancellor he had heard others refer to.
The procession reached their door and Leia – walking abreast of the chancellor – waved him over. Luke, not trusting his ability to read her movements, pointed a questioning finger at himself. Leia, apparently finding this insufficient, called them by name.
"Luke, Evaan, come on."
She hadn't raise her voice but her mention of Luke's name seemed to cause the other woman – the one who had just arrived – to start. She came to a stop, and the general burble of conversation died out. The woman looked at Luke and Evaan, then Leia.
The princess inclined her head. "Chancellor Mothma, I'd like to introduce you to Evaan Verlaine and Luke Skywalker." She looked as if she were about to say more, but the Chancellor pre-empted her, stepping out of the group and approaching the pilots.
The members of the procession seemed to flow around her, the act of moving among them looking so graceful and effortless that the Chancellor almost seemed to glide.
She stopped in front of them, and Luke found that for the third time that day, he was shaking a stranger's hand. What was strange about this time, was that he hadn't been aware that the exchange had occurred until his hand was released. Dumbfounded, he watched as Mothma took Verlaine's hand and shook it as well, the movement so smooth and practiced that Evaan seemed likewise unaware it was happening until halfway through the greeting.
"Mister Skywalker," Mothma greeted him. This time, those words didn't sound awkward, but natural, like no name could suit him better. "Miss Verlaine. It's a great pleasure to make your acquaintances."
"Uh, likewise," Luke said. There was something about the Chancellor that was completely disarming, like she knew the exact way to carry herself and speak that he couldn't help but let her continue.
"It has only been a short while, but I have already heard a great deal about you both," Mothma continued, and – as if to show that what she said wasn't merely lip service – adding "And likewise your comrades; Wedge Antilles, and the crew of the Millennium Falcon. You have, all of you, rendered a greater service to the Alliance than we could ever ask from so few of our number."
Perhaps he should have realized it two conversations ago, but it was at that moment that – what seemed like – the final piece of the puzzle fell into place. This was how every discussion would go for the next week, or the next month, or the next year. He could hang up his flight suit that evening and hide himself away washing dishes in the star cruiser's mess hall, and every interaction for the foreseeable future – maybe forever – would still be "You're the guy that stopped the Death Star, right?"
The whole realization passed through his mind in a moment, but he managed to keep the sadness it brought him from showing. Outwardly, he tried his best to deflect it.
"Thank you, but… I had a lot of help. Han, Wedge, Evaan…" he paused. "And everyone who didn't make it. Without all of them, we couldn't have… I…" Luke paused again, then trailed off. He'd heard a lot of final words in the fighting over the Death Star, and now they were bubbling to the surface of his awareness at his unintended bidding. His thoughts were too scattered, and worse, he couldn't shake the feeling that contradicting the Chancellor's praise in front of so many onlookers was wrong.
Mothma nodded slowly, at first saying nothing. Unlike the others, she seemed to be considering his words, looking for the meaning behind them. That would be difficult, considering even Luke wasn't sure of the whole of his intentions.
And yet, it seemed she found her answer. Mothma smiled sadly and turned askance, beckoning to him. "Please, would you join me?"
Luke moved to do as she asked, but then stopped and looked at Evaan. She looked back at him but made no attempt to follow. Evidently, she didn't think the invitation extended to her. As much as Luke wanted to think this wasn't about him, he had to admit that Verlaine was probably right – although he doubted the Chancellor would object if she joined him.
Apprehensive, he approached Mothma and joined her in walking down the hallway. The rest of the procession, which had previously clustered tightly around the chancellor, gave them a wide circle of space to speak.
"Mister Skywalker, I admire your sense of priority. I can think of many members of the Alliance – good people whom I would trust with my life – that, had they accomplished what you have, would have forgotten the sacrifices that helped them to their overnight fame." The Chancellor offered him an understanding nod. "Indeed, you reached my point before I could broach the subject myself. It was those unfortunate sacrifices I hoped to speak of."
"One of the things that you aren't told about fighting for what is right…" she began, her voice measured and soft. "Is what you might see on the way to accomplishing those goals; Terrible violence, loved-ones' lives cut short and the bodies of both friends and foes alike gathered in horrifying numbers. It can… and often is… very traumatic."
Luke blinked. Mothma spoke with such poise, but her message was poignantly direct. "You think I might be traumatized, ma'am?"
"I think that it never hurts to undergo an examination, especially after significant events."
"…Like the Death Star."
"Like the Death Star," Mothma agreed. "The station had, by our estimation, a crew of at least one million people, and we expect that a not-insignificant amount of that crew must now be dead. Some people might find that… upsetting."
"I've… I've just been thinking about that," Luke said, feeling it was best to leave it at that. He felt reassured that the Chancellor didn't seem to share Evaan's starker, less forgiving mindset.
"I would be surprised if you hadn't," Mothma replied. "And that's why I must make of you… a rather unusual request."
Luke was silent, not knowing what to say, and so she continued.
"The means by which we fight the Empire – or, indeed, accomplish any of our goals – are… not always intuitive. Sometimes, they are so unintuitive that they even seem contrary, or self-defeating." Mothma paused, and Luke expected that she was about to reach the point of their conversation.
"So, if I were to ask you if you wanted to avoid being put in situations in the future where you had to take so many lives to save your friends…" She trailed off, looking at him expectantly.
"I would say yes," Luke responded, wary that such a question felt extremely loaded. "Strongly."
"And I would tell you that as long as it holds power, the Empire will continue to build superweapons; ones that will carry a great many crewmembers and kill as indiscriminately as the Death Star did in destroying Alderaan – unless we continue to stop them."
"I see," Luke said, although really he didn't understand how this played back into her request.
"And I would go on to say that, therefore, in order to avoid killing so many circumstantially involved personnel, we would need to remove the Empire's ability to keep building superweapons and growing their fleet."
"That sounds a lot like just toppling the Empire, Ma'am," Luke said.
"It is exactly that," Mothma nodded. "But the longer it takes, the more death there will be along the way."
"And how would I be able to speed it up?" Luke sincerely hoped she wasn't going to suggest his piloting was the answer.
"Well, that's where the matter of counter-intuitive methods arises," the Chancellor said. Luke felt a knot form in his stomach, and one hand reflexively fell to touch at the lightsaber that hung from his belt. He knew what the contrary method for preventing deaths would be. What else could it be?
"If we can increase recruitment by any means necessary, we can crew more ships, fight more aggressively, and take on more significant engagements," the Chancellor continued. "With greater numbers we would not only increase our odds of being victorious, but also shorten the conflict and save more lives in the grand scheme of things."
That wasn't quite what Luke had expected. Enlisting more civilians – people like him, really – into the war… endangering more lives to try and win quickly…
"I… I see how that could be called counter-intuitive," he said.
"Indeed. But, hoping you follow my line of reasoning, if I were to ask you to lend your face; your name; perhaps even voice for our recruitment efforts, with that goal in mind… would you be willing to do that, for the Alliance?"
Luke turned his eyes down, examining the floor plates passing beneath his feet as he contemplated her request.
Truth be told, if the Chancellor hadn't put so much emphasis on the seriousness of her proposal, he would have agreed without a second thought. Now, it seemed like something that demanded proper consideration. Letting the rebellion use his face for recruitment posters – maybe his name too. He might have to record lines. Could he do that?
There would probably be a lot of focus on the battle over the Death Star. It would make him a target, but…would that really change much? He might have the benefit of anonymity outside the Rebellion, but whether he agreed or didn't, the Imperials would eventually know who had stopped their ultimate weapon. Too many people in the Alliance knew the truth for it to stay there. Word would get out, and being used as a symbol for recruitment would be nothing to the Empire compared to crippling their prized battle station.
But was the Chancellor right? Did he believe her when she said that bringing more into the Rebel cause would save lives in the long run? More soldiers meant more battles. More battles meant more death. But more soldiers also meant more victories… he had no idea. Mothma was clearly more experienced than him, but could she really know that for sure?
"I'm not sure," he finally said. "I need to think about it some more."
"I understand," Mothma said, and when Luke looked at her, she offered him a reassuring smile. "I'm not at liberty to discuss our tactics in open spaces, but I believe we have some time before I would need to call on you for your answer."
"Thank you." Luke nodded, and then – becoming aware of a sense of urgency from those around them, said "Oh, I probably shouldn't keep you from the others."
The Chancellor, however, seemed troubled. Luke glanced around, and realized that the sense of urgency did not come from the ring of Rebel leaders encircling them, but from the many crew members that flowed around them. He couldn't make out any individual conversation, but the tones of everyone speaking sounded alarmed, or surprised. Was the fleet under attack?
Luke looked around at the constant stream of crew flowing around them and – catching a flash of flight-suit-orange – spied Wedge Antilles weaving his way through the hallway.
"Wedge!" he called, waving one hand for visibility. "What's going on?"
"I'm not sure!" the pilot shouted back, pushing through the flow of people until he reached their group. "There's something happening. I'm not sure what but it's got everyone distracted. Just heard two members of the crew saying that everyone was heading for the gallery."
Luke's stomach seized again. Whatever that was, he had serious doubts it was good. He looked to Chancellor Mothma, who in turn nodded and gestured to the rest of the group. They began to move again, the space that had been given for their conversation contracting back into a cluster as they joined the crew.
Their procession followed the flow of people to the end of the hall and to the left, then to the right a few meters later. There, they found the corridor was already packed with people, all of them converging on a set of double doors that let into the ship's forward galley. Along the way, he kept spying familiar faces in the crush of people; mostly personnel that had been evacuated from the Yavin system.
The going was slow, and their group became fractured in their attempts to wind in between the members of the ship's crew. The others in the crowd – recognizing figures like Mothma, Dodonna, Leia, and the various other members of the Rebel leadership – pressed themselves to the side as best they could to offer passage.
Eventually, having lost track of half the people he'd began the journey with, Luke managed to squeeze through the opening into the gallery, which was also packed full of onlookers.
He saw Leia and Evaan ahead – somehow – both of them still moving through the crowd, so Luke followed them. As he did, he looked around the gallery. It was an artefact of the ship's origins as a luxury liner; the three-story high space now serving as an atrium, rather than the shopping promenade it had been designed as. The walkways that wrapped the room on the floors above were likewise brimming with people, and every eye was pointed expectantly at a hologram being projected from a ceiling emitter in the centre of the space.
The hologram looked like it could be a static image, showing six stern-looking humans in Imperial officer's uniforms, arranged in trios on either side of the image. In the centre, a plain lectern stood unoccupied. Behind that was what looked like a plain stretch of starship bulkhead with the Imperial symbol on it. Or… no… projected onto it. The setup in the holo looked extremely ad-hoc, especially for a force as massive and powerful as the Empire.
Reaching where Leia and Evaan had stopped, Luke found the princess engaged in a hushed conversation with Han. The smuggler glanced at him as the conversation ended, one eyebrow raised.
"You cooled your jets yet?" he asked.
Luke rolled his eyes, but nodded, then murmured "What's going on?"
"Don't know," Han replied. "Been talking with a guy from comms who said that this was forwarded from Mon Cala, and that it was sent through the Holonet's emergency broadcast system. Feed's been going for two minutes now and it's just those officers. Not sure what they're waiting for."
"Huh." Luke scanned the collection of stern Imperial faces. He had never seen much Imperial propaganda on Tatooine and had no idea if he was meant to recognize any of them.
"But that is interesting," Han continued, pointing at the centre of the holo.
Between the two lines of hard-eyed humanoids was the vacant centre lectern, and behind it was a holoprojector inserting a graphic in front of a blank starship bulkhead. It was the classic Imperial circle, but – alongside the basic script for 'All Glory to the Empire' wrapping around either side of the circle, there was a word – a name of some sort – repeated once each along its upper and lower curves.
EMCOMREIS. What was that? An acronym?
"Something related to COMPNOR?" Han mused, but Luke didn't even know what that was.
He felt achingly aware of how little he knew of the Empire's structure. He didn't think many people would understand the extent of the Imperial government, but the Empire's presence on Tatooine had been so minimal – with the planet practically run by the Hutts – that Luke felt his understanding of the Empire's bureaucracy was seriously lacking.
"Never heard of it before," Han continued. "Might be new."
There was some movement on the feed, and yet another officer stepped into view. If the holonet feed hadn't already been unusual, the man's appearance put things squarely in the territory of strange. His movements seemed laboured, and even in profile it could be seen that his face was marred with bruises that were only partially covered by stage makeup. The complexity of his rank plate and the strange cylinders that accompanied it implied – to Luke, at least – that he held seniority, which was affirmed when he positioned himself behind the lectern and turned to the holorecorder.
The officer's face was haggard, with a strong, broad jawline and a hawkish topology to his nose, cheeks, and brow that – when combined with his sideburns and pomaded receding hairline – drew the eye toward his large forehead. Luke absorbed all that at a glance, and then found his eyes drawn to the officer's most distinguishing feature; the rows of metal sutures embedded in the skin of his neck and a latticework of external stent supports that ran the length of his trachea. The skin around the durasteel strictures was angry and inflamed. Looking at that along with the bruising on the officer's face it seemed obvious that whatever injuries the man had suffered, they were recent.
Leia drew a sharp breath. "I know him. Admiral Motti. He was on the Death Star bridge, when they destroyed Alderaan." Her face had taken on a ghostly pallor. "He's still alive?!"
"That is Admiral Conan Antonio Motti," Mon Mothma's voice came from behind them, and Luke turned to look at her, only just realizing she was there. "He's a member of the Imperial Joint Chiefs, and a man of unbridled ambition."
"He should be dead," Leia hissed, barely audible. "Everyone from the bridge should be dead."
Luke blinked twice and looked back at the feed. This man was meant to be dead? Luke was supposed to have killed him? That… that was… wrong. Nobody was meant to be dead.
Leia continued to whisper beside him, seemingly talking to herself. "I wonder if any of the others survived…" She looked even more ashen than she had just a moment ago.
"What do you think this is about?" He asked, but before anyone could respond, the Admiral began to speak.
"Loyal citizens of the Empire, I come before you with grim news. Our beloved Emperor Palpatine has been deceived, swayed by the lies of conceited autocrats and subversive fanatics." His voice was wet and gravelly, though not in a way that seemed natural. It was as if there were some physical obstruction in his throat – surely it was related to the sutures.
"At this very moment their machinations set our glorious Empire astray from the path of order and progress. With my own eyes, I have seen the spiteful depths of their avarice and arrogance bring about the ruin of one of the Empire's greatest works. An endeavour two decades in the making, turned to dust in an instant by the ambition of Moff Tarkin, and the zealotry of the abomination, Darth Vader.
"These insidious figures have inserted themselves into the preeminent heights of Imperial power. They place themselves at the flanks of our glorious Emperor's throne, where they whisper their untruths and sow the seeds of deception. Their lies erode the sacrosanctity of Imperial rule and twist the will of our beloved Emperor Palpatine against the true needs of the galaxy. So deeply are they embedded into the highest echelons of the Empire, that no power may remove them other than a brave intervention by the loyal men and women of the Imperial Navy."
The Admiral's face – which until this point had been a mask of furious resolve – became sombre. "It is with a heavy heart that I shoulder this burden, for the good of the Empire. I pledge to you, loyal citizens, that I will free our Emperor from the black hand of these malignant foes, and deliver our Empire from those who, in the pursuit of their own interests, would strangle the very life from it." As he said this, Motti raised his free hand, fingers curled in a mimicry of the act of throttling someone. Then they curled into a fist, which the Admiral pressed against his chest.
"All glory to the Empire."
He held the pose for a few seconds while the officers arrayed on either side of the frame mirrored the salute. The motion was performed with the polished synchronization of military men, but the gesture itself was foreign to Luke, and he suspected that it wasn't one normally used in the Empire.
Then the feed jumped with a moment of corruption as it cut to an enlarged image of the Imperial icon. The spoked-wheel symbol was wrapped above and below by galactic basic lettering:
'EMCOMREIS: The Emergency Commission for the Restoration of Imperial Security'.
The briefing room was filled with a stunned silence for several seconds after the feed finished. Surprisingly, it was Wedge who spoke first.
"Does that mean what I think it means?"
The silence broke immediately, the gallery filling with the babble of a hundred confused conversations.
Had that been… a declaration of war? Imperial admirals breaking away from the Empire? Now, of all times? That should have lifted his spirits. Even if he didn't know anything about diplomacy or tactics, Luke understood that it would be an advantage. So why had the Admiral's words brought the hollowness back, so much stronger than before? Why did it make him feel so awful?
Luke looked at Han. His brow was furrowed in thought, but he didn't seem upset at all. Leia's ashen pallor was fading as she and Evaan held a hushed discussion, and both women had matching gleams in their eyes that Luke thought looked… conspiratorial. All three looked as if they hadn't been affected by the announcement anywhere near the way Luke had.
And despite the fact that they were standing in a room crowded with at least a thousand people, it made Luke feel more alone than ever before.
A hand touched lightly upon his shoulder, and then the Chancellor's voice came from behind him, a private murmur directly into his ear that seemed to come from so far away.
"I do not wish to hurry you, Mister Skywalker, but it seems that I may need your answer much sooner than anticipated."
