Luke shifted in his spot next to all the other new pilots heading to Skystrike, staring out the window as they approached the station. The system's twin suns appeared a pale blue from space but loomed bright orange through the atmosphere. They reminded him that Tatooine had had twin suns, too. He remembered.
He remember—vaguely—always going out to watch them set. His uncle would go with him, because it wasn't safe for a little boy to be out in the sands alone, and he'd sit on Owen's lap as they sank closer to the horizon, Tatooine's temperatures dropping from uncomfortably hot to uncomfortably cold in the span of a few heartbeats.
Sometimes, Luke remembered, Uncle Owen had told him stories about his grandmother while they watched. He would have to ask his father how many of them had been true.
The shuttle landed, and there was the hiss of the landing ramp descending. Luke and the other cadets rose to their feet carefully, throwing glances at the officer escorting them, then made to march out in a single line when he waved his hand.
Luke let his mind wander as they waited in line for the black astromech next to the flight officer to verify each person's credentials. The Force. . . shimmered here, and he made him uneasy; he tried to peer into the future, see if he could work out the source of the disturbance, but he found nothing. Something was coming, though—something important. Important for the galaxy. . . and for him.
What it was, he couldn't tell. But he could tell that much.
The astromech beeped its high-pitched affirmative, and the queue moved forwards.
It continued like that for a while, enough that Luke almost relaxed. This wasn't the first infiltration mission he'd been on; sure, it was his first without Leia, but he could do it, and he would do it well—
The astromech booped a low-pitched negative, and the cadet directly in front of Luke stiffened slightly.
Luke frowned behind his TIE pilot's helmet; strange, he sensed a surge of unusually strong fear from her. . .
"There seems to be a problem with your credentials, cadet," the deck officer said. "Security!"
"Wait!" The cadet held out her hands, her voice panicked. "That— um, that happens from. . . time to time—can I see it?"
Luke's eyes narrowed, and so did the deck officer's, but he handed over the card.
"Yeah, these new ID cards can be temperamental," she said almost conversationally, reaching up to lift her helmet from her head. Luke could tell the deck officer and troopers standing on either side of him were just itching to snap about regulations, but they were tired, and this was taking too long as it was.
The cadet lifted her ID card up to her mouth and blew on it, hard. Luke was just as baffled as the officer for a moment—then she tilted her head to the side so she could rub the card against the shoulder of her uniform, and Luke caught sight of her face.
He wouldn't have recognised her, if he wasn't already half-expecting it.
Their intelligence suggested the cell which would try to get the traitors out was the cell for the Lothal sector, containing Phoenix Squadron and—most pertinently—the Ghost crew. Luke had familiarised himself with all their faces on the trip to Corellia; he recognised her within two heartbeats.
Sabine Wren. Mandalorian, nineteen years old, and an ex-Imperial cadet and weapons specialist for the Rebellion.
This was who would be mounting the rescue mission.
Luke fought to keep his face blank, for all that it was hidden by the mask. It helped keep his thoughts in check as well, though they still whirled at the speed of light.
He briefly considered calling her out there and then, getting her arrested on the spot; the capture of Sabine Wren would demoralise the Spectres and be a significant blow to the Rebellion. But common sense caught up to him just as quickly.
If he did that, called her out here, whatever Rebel sympathisers were here would go to ground. In particular, he'd never gain their trust soon enough to find out how many there were. The same principle applied to the possibility of reporting her later, in the shelter of anonymity: he still needed her to draw them out for him. Especially if the ISB were coming to openly investigate while he was here. It would certainly be faster and less complicated than trying to pretend he was a Rebel sympathiser himself; at least coming from her, it would be genuine.
So he'd keep quiet for now. Bide his time. At least when the ISB arrived, Governor Pryce was aware of his placement and would listen to whatever information he had to give her.
Wren handed back her ID card. This time, when the droid received it, it was an affirmative.
The officer handed it back to her. "Proceed."
"Thank you, sir."
Even as he stepped up to hand over his credentials, Luke watched her retreating back.
He still couldn't shake the sense that everything was going to go horribly, horribly wrong.
Or, worse—everything was going to go right.
With Luke gone, Leia was left to investigate on her own. Palpatine had scheduled some sort of briefing with her and her father that afternoon, but she woke up to the dawn light crystallising on her eyelashes, and was too restless to remain in the apartment all day.
So she made up something to do.
The central power grid had been one of the places listed on the datachip, she remembered—it had been Luke's biggest concern. She understood his fears, but military matters weren't her forte; they hadn't been what she was concerned about herself at the time.
Now, though. . . she needed something to do, and that seemed as good a place as any to start.
It was refreshing, taking her speeder out of the small area of Coruscant that their apartment and the Palace were located in. That was where the Senate convened, that was where most of her work was done, that was where she departed from when she needed to get off-world; it was familiar, but repetitive. Walking through the lower levels of Coruscant was a different story—and was often a better way to engage with what the populace actually thought.
She parked the speeder along one of the walkways a little way from the entrance to the maintenance centre and strolled along. Casting her mind out like a net and reeling in the vague sense of people's thoughts and feelings had always worked for her before, and it worked now: it was slow, vague, but there was a deep-seated disgruntlement, desperation. . . dissatisfaction.
Fear. All-encompassing, all-permeating, all-powerful.
And most of it seemed to be directed at the Imperial Palace, visible from a large area of Coruscant, shining like a gem levels and levels above.
Oh, not consciously; a lot of it seemed to be just people's general discontentment with life, and resenting the people who were content with it—the sort of people who lived atop those gem-like skyscrapers. But there was, in the adults an awareness that their suffering was the Empire's fault. In one way, or another.
For one brief moment of weakness, she thought about Tsabin, and the comm frequency she'd been given. . .
Leia frowned, and tried to look at this tactfully. Tactically, it would be easier to assert control as Empress once their coup happened if these people had some sort of loyalty to the Empire—and, if loyalty and Empire were too much of a stretch, some sort of awareness that supporting her could lead to rewards.
Perhaps she and Luke should look into running some sort of charity scheme; that might do the job.
She shook the thoughts away. That was for after, when she had the galaxy at her feet. She could do whatever she wanted, change whatever she saw fit, when that happened.
The thought nearly made her stop in her tracks. She hissed out a breath.
She could be Empress before the year was out.
She'd been peripherally aware of the possibility her whole life—well, some snide part of her reminded her, what you thought was your whole life—but it had never seemed real. Palpatine, decrepit as he was, had always had a vitality that it clear that he was not leaving anytime soon. She could train up to it. . . there'd always been time before, someone to measure herself against and keep her in check when her ideas got the better of her. . .
And soon that someone might be gone.
Soon, she'd have no master but herself.
She wasn't sure if the feeling in her chest was ambition or fear. She was afraid—the idea of ruling an entire galaxy was terrifying—but there was a small thrill that accompanied it. She couldn't help but revel in the idea of her sitting on that throne, her sitting under that ceiling of stars, her making the calls and changing Palpatine's short-sighted, self-serving policies, ending the war with the Rebellion through treaties or force or the Force, changing the galaxy for the better—
And maybe even reducing the fear along the way.
Leia wasn't stupid. She knew Palpatine enjoyed that fear. He and her father drew off of it, became stronger through it. She herself did so during battle, or when she was doing her job. The investigation with Kuat had been rife with it, and she'd used that; it had sharpened her senses, given her clarity, helped her pick apart inconsistencies and irregularities that she wouldn't have noticed otherwise.
If a few people had died because she was. . . overly harsh, while in that state, then so be it. It was a means to an end.
But swamping your entire populace with that sort of fear? Was that practical? How were they supposed to develop any sort of patriotism or loyalty if they were constantly kept in poverty to reduce the threat?
And hadn't Luke and Leia been raised in that same poverty, for several years?
The memories Vader had returned to them were fuzzy, as any six-year-old child's no doubt were, but she could remember that. Tatooine was not a rich planet, and moisture farmers were not rich people; had events been ever so slightly different, they'd be in a very different situation right now.
And if they hadn't had the Force, like these people didn't?
Her father would say that it was the will of the Force that they had this power; they were given it to use it. And she would. But either her having the Force was pure biological happenstance from being the daughter of one of the most powerful Force users to ever live, or the Force had actively decided to bring her into existence, as it decided to do all things. And hadn't it also brought these people into existence as well?
Either way, her point remained: it could just as easily be her and her brother in that situation. It had been, for some time.
So Leia wanted to change it. And this coup could and would grant her the power to do so.
"Halt!"
She'd arrived at the central power grid.
The three stormtroopers standing in the entrance levelled their blasters on her, set to stun. Understandable: she hadn't called in her impromptu inspection, and her visage was nowhere near as iconic as her father's death mask. For practical reasons, of course, but still. There was no reason these troopers should know who she was.
"Let us see your authorisation."
That didn't stop her from raising her eyebrows, almost amused at the self-importance in his tone. In truth, she was already plotting how she would make it through this corridor to sabotage the main reactor if she was a Rebel, and one thing was perfectly clear: this place needed much better security.
Three pompous stormtroopers weren't gonna hold back an army of fanatical insurgents.
She lifted her hands very slowly and reached for her pocket holding her authorisation. She felt the immediate tension in the troopers' minds when they spotted the lightsaber now prominent at her hip, then she was switching on the holo and a pale blue rectangle materialised in the air before them.
They blanched at her level of clearance. They almost tripped over themselves to get out of the way.
"Ah—sorry, ma'am," one of them said. Not the original speaker; he seemed to have been struck dumb. "If I may presume to ask, what were you planning on doing here? I can escort you if—"
"That would be useful, Captain," she said coldly, plucking his rank out of his mind—his hoisted blaster blocked his rank plaque. He blanched again. "Especially seeing as I'm here to examine the effectiveness of the security here."
She strode forward, already done with this conversation.
"Of course, ma'am." He hurried to keep up. "If I may show you, the control room is this way—"
Luke may not like being forced to wake up before 0600, but he wasn't unused to it. Nor were any of the other cadets, clearly; everyone was fully awake within moments of the bell, already bustling to get ready.
They were in the simulator room on the dot. Luke was near the middle of the line as they stood to attention, and Commandant Goran stalked up and down it, inspecting them for some trait Luke didn't know. Goran barely flinched when he looked over him; Luke assumed he wasn't in the small circle of people who knew which cadet was the spy, or even that there was a spy at all.
"Ria Talla," Goran snapped eventually. Wren jerked—that must be her alias. "Darred Antares." That was Luke's. "You're up first. Enter the pods; Captain Skerris will fly as your opponent."
Both of them had their helmets on, but Luke exchanged a brief glance with Wren before climbing the steps into the pods.
He couldn't stop the sigh of relief as he dropped into the pilot's seat. It had been too long since he'd been in the cockpit of a starfighter; while he wasn't actually flying through space or atmosphere like he'd been itching to do for ages, at least he could enjoy this part of the mission.
Especially if they actually got to fly at some point. . .
He watched the screen in front of him light up with a vista of outer space, and let himself be distracted for a moment by the stars he could see, blue and purple and yellow against the blackness—
The comm system let out a squawk. "This is TIE SS-36, on patrol at point 149, awaiting wingman."
"Copy that, Three-Six," Luke replied, taking hold of the controls. He wasn't just letting himself drift anymore; he looked at the patrol he'd been ordered to take, and shifted on course with it. "This is TIE SS-23, approaching."
Their orders came through a moment later: "Comm/scan is tracking Rebel ships entering sector two. Move to intercept."
"Acknowledged." Then, because he had to build a rapport with the Rebel sympathisers anyway, and it wouldn't hurt to build one with her— "Let's go, Three-Six."
He knew it had worked—at least in part—when she said, "Right behind you, Two-Three."
They moved forwards for several minutes, and Luke—despite knowing it wasn't real—felt his nerves ratchet. Space was eerily quiet despite the buzz of the comms, and while he knew it was because sound didn't travel in space anyway, that didn't mean it didn't put him on edge.
"You see anything, Three Six?"
"Hmm, nothing yet," came the reply. "Wait—four ships coming in at point eight four seven."
"Agh, I see them." Luke wrinkled his nose, despite himself. "Y-wings." Heavy shields, turret guns; he listed off their assets in his head, but didn't say them aloud. Sabine Wren, of all people, should already know them. "Command, how should we proceed?"
"Eliminate all targets."
They did.
Ecstatic to finally get to fly something fast, Luke shot off. He made sure to keep an eye on Wren, to be a good wingman, but he ripped into those Y-wings with a fierce abandon, and took pleasure in the orange and yellow explosions that fogged his screen. Wren was a decent pilot herself, she took down quite a few of her own, but he heard slightly nervous laughter over the comm.
"Wow, you're amazing, Two-Three!" A part of her voice sounded unenthusiastic, more dreading—imagine having to pit Phoenix Squadron against him?
He knew his father had personally attacked the Ghost and Phoenix Squadron once, and nearly annihilated them all. He wondered if that was what she thinking of, now.
He hummed his wordless response as another Y-wing exploded, then said, "Good kill, Three-Six."
"One more and we're even, Two-Three." The joking tone was back.
"Not quite."
The last Y-wing exploded into fire and dust, and the crackle of the commandant's voice came over the comms. "Three-Six and Two-Three, proceed to the transmitted coordinates and destroy the Rebel vessel located there."
"Yes, sir."
They turned their TIE fighters as one to head to the coordinates that appeared on his display, and Luke frowned as they approached a vessel there. It was a transport, quite large, and smoke was billowing from some of the spots where it'd been hit.
"Hmm," Wren said, "no power readings. . . It's disabled."
Another comm chimed in then, a recorded message in the simulator but clearly one meant to be taken as the actual truth for this circumstance: "We surrender! Please, do not fire. We surrender! We are heavily damaged and have wounded aboard. Repeat: We surrender!"
Luke nodded. Alright—he knew how Imperial protocol went, they just had to keep it there, shoot if it made any last ditch attempts at escape, and wait for a boarding party—
"Destroy the vessel as ordered."
Luke frowned, cutting off even Wren's objections as he said, "But Imperial protocol states that—"
"Destroy the vessel as ordered, Two-Three!"
Luke swallowed. "Yes, sir."
"Is breaking protocol part of the test?" he heard Wren mutter. Despite himself, he winced; for a Rebel infiltrator, she was not being subtle.
"What was that, Three-Six?" There was a warning in the commandant's tone.
"Uh, comm malfunction, sir," Luke cut in before she could argue back and blow his entire mission with her petty squabble. "Destroying the vessel now—"
"Hold on, new target coming in on point one seven."
Point one seven. . .? Luke tilted his head and his eyes blew wide at the ship barrelling straight for them. He knew that shape: the hexagonal design, the turrets; he'd never seen it in person, but he'd read plenty of reports—
"Look out!"
Wren's warning came too late; he'd hesitated too long. The simulated Ghost swept in and blasted both their ships to pieces.
The screen went dark. Luke scowled and slumped back in the seat, furious with himself—he should have seen that coming!—but more furious with the commandant for distracting him.
"Simulation complete. Cadets, exit your pods."
The pod turned around him, and he made to climb out, walking down the metal steps propped outside it, slowly and methodically.
He'd just removed his helmet when he heard, "What kind of Rebel ship was that? That was no transport?"
He almost snorted—she knew better than anyone what sort of Rebel ship that was—but they were interrupted by the hiss of the third pod opening, and the rhythmic thump of their opponent descending the steps.
"Ah, but you are wrong, cadet," Skerris said. "That was a transport called the Ghost, which has been modified for combat."
Luke flicked his gaze back to Wren, who lifted her chin slightly.
"The Rebels are a desperate group of extremists," Skerris continued, removing his helmet to narrow his eyes at her. "They'll fight with any ship, using any means necessary to undermine our authority. That is why orders must be followed without question. Insubordination like yours," he treated Luke to a withering glance at that, as well, "will get you and your wingman killed."
Luke didn't necessarily disagree.
He knew that orders had to be followed. His father, as much as he'd lied about other things, had taught him that: sometimes if one cog broke or did something wrong, the whole machine ground to a halt.
But that was why the Imperial protocol existed.
There were too many corrupt and incompetent officers in the military. They got there through power and family connections, were only there for power, and they never knew what they were doing. But things still moved more or less smoothly, so long as they had unimportant jobs and followed protocol.
When they gave orders that conflicted with protocol, tragedies happened. When the soldiers under them questioned those orders, sometimes, tragedies were averted. He'd seen it.
If you were going to break the protocol you'd drilled into them from day one, you'd better have a good reason for it. You'd better be expecting questions, if you respected your troops in any way, or wanted them to respect you.
Perhaps they didn't.
Perhaps that was the problem.
But if they had fired on that vessel and destroyed it before a boarding party arrived, what information could they hope to glean? They were fighting to end a war, not prolong it. Killing enemies who begged for mercy should be a last resort, modified transports or no modified transports.
And yet, he had to think, this Empire seems awfully fond of it.
Skerris looked him in the eye. "Understood?"
Luke lowered his gaze, but inside he was burning. "Yes, sir." Understood, but not agreed.
Wren said nothing.
"Understood, cadet?"
She lifted her chin further, and looked him dead in the eye. Challenge and belligerence was in every syllable as she ground out, "Yes. Sir."
Skerris nodded once, then he, Goran and the other instructors turned to invite the next pairing up to the pods.
"Wedge Antilles, Biggs Darklighter."
Luke tried not to raise his eyebrows at that last name—wasn't that the person Leia said she'd spoken to on Tatooine?—and watched the two dark-haired men climb the steps in their place.
Wren made to turn away, but he murmured, "I see you don't just take risks when you're flying."
"Well I trust my gut," she bit out, quietly. Everyone else was focused on Antilles and Darklighter's run, but it was best to be careful. "And I know right from wrong."
"I respect that." He was surprised to find it was true—he may disagree with most of her and her Rebellion's 'morals', but this one they concurred on.
"But," he added, watching Antilles and Darklighter destroy the Rebel vessel when first ordered, their nervousness and reluctance stark in the Force, "I get the feeling a lot of people here won't."