The vicious hum came for his head and he jerked back, parried, struck. Wove around, sliced, struck. Twirled his saber, swept, struck.

Mara paused, backing away from him slowly and panting, her yellow gaze on his blade. She spun her saber loosely.

"Only one blade out," Luke noted with a slight smile, nodding to the double-bladed hilt, the singular beam of red.

Mara bared her teeth in what might've been a grin. "You think I need two?"

The strike came faster than the eye could see. He slid his left foot back, one hand out for balance, and let his lightsaber bend to the left, the red blades screeching at the contact. His prosthetic hand, on the hilt, strained less than his flesh hand might have.

He shoved his right foot back and leapt forwards slightly, both hands on the hilt—

The clash was deafening.

Han, sitting off to the side of the training room and eyeing the sabers nervously, swore.

Luke just grinned and backed off again, saber dancing in a mesmerising pattern that sure enough drew Mara's eye and then—

The Force barrelled into her chest and she was thrown back—

But she somersaulted and landed on her feet, spinning fast enough to duck as he drove his saber down two-handed, weave as he slashed to the side.

A kick to his wrist and his saber went flying. Han ducked, swearing.

Luke swore himself, rolled

Mara held out her hand, but Luke intercepted his saber just before it landed in her hand and lit it even before he'd caught it, bringing it high in a clumsy parry, low in a slightly more elegant one.

Mara pushed at their crossed sabers—though what she was trying to accomplish, when Luke was taller and stronger, he didn't understand. He pushed back, and then she whispered mockingly, "Showing off for Solo?"

He tossed his head back and laughed.

Yanked back as she slashed at the flesh of his throat, sliced down in a spinning curve, forcing her to retreat, but he didn't stop laughing.

"There's no Inquisitors around for me to worry about humiliating you in front of this time, Mara," he told her, still smiling. "No holding back now."

She. . . paused, momentarily, at his half-confession, then wrinkled her nose in what might've been irritation, what might've been a frustrated gratitude.

Her eyes, when they glinted, were more green than yellow. "Then actually bring it on," she challenged, "Luke."

He did.

There was some lag in his prosthetic hand—weight and density and coordination he was still, weeks and months later, adjusting to—but the lightsaber was more blur than beam and he slashed

She blocked the blow, but her arms trembled with the effort.

He hammered down and she couldn't deflect so she blocked again, gritting her teeth against the strain—

Their lightsabers were on low-power training mode. He whacked her wrist; when she yelped at the slight burn it gave her, he yanked the saber out of her hand and brought it to.

Both blades shimmered at her throat.

She stared up at him, panting, something like fear in her gaze. He could see his own face reflected in the eyes, along with the cross of sabers, red against green.

He stepped back and lowered them, offering her hers back. "Well fought."

She took it. "Well fought." The fear had vanished now, that grin returned. "Though I'm fairly sure that when we agreed to lightsaber sparring, no mention of practising the incorporation of Force blows was made."

It was a weak argument, he knew, one that would've got her shredded in the Inquisitorius.

He was glad she felt she could make it with him.

He shrugged and smiled sweetly. "All's fair."

Two seconds later he was on his back on the floor, the wind knocked out of him, and Mara had not even touched him.

He burst out laughing again. Han was already howling.

After a moment of tense staring, Luke pushed himself back to his feet, and Mara laughed too.


There was an irate banging on the 'fresher door. "Hurry up, Skywalker! You're not the only one who has burns to treat!"

Luke rolled his eyes but smiled to himself, slapping the last bacta patch on his arm, where the sleeve of his loose training top had been scorched through, and headed out.

Mara was leaning against the wall outside, glaring at the door. Then flushed a little when Luke came out and her eye line was on his chest. She pushed off and shoved past him. "About time."

"Love you too," he drawled without thinking, then kicked himself when he heard her silence—and processed what he'd said.

He cursed under his breath until he got to his bedroom. Han, sitting on the sofa in the main living area, gave him a look.

Luke ignored him.

The door to his bedroom hissed open and he wasted no time in collapsing onto the bed, sweaty training clothes and all. He placed his lightsaber neatly on the bedside table and grimaced.

Mara wasn't Leia. He didn't want her to be Leia. Sparring with his sister and sparring with the watchdog the Emperor had set on him were two very different things, and he didn't want them to be similar at all.

And they weren't.

But when he hadn't seen Leia in months, when there was a physical, gaping hole in his chest, when he'd never, ever felt so lonely. . .

He'd even half-adopted Han, for Force's sake, and he was certain there was something fishy going on with him.

He needed—

He didn't know what he needed.

No. He did.

He needed Leia.

But. . . until he could escape, or find a way to destroy the Death Star, or whatever reason he was staying here that suddenly seemed so meaningless, he couldn't.

But, he supposed, until then. . .

"Ben?" he asked, hoping against all hope that the ghost would actually respond this time. "Ben? Can you—" He choked up. "Is Leia alright? Can you tell me if Leia's alright?"

No response.

The adrenaline from earlier, the ache in his muscles, the exhaustion, barrelled into him at once. He closed his eyes against the tears welling; they spilled down anyway, wetting the pillow underneath his cheek.

"Ben. . ." he whispered. "You have to tell me. . ."

Nothing. Not a whisper of wind—just still, stale air, like there always was on a Star Destroyer. Luke had been here for three days and he already hated it.

They'd be arriving tomorrow. Setting up a trap, extra guards, for Leia. Betraying his sister and his mother and the cause he'd promised himself he wouldn't abandon even more.

"Ben?"

Ben wasn't coming.

Or if he was, he wasn't going to tell him anything that would help. Ben was useless, for all his talk about passing messages and being the light in the dark, because it was so, so dark here

Did Leia even know he hadn't betrayed her?

Did Leia even know what his plan was?

Did his mother? Did Ahsoka? Had they just written him off as a lost cause and resolved to abandon him, worse, to kill him on sight for turning on them, for lying, for being weak where they were strong—

He sobbed.

They needed to know.

He needed to tell them.

He needed to make sure they knew.

But how?

Ben wouldn't pass it on. Ben was clearly unreliable. Ben had abandoned him here. When could he—

He could stay behind at Cymoon, surely? Tell Leia in person, when she came, so she could read the truth in his heart and his soul and his tears? Leave with her, and hope she had it in her to forgive him for walking away when he had the chance to tear down a Star, because he loved and missed her too much—

No.

No, he couldn't leave. He had to see this through.

He— he couldn't stay behind to tell her in person. Not if all this sacrifice had to mean something.

Which meant. . .

A message?

Luke frowned.

It. . . it was risky. If the message was found, it could compromise everything, everything, but—

But there was no point in discovering a flaw, in finding the plans, or anything, if no one in the Rebellion believed he was in earnest, was there?

He needed them to understand.

He could add whatever security to the message—the holo?—he could. A password only Leia would know, and then that would be enough. It would have to be enough. It could work.

It could work.

He just had to be careful.

He glanced around the room. They would arrive at Cymoon tomorrow; if that was to be the place he passed it on, he'd need to make the message fast. There was a holorecorder available—a small one, with a self-destruct feature that he knew most high-ranking Imperials used. It was so much more reliable to turn evidence to dust rather than risk some slicer dug something up even after the memory was wiped.

And of course, as a military-grade holorecorder should, it had the option for password encryption.

Luke thought for a moment, then smiled.

He knew exactly what to use.


". . .I love you."

Blast. He was crying.

He made to wipe his tears away surreptitiously, but he knew it was a lost cause and he didn't have time to make another recording; it would just have to stay in. But if Ahsoka—or worse, his mother—saw it, thought it was unprofessional, decided they shouldn't be putting their faith in this child

It didn't matter.

What mattered was that the message got to Leia.

What mattered was that she knew he loved her, and—

"I miss you," he added, "so much. I— I'll see you soon, I promise, after I succeed in this." He smiled. "I promise.

"Now, I'm gonna leave this somewhere on Cymoon for you to find, because Tarkin received intelligence that you would be there and is going there to shore up its defences again the attack, and I promise you I'll do my best to sabotage them. I— yeah." He shrugged. "I promise."

He swallowed. "I'll see you—"

There was a loud rap on the door. Luke nearly jumped out of his skin.

"Kid! That grumpy old governor guy wants to see you in his office before we arrive. Some sorta briefing."

Luke relaxed. Marginally. Tried to smile at Han's levity, but failed. "I'll be out in a second."

He looked at the holoprojector and mouthed I love you.

Then he switched it off, extracted the chip with the message on it, and hit a button.

The holoprojector burnt and crumpled on his bedroom floor.


Cymoon 1 looked just as dystopian as it had in the holos.

Luke had managed to claim a seat right next to the shuttle passenger area's only window and he was using it gratuitously to glare at the moon's ravaged surface. From space, it was just a sickening mottled brown, but as they approached further Luke saw it was actually plains upon plains of refuse fields, filled to the brim with industrial waste. The factory itself was sprawling, as large as the Imperial Palace, and smoke belched from the top, an unsettling yellowish colour. Luke didn't want to think about the air quality here; the briefing had said it was breathable to humans, but that didn't mean a human should breathe it.

He swallowed as they set down and the sound of the comm crackled back from the cockpit: "Welcome to the Corellian Industrial Cluster, Grand Moff Tarkin. Welcome to Cymoon One."

The voice was familiar.

Sure enough, the moment Luke stepped out of the shuttle behind Tarkin, Mara and Han flanking him on either side, he had to bite back a cough. Director Vilrein, coming out of the factory proper to meet them on the landing pad, slid her eyes to him in a sympathetic look.

"Governor Tarkin," she greeted solemnly, standing to attention, her hands behind her back. "No entourage today?"

He waved off her pleasantries and started walking; she jogged to catch up. "I have no need for an entourage unless it is for show, Director, you know that. And we are not here for show today. We are here to get you on track."

"Yes, Governor," she said. Her gaze flicked to Luke, but she said nothing.

Tarkin caught it anyway. "This is Luke, my newest aide. I trust you're already familiar with him?"

Cold touched the back of Luke's mind and suddenly Luke's reservations about this whole situation tripled.

His message weighed heavily in his pocket.

He managed to force out stiffly, "It's nice to see you again, Director."

"The pleasure's all mine." Her gaze slid back to Tarkin. He was tapping his foot.

"Shall we go?" he said.

She dipped her head. "Of course, sir. Right this way are the main reactors. . ."

"Fully automated, I presume?"

There was a joke in Tarkin's tone. Vilrein paused, and stiffened.

Why. . .?

Luke frowned, closed his eyes briefly, and reached out with the Force. He still felt that coldness—and, knowing what he did, he had an unfortunate suspicion of who they were—but he reached beyond it, to—

The main reactor.

No, the corridors nearby. The individual people, milling around the factory's centre like stars around a sun, and what their minds felt like.

Han nudged him. "Kid?"

Luke opened his eyes again.

Slaves.

The Empire may call it fully automated. . . but it was run on slaves.

Just like his grandmother, who'd given him the Skywalker name—

No. He shied away from the thoughts brewing in his mind, just as Mara gave him an odd look. He couldn't do that.

Leia wasn't here to have his back, and he couldn't risk this role. He couldn't give up everything for one harebrained scheme destined to fail on his own—

But his sister could.

His sister was coming.

She would see the slaves, and would free them. He knew that with a bone-deep certainty.

Which meant. . .

He smiled. A plan was starting to form.


They'd reached Vilrein's office when Tarkin finally dropped his thin veneer of disdain to reveal the thick, plain scorn underneath it. He sat in the chair opposite her desk and she sat in her seat; Luke was left standing to the side, trying to look like he was paying attention.

"Now that we've discussed the new plan of action to ensure this factory is producing enough weapons for the Empire's most lucrative project," Tarkin said, "I trust you will convey this to Overseer Aggadeen and ensure he follows it?"

She nodded, lips pinched. "Of course, sir."

"I must applaud your work, Director, I have never seen such high rates of production in all the facilities you are responsible for."

She dipped her head again. "Thank you, sir."

"Now, however," he leaned forwards, "we need to talk about security."

A faint frown creased her brow—the only indication of her sudden confusion. "As I and Overseer Aggadeen demonstrated to you during the tour, we take our security very seriously. Our status as the biggest arms factory in the galaxy is shown by the fact that we have some of the heaviest security in the factory as well—"

"And yet the Rebels think they can overcome it." Tarkin drummed his fingers against the wood of the desk.

She was taken aback. "Then they are insane."

"Indeed." His fingers stopped drumming. "But lunatics often pose far more of a threat than we would like to believe, and this is not a fanciful hope of theirs. Our intelligence suggests that this is one of Amidala's full-blown, exquisitely organised operations, and that means there is something in your security that she thinks she can exploit."

His hand tightened into a fist on the table. "So it is our job to patch up that breach."

"Of course, Governor," she said. "What do you have in mind?"

He smiled, and gestured to Luke. "My aide's twin sister is one of the Rebels who will be coming in this. . . attack force. I trust you remember her?"

Her eyes blew wide, honey skin gone wan. "Miss Leia defected?"

"She did," Luke said coldly. "And she seeks to wreak more havoc on the Empire than she has already caused. " He smiled. There was nothing warm in that, either. "We would prefer it if she was stopped."

"Will you be staying behind to fight her?" Vilrein challenged.

Luke shrank back the tiniest bit. "No."

"He is needed elsewhere," Tarkin cut in smoothly. "I need him."

Vilrein didn't back down.

"Miss Leia is a Force wielder, and a powerful one at that," she hissed. "We have excellent defences against Rebels, against Jedi, against droids. Not against Darth Vader's daughter."

"My father is only a man," Luke said. "And my sister is barely a woman."

Vilrein's dark eyes were fixed on his—at the loose collar of his Imperial uniform.

"Your top button is undone," she told him flatly.

Luke flinched and clenched his fists.

"Indeed you do not have the resources to fight such a person," Tarkin informed her. "So I will be shoring them up."

That cold was back, and it was nipping at the back of Luke's neck, like a lightsaber about to behead him.

The door hissed open. Three black-clad figures stood in the doorway, helmets closed.

Vilrein's skin paled even further.

"The Emperor, in his gracious goodwill and desire for this factory to remain in Imperial hands," Tarkin said, "has even allowed me to send for his personal Jedi hunters."

The Inquisitors were staring at Luke. Their stares felt nothing like Mara's, even as he could feel her, outside, glaring at her brethren; they were utterly, utterly ruthless.

"My sister is no Jedi," he said.

There was a vindictive smile in the voice of. . . whichever one of them spoke. "She's close enough."

Vilrein shrank back into her chair.

Tarkin ordered, "His Majesty wants Miss Leia alive. Slaughter the others, protect this factory to the best of your ability—but capture her, alive. She is not yours to kill."

His grey gaze moved to Luke.

"He is saving that privilege for someone else."


They returned to the Sovereign II for that night cycle, with the intent of spending a second day implementing the changes and overseeing the Inquisitors' ingratiation into the factory's workings before they left for Coruscant to report back to Palpatine on their progress. He'd been so insistent that he check up on Luke in person.

Luke barely managed to make it to their quarters before he started shaking.

Han saw. His hand sprang out, hovering above his shoulder. "Kid. . .?"

"She's a traitor," Mara told him, perching herself on the arm of one of the sofas and looking down her nose at him. "You shouldn't be upset about the concept of her capture—of her being brought to justice."

She's my sister.

And this is not justice.

". . .yes," he forced out of his throat. The word burned— "But what Tarkin implied. . . I can't—"

"If you can't kill her, someone else will, and they won't make it quick."

Luke glared. "Don't you have to sharpen your knives in your room or something?"

She didn't say anything. Just left, like he'd asked her to.

Han actually rubbed his shoulder this time. "So, kid. . . I take it your sister turned on you?"

Luke gave a bitter laugh. "It's a long story."

"We've got time."

"A long story I don't want to tell." He looked at Han. "And we need to work on your shielding some more."

"Huh? Why?"

"Because when it's just me and Mara, it's fine—we can shut you out, afford you basic respect and privacy. But those Inquisitors are nearby now. They will sniff out the fact that you're hiding something within moments and they will tear your mind open to find it."

Han yanked his hand back. "Hiding something. . ."

"I'm not an idiot, Han." Luke sighed. "Do you want to learn how to shield some more or not?"

Han glared.

Luke shrugged. "Fine, don't blame me when the Inquisitors rip your mind open and—"

"Alright alright, I'll do it." Han sat himself down on the sofa opposite Luke.

Raising his eyebrows, Luke said, "Close your eyes then."

Han dutifully did so. With a groan and a grimace.

Luke closed his eyes too, and reached out.

Don't panic at the sound of my voice, he said.

Han's chin snapped upwards. "You—"

"This is a shielding lesson," Luke said aloud. "If you fail, it may hurt."

Now, please try not to react this time. This is a shielding lesson, but I need to talk to you first.

"I—"

No, don't say anything aloud. You're not Force-sensitive; you won't be able to respond to me, and you are shielding, somewhat. I can't read your thoughts in enough detail to receive words. All I ask you to do is listen.

Intense irritation flooded him, and that time Luke did pick up a few words. Blasted space sorcerers, this is not what I signed up for when Chewie—

Without taking the time to wonder who Chewie was, Luke said, Han. . .

I need your help.


This was the last day the esteemed Governor Tarkin was meant to be here. Elayn was glad.

Tarkin was an overly harsh taskmaster; she'd always thought that, and clearly Miss Leia agreed, by the incensed message she'd sent after she'd discovered Elayn's demotion, and the barely-repressed rage she'd held at Kuat. Her brother must be no different—the twins had been ruthlessly in sync and effective when dealing with Trite, never seeming to disagree—but if that was the case then he'd clearly grown more diplomatic in the last eight or nine months. The only reaction he ever gave to. . . any given disgusting word out of Tarkin's mouth was a slight tightening around the eyes, a slight twitch of the lips.

But it was the last day they were due to be here, and Tarkin was currently talking to the platoons of guards he'd brought to reinforce them—as well as those Inquisitors. Elayn frowned.

Well, even Luke had looked displeased when he saw them, but she was more concerned about what they meant.

Leia was coming here?

Leia had defected?

And, most surprisingly: Luke hadn't?

She swallowed as her step faltered, and she glanced left and right down the corridor, as though someone may have heard her thoughts. Impossible, of course, except—

Except that her factory was overrun with Inquisitors now, wasn't it?

But she— she couldn't believe that the twins would be split on such a polarising issue. Not with how they'd worked together before. Which meant. . .

It meant that either Leia was a spy, or—

Or Luke was.

And if Leia was a spy, why would the Empire need to send Darth Vader's daughter, the presumed heir to the Empire, probably the most valuable hostage in the galaxy, to the heart of a Rebellion that would slit her throat?

It made no sense.

And Elayn had seen how both the twins had reacted to the reveal of Project Stardust at Kuat—

She paused.

She was heading outside, to where Tarkin was giving his. . . rallying speech. . . to the troops, and she was running late anyway; she needed to hurry. But she had to walk past the slaves' quarters to get there, as much as she usually tried to avoid them. (She'd be glad when she was off this moon, this hellish excuse for a factory, everything that Imperial imperialism was—)

There was someone at the door to the slaves' quarters.

Someone who was, she could tell, decidedly not a slave.

"Excuse me?" she called out. The man froze, half-turned towards her, and she got a good look at his face.

It was Luke's bodyguard. She'd never got his name, but she was sure it was him.

"Director Vilrein!" he greeted, doing a decent impression of a military bow and walking off before she could ask him anything else.

She frowned at his back, debating shouting him down, then glanced at the door.

She pushed through it.

The sight and smell of the living conditions smacked her in the face and she grimaced, making a mental note to petition Aggadeen—again—over treatment of his fully automated system. Not that she thought he would listen.

Everyone tensed up when she entered, but her gaze instantly fell on a knot of people in the corner, crouched around one person's sleeping mat. The person in question, a Rodian whose green head was almost totally swallowed by the crowd, ducked down further as she approached.

The knot disbanded as the slaves hunched and struggled to get away from her—she swallowed tightly—and left the Rodian sitting on his own, long fingers curled around. . . something.

Something that glinted.

She stopped in front of him, and held her hand out. "May I see it?"

For a moment, he looked like he was about to resist. Then, without meeting her gaze, he dropped it into her palm.

It was a datachip.

Elayn frowned, deeply. What had Luke's bodyguard been doing, handing the slaves a datachip. . .? They had no access to computer terminals; to pass it onto someone else? Who could they pass it onto? Who was Luke's bodyguard spying on him for?

Who could possibly come to Cymoon anytime soon to pick it up—?

Oh.

Her eyes wide, she turned on her heel and strode out, to the office a few corridors down. She was going to be very late, but she shut the door behind her, then locked it. Jabbed the chip into the computer terminal and stared at the holo that flickered to life.

The fuzzy text that it showed demanded a code to hear the message. Before she could even begin to wonder what the code was supposed to be, a voice rang out and gave the clue, nonsensical to her, but probably everything the intended recipient would need:

"It's horrendous. Disgusting. Abominable."

She stared at it.

That voice— That was Luke speaking.

It looped. "It's horrendous. Disgusting. Abominable."

So Luke had given the message to his bodyguard to pass on, while he stood next to Tarkin briefing the Inquisitors? Who was the message even for?

It was really not very difficult to work out who the message was for.

"It's horrendous. Disgusting. Abominable."

So Luke had tried to pass a message to his sister via the slaves—had known that she was coming, and she would be out to free them.

So Luke was a defector—a traitor—too.

Elayn tilted her head.

Luke and Leia had promoted her, before Tarkin had come along. They had shown competence and. . . reliability, despite their age; a dissatisfaction with certain aspects of the Empire that had never quite sat right with her, either. They had given her their patronage, and any officer in the Imperial ranks knew what patronage meant.

So, she supposed, if she was truly loyal to the Empire she served, she'd rather have the twins calling the shots, not locked up behind bars or executed, than kowtow to a lord, or a governor.

Or even an emperor.

Slipping the message into her pocket, she went to apologise to Tarkin for being late.