The introductory. . . gala. . . only lasted an hour or so. After that, they were due for a tour.
Luke joined up with Mara and Han after he drifted away from Erso. Han jabbed him in the back. "What was that about?"
Luke ignored him.
"Seriously, Skywalker," Mara hissed, "you can't just tell us not to come near you."
"Oh, Jade, I didn't realise you cared."
"You know I don't care shavit if you die or not, but if this gets back to the Emperor—"
"I will take full blame for it."
"That's exactly—" She was cut off by Tarkin beginning. . . whatever spiel he was beginning now. Her huff of outrage was amusing; Luke laughed.
Tarkin's cold gaze snapped to his. "Luke?"
He stiffened. His breathing suddenly came quick.
Everyone was looking at him.
Tarkin strode forwards; the crowd parted for him like a sea breaking around a rock.
"Is something," he asked, coldly and clearly, "amusing?"
He'd been angry at Luke since Coruscant. Since Cymoon.
He was suspicious.
Luke hadn't been responsible for the failure at Cymoon. But Tarkin didn't know that.
And Tarkin being suspicious would be a severe problem anyway.
"No, sir," Luke said.
Tarkin stalked ever closer, and Luke's automatically backed away, until he bumped into some of the troopers escorting them.
He stopped right in front of him, so close Luke felt cramped; he towered over Luke enough that his neck twinged, trying to keep their gazes locked. After a heartbeat, Luke realised that maybe it would've shown more deference to lower his eyes, but Luke was not deferent.
He never had been—no, he had been in the cell, at the end, but only so he could get out, that was calculated, that wasn't him—
"The respect you show leaves much to be desired," Tarkin informed him. "And now you are embarrassing yourself"—and me, went the unspoken implication—"in one of the most important scientific research bases in the Empire."
Luke swallowed, and said nothing. He didn't care what Tarkin did to him; he didn't care about any of the people here.
"I would've expected such behaviour from your father," Tarkin continued; Luke tried not to clench his fists, "but even he would be disgusted to see what his son has become, I feel."
"I don't care what my father thinks anymore." Luke could taste the lie on his tongue.
Tarkin ignored him. "Even your sister, traitor though she was, knew how to pretend to be courteous."
Luke still said nothing.
He was a bully. He was trying to get a rise out of him. He was trying to exert power over him, belittle them, the way he always had, because he was insecure about his place in the Empire in comparison to them and he hated that they would always be greater—no; better—than he, and—
Luke could keep his silence.
But then Tarkin ordered, "Do up your shirt collar and at least try to look presentable."
And Luke froze.
"Move ahead, Krennic," Tarkin said, "I will meet you at the entrance to the laboratories."
Luke was distantly aware of people moving, leaving, but he kept his gaze fixed on Tarkin's flinty eyes.
He did not reach for his collar.
"I gave you an order, boy. You are here to serve and assist me, are you not?"
Luke bit out, "I'm not here for you at all."
Quick as a striking viper, Tarkin's hand lashed up to seize the collar himself, forcing it together. Luke choked; for a moment his gaze went dark—
—he could hear high winds in his ears—
—he couldn't breathe—
He couldn't breathe; he could scream. But he couldn't even hear that scream; it vanished into the void that yawned before his eyes, the dizzying heights and fathoms that kicked underneath his feet—
And then he fell, lightning splintering up his arm, and he hit solid ground hard. Lightning splintered again; he called out, hoarse, but moving his face hurt and something hot dripped onto his lips, into his mouth. He tasted blood.
When he threw his eyes open, Tarkin was staggering to his feet on the other side of corridor, holding his shoulder oddly.
He glared at Luke, and that lightning splintered again.
Luke rolled onto his back, gaze catching on a flash of red, brown—Mara and Han, also caught in that. . . blast he'd thrown out—and then on the looming ivory figure right next to him.
A gloved hand forced him upright, and a stun baton was shoved into his back again—not activated, this time. Luke took it as the threat it was, but he didn't stop moving.
He still couldn't breathe.
He crawled away from the trooper and vomited. Blood dripped from his face into the pool.
He fumbled with filthy hands to undo his collar and planted his palms on the cool floor, dragging in deep, ragged breaths. . .
"How pathetic." Tarkin glanced at the puddle of. . . fluids. . . Luke was half-sitting in a curled his lip. "Get him back to the Sovereign; I'll deal with him later, once he's cleaned up. Troopers," he turned on his heel to stride in the direction the others had gone, "with me."
A few minutes of cacophonous clattering, and then Luke was alone with his bodyguards.
Mara grimaced at the vomit, but made to move forwards. Han nonetheless beat her to it, and grabbed Luke's wrist before he'd even expected it, hauling him to his feet.
"C'mon now, kid. . ."
Luke nearly collapsed again, there, but there was an arm around his shoulders. He opened his mouth to speak, say anything, but something warm and wet dribbled out to splatter the front of his uniform.
"Alright," Han said. He sounded like he was forcing himself to be calm. "Now, let's get you back to—"
"There's a refresher with medical supplies nearby," someone said.
It took Luke a few seconds to recognise the voice—deep, worn, a Core accent that managed to not sound posh—and by then the man was on his other side, guiding him a little way down the corridor to where a grey door hissed open and the gleaming tiles of a fresher stabbed into his eyes.
Erso guided him in, Han falling back when it was clear that the three of them couldn't all push through the door at once. The fresher was small, as well; Han glanced around, saw there was little space for a third person in there, and cast Luke a querying look.
Luke nodded. It would be best if he and Mara just waited outside.
The door shut again behind him, and Luke eased himself to sit beside it, the floor and wall cool against his back. He was right next to the toilet, should he feel like retching again, but he didn't; he felt wrung out and hollow, like if someone were to tap him, he'd ring like an empty glass.
Erso turned towards him from the sink holding damp flimsi towels, and gently pressed some into Luke's hands. "Try to wipe clean your face off a bit. I'll do your front."
And he did, very carefully, with the rusty experience of someone who'd had a child once upon a time. The water wetted the fabric of his shirt; Luke could feel the cold against his chest, and he was grateful for it. It grounded him.
The winds were receding.
He slowly, ever so slowly, dabbed at his face. His nose was leaking blood—probably from the hit to the wall or the floor he'd got when the trooper had jabbed that baton into him—and he did his best to tilt his head, blot out the blood, the way he was supposed to. He wasn't sure how successful he was being.
It still dribbled onto his upper lip and around, like a child's crude drawing of a moustache. He could taste copper on his tongue.
"Thank you," he said thickly, at last. "Shouldn't you be with. . .?"
"I told them I wasn't feeling well," Erso replied, standing again to cast the dirtied towels into the bin. "My team can give the tour of the labs perfectly well without me."
Luke kept the towel over his nose and didn't look at Erso. "I'm sorry."
"Oh no." He shook his head. "Don't apologise, Skywalker. That was—"
"Tarkin was putting me in my place. I shouldn't have spoken out, I know." He was an idiot, he should've known that was coming, he should've just taken the punishment and tried to keep his head down, idiot, idiot, idiot— "His job is to watch me. I shouldn't have been surprised when he did what the rest of that entails."
Erso's hands had stilled in the sink. The water ran pink, then clear, but he didn't twitch to move them out of it.
"Why would you need watching?" Erso said carefully. He was no politician, Luke could tell—and he could tell that Erso knew that too.
He'd been burned by Imperial power play before.
He could not afford to be caught unawares again.
"My sister defected to the Rebellion." Luke snorted, and gagged on blood. Tears sprouted in his eyes; he doubted they were all from pain. "They want to make sure I'm not a traitor too."
Erso finally moved his hands: quick, direct, methodical movements, turning off the tap and drying his hands almost curtly.
"And," he asked, "are you?"
Luke paused.
When the world blurred in his eyes and liquid that certainly wasn't blood soaked his towel, he wasn't faking it.
"I—" He choked on the word, a fresh flood of tears hooked forth, "I— I miss her."
He did.
He missed her so much.
He crumpled inwards and then there was an awkward hand on his shoulder.
"I—" Erso swallowed. "I miss my family, too. For what it's worth. It makes it. . . difficult to work, or focus on work, or—"
Luke nodded. "Yeah."
"My wife is dead, and I don't know where my daughter is," Erso went on, "and I haven't seen either of them in over a decade, when I was taken to work here—"
Luke's hand on his stilled his rambling.
Luke gave him another look loaded with tears, but his gaze flicked to the door. A warning.
Erso nodded once, and shut his mouth. "I—" He floundered. "I miss them too. But. . . we have to go on."
Then, after a moment, "How old are you, Luke?"
"Eighteen," Luke said distantly. His birthday—the day after he'd last seen Erso, in fact—seemed so far away.
Erso tried to smile. "Even younger than my daughter would be. . ."
He reached for towel tightly clenched in Luke's hands and pried it out of them to toss that in the bin as well. Then he studied Luke, as an entirety: the bruises around his eyes, the bloodstains and tearstains, the damp patch scraped across his front.
"Tarkin," he said fiercely, "is a monster."
Luke's breath caught in his throat.
So Erso was still vehement about what he believed. Not resigned, not beaten down.
Luke stretched out wavering senses, ignoring the shudder that racked his frame as he touched the Force again—still coiled, still hot, like a detonator primed to blow—and hoping that Erso put it down to what he'd just said.
There were no holocams in the fresher. (Luke would be concerned if there were.) And Mara and Han were not listening at the door; Han was pacing outside, and Mara was. . . just waiting, leaning against the wall opposite.
She responded to the brush of his presence with an eagerness that belied her (ever so faint) concern, already pushing off the wall—
No, he tried to project, not yet, I'm not ready yet.
And, after a moment of irritated hesitation, she settled back against the wall to wait.
Luke took a deep breath and croaked aloud: "He is."
Then he dared to say—still in a whisper, a whisper to himself, the weapon he chose to wield—"And they're going to put him in charge of— of this planet killer, and he's going to hurt so many people, and there's nothing I can do to stop it—"
He froze.
"Him," he amended. "Stop him."
But Erso was staring at him, now.
Staring at the abused, traumatised boy who hated Tarkin so much.
At the open, earnest and hurt boy who loved his Rebel sister so much.
At the teenage boy, even younger than his daughter, who wanted to do something to fight back so much.
Luke could sense Erso's unease, fear, suspicion. But he could also sense his desperation, and. . . his trust.
He desperately, desperately wanted to trust someone again.
Erso said, "What if there was?"
"You two spent a lot of time in there," Han remarked as they finally got back to their quarters on the Sovereign II.
Luke shrugged, wound taut as a cable. "There was a lot of blood." He shuddered as he glanced down at himself, and made a beeline to his rooms—to change into something clean. "There was a lot of—"
"We get it, Skywalker," Mara said. She yanked her lightsaber to hand and tossed it in the air a few times, something that Luke would've classed as a nervous habit had it been anyone else. "Now get changed and meet back out here in ten minutes, we have another sparring session."
Luke froze.
"No," he said.
Mara frowned.
"I'm not sparring. Not today." He added hastily, "I'm sorry."
But she just shook it off—or, tried to—with a, "Suit yourself," and stalked off to train on her own.
Which was why, when Luke re-emerged from the fresher, wearing new clothes and pink-skinned from how fiercely he'd tried to scrub away the lingering sense of filth, he and Han were alone in their quarters.
He sat down on the sofa opposite Han and glanced down at his datapad—Tarkin and his aides had sent him piles upon piles of paperwork to deal with, probably as a punishment for his composure. He gave a minute sigh, and got to work.
Han, reading something of his own opposite him, tapped his foot.
Luke raised his eyebrows but barely glanced up. "Are you alright?"
"Me?" Han faked surprise. "Of course, kid—shouldn't I be asking you? You're the one who just—"
"I'm not alright, and I doubt I will be anytime soon," Luke said baldly. "I'd have thought that would be obvious, considering the circumstances under which we met. But you have been on edge—not alright—also since we met, and I find myself curious as to why."
Han tried to bluff, "I worry about you."
And indeed, the golden hues that stained the Force around him declared truth. Yet. . .
"You're not lying—I know you're not, don't look so shocked—but you're omitting something, too."
Han gulped and accused, "I thought you said you'd taught me how to shield—to stop myself from being an open book to you sorcerers."
"I did. I can't read your thoughts—not without effort that they're not worth—" Han glowered; Luke smiled teasingly. "—but I can read your emotions."
"So what's the point?"
"Other people won't be able to do that," Luke said, and smiled. The thought was a lot sadder than he'd first realised. "I just have a gift."
Han grumbled.
Luke's voice hardened, but not unkindly. "So? What other secrets are you keeping?"
"Who says I'm keeping secrets?"
"You've never been to an Imperial academy in your life—I can tell."
"Hey, I've been to an Imperial academy!"
"Sorry." Luke's lips twitched. "You've never graduated from an Imperial academy in your life; you probably got kicked out early for whatever reason, or deserted. You're not nearly snooty enough for them."
Despite himself, Han barked a laugh. "If that ain't right."
"So? Care to explain how you came to be bodyguard to someone as high up as this?"
"You? High up?" Han snorted. "You're a glorified secretary, kid."
"I am," Luke conceded. "But do you have any idea who my father is? Or even who Mara and I have to answer to, every time we head back to Coruscant?"
Han said warily, "Who?"
Luke leaned back. "I'll explain everything to you if you explain everything to me."
Han huffed.
Luke's smile dropped a little. "So?"
The silence was deafening. as he waited for a reply, Luke picked through every holocam in the room; sure enough, they were positioned in such a way that they could see them, but they were image-only, and didn't get a clear enough view of their faces to read their lips.
Finally, after a pregnant pause, Han said, "I'm not a bodyguard—or even an Imperial."
"I got that," Luke drawled.
"I'm a smuggler," Han snapped. "A pilot."
The ferocity—the pride—in that last word spoke to Luke. He understood that. Flying was like breathing.
"So how did you end up on Coruscant?"
"My co-pilot," Han said, frustrated, "a Wookiee, he. . . The Empire got him, when he was visiting family on Kashyyyk. Took him as a slave and shipped him off somewhere, and the odds might not be great but I wasn't gonna leave him to his fate, so I paid an old con-artist friend of mine to get me a fake ID chip, a fake rank, and suddenly I was Captain Han Solo—not that I wasn't always Captain Han Solo, but now I was a soldier of the Empire, and I figured I could start trying to find him, to bust him out."
He shrugged. "I found him, too, on Kessel. I got the right mine and everything—K76, where they take a lot of Wookiees—but then I got put on a list for decent work or something, and got whisked halfway across the galaxy because some redhead decided that this fake soldier from a posting on a spice planet would be a great bodyguard, and now," he shrugged, "here I am."
Luke nodded. "I see."
Han gave him a look. "So? We had a deal, kid; what's your story?"
"My sister and I defected," Luke said baldly, "served as spies for the Rebellion for a few months before we were uncovered. She got out. I didn't. My own father handed me over to the Emperor's mercy and I was tortured. Now I'm here, having repented, with Tarkin meant to keep an eye on me to check that I don't harbour any more anti-Imperial sympathies."
Han's face had drained of colour from Luke's first sentence; now he looked like he was barely staying upright.
"And," he asked carefully, even his lips wan, "do you?"
Luke shrugged. "Do you want to get out and save your friend?"
"Is that a yes?"
"Because I can get you out of here, if you really want; I just need one favour of you in return. Will you do it?"
Han just narrowed his eyes. "What favour?"
"When you escape," Luke leaned forwards, gaze intense. "When you escape—and you will escape, I know just how to make it happen. . .
"You have to take one other person with you."
Mara returned soon after they'd struck their deal, face glistening with sweat. She lingered for just enough time to inform Luke that Tarkin had returned, and wanted to see him immediately, before she headed for the fresher.
Luke walked to Tarkin's office with bated breath. This. . . could go wrong.
This could go so, so wrong.
But it was the only plan he had.
He had to see it through.
He knocked on Tarkin's door hesitantly, then more firmly. He tried not to wince at the brisk voice that ordered him inside.
The moment he entered, Tarkin's gaze fell on his neck, but neither he nor Luke commented on the cape he wore, covering that area neatly, hiding whether or not his top button was done up.
The star systems sewn onto the fabric gave him warmth, strength, as he finally croaked out: "I. . . apologise for my behaviour, Governor Tarkin." The words tasted bitter, but sounded sweet. "It was wrong of me. I'm too used to the naive privilege and ignorance my father granted me and my sister"—he wanted to gag—"but that is no excuse. My sister may have taken her arrogance as an excuse to rebel; I should not follow her example."
Tarkin surveyed him for a few moments before his thin lips stretched into a smile.
"Well," he said, standing from behind his desk to tower over Luke, "I am glad that I did not have to resort to the honeyed words or empty persuasions to get you to see sense; I always thought your father was far too soft on the two of you. The Emperor put you under my responsibility, and he was clearly right to do so—I should never have doubted that the lash would be less effective than the lure."
Luke was going to throttle him—
"Well, if that's all, I believe my aides have already sent you the necessary tasks for today, so I suggest you don't waste my time any longer—"
"Wait, sir," Luke said, and he did not have to fake the way his voice caught in his throat. "I have. . . one other thing to tell you about."
Tarkin settled back into the chair behind his desk, already turning his attention away. "Oh?"
"It's about Galen Erso, sir."
Tarkin's hand stilled.
He said, "Go on."
Luke swallowed. "He helped me—cleaned me up after the. . . incident, got me medical supplies. And while he did, he was voicing a few. . . anti-Imperial sentiments, so I pushed him further—"
"Get to the point."
"He confessed to sabotaging the Death Star," Luke said in a rush. "I don't know how, or to what extent—he only said that he knew that eventually the Empire would work out how to do it without him, so he took the chance to work on it and sabotage what he could, and build in a way to destroy it."
Tarkin had gone entirely still, like a nexu scenting prey.
"And— I didn't know what to say, so I kept playing along to keep him talking, but he clammed up anyway, and I thought that if Krennic hasn't already noticed that he has a traitor on his team—"
"Krennic," Tarkin hissed. It was the first word he'd said in minutes. "He has been unfit for his position from the moment he received it, and now his idiocy may have cost us everything."
He stood again. "Thank you for bringing this to me, Luke. Galen Erso will be apprehended and brought on board here. A confession will be extracted from him, and we will return to Coruscant at once to demonstrate to the Emperor the far reaching consequences of Krennic's inadequacy."
Luke said, "I'm glad to have been of help, sir," and prayed he hadn't just made a horrible mistake.
Tarkin worked fast. It wasn't long before Luke, monitoring the Force and also the newsfeed on his datapad in equal measure, became aware of a bloodied and dismayed man being brought on board. He was escorted down to the detention cells immediately; it was only shortly after that Luke and Han—Mara being away temporarily to report to the Emperor on Luke's compliance, no doubt—received Tarkin's summons to go down there themselves.
To gloat.
Luke found it distasteful, but he knew what he had to do.
It was funny what doors could be opened when your procession was headed by Grand Moff Tarkin himself: upon entry to the detention level, none of them were counted, or questioned, or asked to remove their weapons. Luke had every intention of using this to his full advantage.
He kept a grip on the minds of Tarkin's escort—just enough to daze them—and noticed that Krennic was suspiciously absent. He let himself smile: so. Tarkin was spiteful enough for this sort of petty power play. Luke would make sure to at least try to use that, later.
Erso's face when Tarkin stepped into his cell, arrogant and snooty and smug, closely followed by Luke, was heartbreaking. Luke desperately tried not to meet his gaze—doing what he wanted to do most, saying it'll be alright, would give him away faster than Tarkin could scream Rebel, but he wouldn't be able to look Erso in the eye without giving him some sort of reassurance.
So he looked at the wall instead.
If Tarkin noticed, he would make his displeasure known later; he was focused on savouring the moment.
"Galen Erso." He smirked. "Do you recall how hard Krennic fought to get you on the team, nearly twenty years ago? He was insistent that no one could construct the Death Star without you."
"He was right," Erso tried to shoot back, but his voice wavered.
Tarkin tutted. "That's not what you told my young protégé here—you made yourself indispensable; you were not already so."
Erso's gaze moved to Luke, and stayed there. Luke did not meet it.
"Tell me about what it was like to work under Krennic," Tarkin coaxed. "Tell me more about how much you got away with, how much treason festered in your project, and I may be able to grant you mercy."
"I may be a poor liar, Grand Moff," Erso said. His voice was already hoarse. "But I am no longer the naive man I was, living on Coruscant twenty years ago, and I know a good liar when I see one."
Tarkin smacked him.
The whack resounded in the cell; it was hard enough that Luke almost heard the crack as Erso's head snapped to the side, cheek already reddening.
"I hope, for your sake," Tarkin said pleasantly, "you will be more cooperative when I return." He straightened. "Luke. Come."
Luke followed him out of the cell. When they congregated in the hallway, Luke cast a glance around and saw no Han: good. Good. He was doing his part, then.
Luke just hoped he hadn't sent his friend to his death.
Tarkin, drunk on his own success and chances for self-advancement, didn't notice; the guards, gripped in Luke's Force-fuelled stupor, certainly didn't. But when they passed a hatch in the corridor, Luke sensed a grim, strained presence hanging between it.
Good.
Now, he just needed to hack a console and get into a position to help Han with the next phase.
Trash compactors stank and his arms were on fire.
Han heard the kid and the others pass by the hatch and leashed his grunt until they were long gone, hauling himself up by the very tips of his fingers. He kicked the hatch open, quietly, and clambered out, glancing down the corridor to the control room. None of the officers standing around there, chattering about something inane, heard a thing.
He left the hatch open behind him and crept down to the right cell. Which was it, which was it, which was it. . .
Cell. . . 6317? Was that right?
He hoped it was right.
He took a deep breath, and hit the button to release the door.
The moment it opened, a middle-aged man with a forlorn expression looked back at him. Bingo.
"Are you Galen Erso?" he hissed.
The man blinked at him, confusion eclipsing forlornness.
Han gritted his teeth, leaning in a little, "C'mon, it ain't a hard question—are you Galen Erso?"
Eventually, the man—with narrowed eyes—nodded. "Yes."
Han grinned, a little aggressively. "Then come with me. I'm busting you out."
"Is this some trick of Tarkin's?" Erso asked stubbornly. "Are you going to—"
"Oh, for the love of—" Han stalked forwards, careful not to let the door close behind him, and seized Erso's arm. "A friend of mine really wants you out, I'm getting rewarded to do it, so either come with me and escape or rot here; I escape either way."
Erso was suffering from a bad case of suspicion, but it wasn't the sharp or intelligent kind; as smart as the guy was, he looked really shaken.
Han supposed that after this trick the kid had pulled on him, he wasn't about to turn around and trust the next cute little face that seemed earnest.
Han flung his arms up. "I'm going, then, you can stay or—"
"Wait!" Erso scrambled after him.
"Keep your voice down," Han said, throwing a glance towards the control room as they entered the corridor. "Now, follow me."
He strode down the corridor, gaze tracking each garbage chute—first on the left, second on the left, third on the left—
"There you go," Han said, stopping to crouch over it and loosen the hatch. "This'll get us there."
"Get us where?" Erso asked.
Han grinned. "To the trash compactor nearest to our escape route, of course. Get in."
Erso hesitated—again; did this guy not realise they were escaping an Imperial warship?—then climbed into the chute and slid down. Han heard the faintest, "Ew," as he hit the bottom, then Han swung down after him, sure to close the hatch behind him.
They landed knee-deep in waste Han was trying not to think about. The lighting was very dim, and all red, but he was pretty sure Erso was giving him a judgemental look to rival Chewie's. "Now what?"
"Now, Erso—Galen, can I call you Galen?"
"You may," Erso said.
"Now, Galen, we wait for the kid to come through for us."
Galen gave him another look. "The kid?"
"Y'know. Short, blond-haired, blue-eyed, looks ready to cry or punch something at any moment. Luke Skywalker. That kid."
"You mean," Galen's voice broke, "the kid who turned me in?"
"I mean the kid who turned you in for the sake of sending me to get you out, yes." Han smiled winningly. Maybe if he seemed confident enough Galen wouldn't see how kriffing terrified he was. "He's gonna hack a console and open these doors any minute now—preferably before this compactor starts compacting—and then we're gonna run for it. Hangars with hyperdrive-equipped ships ain't far from here."
"And then where will we go?"
"The Dantooine sector. I'm supposed to drop you off there, where the Rebellion are supposed to be, so you can—well, the kid said so you can tell them what you told him, whatever that means. And then I'm free as a bird to go anywhere I want." To go find Chewie.
Galen was quiet for a moment. "And then the Rebels will be able to mount an attack on Scarif?"
. . .well. Sounds like Han Solo just got himself into much deeper poodoo than he'd thought.
"Sure?" He shrugged. "Whatever the message you gave the kid was. I just know—"
A grinding cut him off.
He flinched. Eyed the walls nervously, lest they start sweeping in to end his life in one almighty, embarrassing squash, but no—it was the door.
It was the door.
It screeched open to reveal a sliver of white light, a grey, unadorned, empty corridor beyond.
"Told you the kid would come through," Han said, and clambered towards the light.
The alarm reached them soon after Luke returned to his own quarters, awkward and jittery now that he was truly alone for the first time in weeks. When he arrived, Mara was sitting reading a report on one of the sofas in the main area, and she frowned at him.
"Where's Solo?"
Panic seized his throat, but he tried to keep calm, to keep up the act. He'd have to in front of Tarkin, anyway.
"I haven't seen him since we left the detention block. . ."
"Did you give him the slip?" Mara accused.
That was when the alarm blared. Someone had discovered Han and Erso missing.
"I think," Luke said, and the dread in his voice was not faked, only misplaced, "he gave me the slip."
They didn't bother waiting for the summons. They were up on the bridge within minutes, panting from the long journey.
"Luke," Tarkin snapped, "what is the meaning of this? Where is your guard?"
"I didn't notice his absence until moments before the alarm," Luke snapped back, then added—before he could be chastised—"sir. I came straight here."
"Why is your guard helping a condemned, self-confessed traitor to escape my ship?"
"I have no knowledge of any faults in his loyalty," Luke lied. He glanced sideways pointedly—to Mara. "I did not pick him out for the position."
Tarkin scoffed. "I will look into this later," he promised, glaring daggers. "If you are guilty of treason, boy, you know exactly what the consequences will be."
Luke flinched—violently. He took a full step back and Mara took a step forwards, angling her body slightly, as if to shield him.
"Perhaps you should focus on recapturing the traitors, Governor," she informed Tarkin, "rather than threatening beings I was assigned to protect."
"You were assigned to watch him, Inquisitor," Tarkin reminded her. Luke swallowed at the blatant confirmation of his suspicion. "And have no fear—we are taking action."
Luke looked beyond the viewports of the bridge, into the abyss of stars beyond.
A lambda shuttle, poorly shielded and sluggish, was trying to pick its way through a swarm of TIEs on its back. They were aiming to disable, not kill—Tarkin needed Erso alive for interrogation and testimony against Krennic, after all—but sparks still flashed all over the shuttle. Shocks rocked it. Luke's heart tried to grow wings and escape through his throat.
But Han was a good pilot, and he knew the advantages they had.
He wheeled around while the navigator calculated the coordinates, even as more and more vital and non-vital parts were shot off, sent spiralling into the dark.
And then there was a blink, a stretch of stars, and it was gone. A fire blossomed in its wake—the last non-vital piece blasted into oblivion—and Luke had an idea.
"They're dead," he announced. His voice was soulless.
Tarkin wasn't angry anymore. He was just at the end of his patience, intensely irritated, and ready to hurl Luke down a thousand steps. "They jumped to hyperspace, idiot boy."
"Yes," Luke said, "and with the damage they sustained—that last shot hit the area around their hyperdrive, I believe. . . the jump killed them. I sensed it."
He did not, in fact. Jumps to hyperspace took people lightyears away instantaneously, to a whole other dimension of physical matter, and they could not be sensed in the Force. But Tarkin, non-Force-sensitive as he was, did not know that. No one here did.
Except, he realised with dawning horror, Mara. Maybe, maybe, he'd convince her that such power to sense them even then was a Skywalker trait—
"He's right," Mara said. "I sensed it too."
Luke let out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding.
He did not look shocked, when he looked at her; that would've given him away. But he looked at her.
She just looked back.
"We will have to find you a new bodyguard the moment we return to Coruscant," Mara said when they re-entered their quarters. Luke was, inexplicably, exhausted. "The Emperor will not be pleased you have lost one so quickly, particularly one he advised against in the first place, but—"
"Wait." Luke paused before entering his bunkroom, spinning on his heel to stare at her. "Palpatine was against Han's appointment?"
"His Majesty, when he showed me the list of candidates pulled together from all walks of Imperial service, advised that I pick someone with more discipline and experience," Mara corrected. "He said that someone who'd proved their loyalty time and time again would be ideal, but I felt that. . . unorthodox as you and your sister have always been," she pursed her lips; whether it was to contain a smile or a sneer, he didn't know, "a more unorthodox bodyguard might suit you better."
Luke turned away from her to hide his smile, now. "Goodnight, Jade," he called over his shoulder.
She huffed quietly. "Goodnight, Skywalker."
