I'm not quite satisfied with Leia's first two scenes in this chapter, but I can't tell what the problem is. I think they feel a bit heavy-handed? Please let me know if you can work out what's wrong.

Inspecting the power grid's security was a short—and fairly depressing—affair. Leia was back at the Imperial Palace with plenty of time to spare, and spent a good few hours planning how she was going to improve the travesty that was security before heading to that oh-so-important meeting Palpatine had scheduled.

He was probably just going to cancel it just after they arrived, she grumbled to herself, citing important business he needed to get along with. It wouldn't be the first time, and it had never bothered Leia before—she'd figured there must be a good reason for it—but she no longer subscribed to that naive faith in him. Now she saw it for what it was: a blatant show of control over their time, and a just as blatant disrespect for it.

He enjoyed showing them how much power he had over the littlest things.

This time, though, he didn't cancel. Nor were Leia and Vader the only ones there: a good collection of Moffs and Governors surrounded the table, whether in the flesh or via holograms. She took her place in the conference two seats from Palpatine's right, her father in between them. At least, he was supposed to be between them. He always preferred to stand.

Tarkin sat on Palpatine's left; it was he who started the meeting off.

"My friends," he said, granting a nod to some of the more high-ranking governors but pointedly ignoring Leia's presence. Her blood boiled with the urge to snap his neck; he was always dismissive of her and Luke, always considered them beneath them, even after they'd saved his sorry backside for the umpteenth time. "I trust you have all been debriefed about the near-massacre that was the Kuat Uprising?"

Leia raised her eyebrows. No one had told her what this meeting would be about, and she'd confess to slight surprise at this topic.

"Thanks to Miss Leia and her brother, the situation was pacified." He did nod at her then, but she knew it was mocking.

The man wasn't stupid: he knew where the power lay, and where the power would soon shift to. But he was too arrogant to accept it. He saw her father as a simple attack dog; she wasn't much better.

"It has now been long enough that the intelligence officers working on the case have deemed anymore information they could glean from it would be outdated, and it's declared closed. The Empire will now release an official statement on it."

Leia resisted the urge to roll her eyes. So this was what it was about. Palpatine couldn't have just sent her a report with everything she was supposed to say to the press, or. . .?

Palpatine caught her eye, and she quickly averted her gaze, stacking up her shields again. She knew her politician's face remained flawless despite her grumbling; either Palpatine knew her too well, or her shields had slipped.

She preferred to think the latter.

"This statement," Tarkin continued, "will inform the populace that Kuat was an accident. Governor Trite was inexperienced and incompetent, and when he hired incompetent workers they managed to cripple a good deal of the system. However, now he's been executed for his failure in serving our great Emperor," he inclined his head at Palpatine respectfully, "I have taken control of the Kuat system and surrounding area. I will immediately seek to set things right, and improve the output of our Empire's most productive facilities!"

"You?" Leia burst out amid the smattering of applause. She heard several gasps from newer, lower ranking governors around the table, but she didn't care. She was the future Empress: Palpatine would let her weigh into and speak out at these meetings, even if no one else may. How else was she to win their respect? "My brother and I installed Governor Vilrein to oversee the improvements."

"And she did, for a time." Tarkin smiled thinly. "But it was felt that Vilrein, as a commander who had worked on Kuat before the disaster, might have too much of a closed view on what best to do for the system. I have been installed in her place."

"You're a military leader. Not a production manager."

"Precisely. Perhaps I can motivate the workers to serve their Empire the way Trite and Vilrein couldn't."

Leia gritted her teeth. That was the most illogical thing she'd ever heard.

But it wasn't that, or even the change in leadership, that bothered her. It was the fact that she hadn't been informed.

"You were off gallivanting on Naboo," Tarkin provided.

I was stopping another revolt, she wanted to snap. Which is more than I can say for you.

But it wasn't Tarkin's lack of action in that, either. He'd done plenty of that before they'd come around, after all.

No.

It was the fact that this was being called an accident.

Calling minor Rebel attacks on minor outposts accidents made sense; spreading panic over a minor problem seemed counterproductive.

But Kuat was the main production line for the Empire, and it had ground entirely to a halt. Luke and Leia had spent weeks, months, trawling through the station, killing Rebels and crushing uprisings. Their attack had been brutal, as had the other Rebel attacks from around the galaxy.

Calling it an accident felt like an insult, both to her, who bathed her hands in blood to make things right, and to all the people who had died. Rebel and Imperial alike.

Saw Gerrera was a threat. They needed to know what his aims were.

"We don't want to terrorise the populace, after all."

Only, they should be afraid.

Because Leia certainly was.

"These official reports will be disseminated all across the galaxy; each of you is in charge of doing so in your own sector. We need this event to blow over as soon as possible; we need people to see the Empire as strong."

There was more light applause as he took his seat again, and Leia clapped along unthinkingly. The Empire did need to be seen as strong, true. . . but the problem wasn't that it was perceived to be weak. The problem wasn't that people believed it had fallen prey to a terrorist attack.

The problem was that it had.

It was weak.

And Leia needed to find a way to fix that.

A day after the farce in the simulators, Luke sensed the commotion when Governor Pryce and the ISB's shuttle landed, but he forced himself to pretend he didn't.

So. They'd decided he'd had enough time to uproot the defectors and be ready to report.

Or, they figured he'd be more able to find them when the cadets got nervous enough to slip up.

They were right on the second count, at least. The moment Governor Pryce had stepped in front of the assembled cadets and announced her investigation for treason, he'd sensed sheer, unadulterated panic from two minds: Wedge Antilles and Rake Gahree.

So those were their defectors.

Wren did an admirable job of keeping herself composed, but Luke could sense she was worried too.

After Pryce stepped away, she met Luke's eye. It was a brief contact, barely noticeable, but it told him two things.

One: Pryce was one of the few involved in this who knew which cadet was the spy.

Two: She was now expecting him to do something about it himself.

Report the name he had now, before they had any chance of escaping?

No. He wasn't sure that those were the only potential defectors here: they were the only ones who'd reacted, but there could be more, who were just naturally better at shielding somehow. Just naturally calmer. He had to lure those ones out, somehow.

And that meant getting close to either Antilles or Gahree.

He took his chance later that evening, after mess. Pryce had grounded them all for the duration of the investigation, much to his dismay, and he found himself walking towards the hangars in longing, wishing he could fly anyway.

It seemed he wasn't the only one.

Antilles was standing on one of the walkways overhead, leaning against the railing and staring at the hangar entrance with a slight frown, helmet tucked under his arm.

Luke paused, then wandered out onto the walkway to join him.

"Is something wrong?" he asked quietly, leaning against the railing next to him.

Antilles jerked. "Uh—no," he said, a little too quickly. "It's nothing."

Luke let it drop for now, resolving to work his way round to it. "You're Antilles, right? You were great in the simulators yesterday."

"Thanks." He sounded a bit sheepish, but a bit distracted, too. "So were you."

Luke said wryly, "I got shot down because I didn't fire on an unarmed transport. You're the one who actually followed orders."

"Yeah, well, I was just doing what I was supposed to."

"But. . . according to Imperial protocol, we're not to fire on unarmed transports. If I'd known. . ." He sighed, faking conflict. "Just. . . this isn't what I signed up for." He shook his head. "Never mind."

He saw Antilles shoot him a look in his peripheral vision, but his kept his gaze fixed pensively on the hangar floor. After a moment, Antilles looked down as well.

"This. . . isn't what I signed up for, either," he admitted.

"I want to do my part for the Empire," Luke added, "but. . ."

"It's not what you expected."

"Yeah."

"I was flying cargo ships when the Empire recruited me," Antilles went on. "At the time I figured, why not? Seemed a whole lot more excited than hauling spare parts around the galaxy. But if this is what the Empire is becoming. . ."

If this is what the Empire is becoming. . .

Nowadays, Luke wasn't sure the Empire hadn't always been like this, but he understood Antilles's frustration. Luke had always thought that whatever blood the Empire shed, whatever unnecessary cruelty and corruption it had in it, it could be purged with time. Especially once Leia became Empress.

But if Antilles thought it was getting worse. . .

He didn't know.

The Rebels were there to save lives, not end them. The Partisans are the ones who end them.

And the Empire, too.

They were at war. The bloodshed was necessary.

Firing on unarmed opponents was not necessary.

Antilles was looking at him strangely. "Are you—"

"Are you boys alright?"

Luke nearly jumped out of his skin. He scolded him—stupid, stupid to let his guard down that much, so that Sabine Wren, the person he was supposed to be watching, could sneak up on him.

Antilles clammed up immediately. "Yes."

"Hey, Three-Six," Luke said jokingly, smiling at her slightly. It was one way of disguising how shaken he was.

"Just call me Ria," she said, returning the smile briefly, "and I can call you Darred." She looked at Antilles. "You're Wedge, right?"

He nodded, still looking distracted but starting to zone back in to the conversation. "Yeah."

Wren joined them in leaning against the railing. "So what were you talking about?"

"Nothing," Wedge said, very quickly. He wasn't very good at this.

Luke said, "She refused to fire as well, remember?" At Wedge's frown, then nod, he said to Wren, "We were just saying that we're not fans of. . . that."

Wren nodded. "I want to do my part for the Empire, but—"

"Firing on unarmed ships is not what you had in mind."

She smiled slightly. "Exactly."

There was a pregnant pause. Luke let his eyes drift around the hangar bay, ostensibly lost in thought, but he was paying close attention to the resolve he could sense building in Wren, building, until—

"Have you ever thought about getting out?"

There it was.

Wedge frowned. "That's. . . not really possible," he said, though anyone could hear the hope in his voice, "is it?"

"Maybe more possible than you realise."

"What are you talking about?"

Wren took a step closer and dropped her voice. "My real name is Sabine Wren. I was sent in to get you out."

Wedge's face practically lit up. Luke let his face show the same glee. "So the Rebellion did get my message!"

"Yes, but I heard there were other pilots who want out, too."

"There are. Darred," Wedge gestured at Luke, who nodded his confirmation, "and I can find you the rest."

There.

That was what Luke had been waiting for. He just needed the names, and then—

And then he'd turn Wedge in.

He pushed the thought away as Wren said, "We need to leave now, before the Empire closes in. Can you have them ready?"

"I'll talk to them," Wedge said, and despite himself, Luke was impressed that he kept the names secret until the very last moment. "What's your plan?"

"I'll. . ." Wren gave a small, self-deprecating snort. "I'll tell you when I figure that out."

Luke resisted the urge to roll his eyes and grin simultaneously.

They both looked at him. "Are you in?"

Luke nodded. "Absolutely."

They all exchanged nervous smiles, then Wren walked away. Wedge went in the other direction, until only Luke was left, staring at the stars just visible beyond the hangar entrance.

He'd been right to wait. And he'd wait a little longer, until he knew their plan and the identities of the other sympathisers. Then he'd hand them all over.

He swallowed at the idea.

Wedge had betrayed the Empire. He'd colluded with the Rebellion. He had to turn him in.

But after that conversation. . . he didn't want to.

Wedge just wanted adventure, and he wanted it without innocent blood on his hands. So did Luke.

He was planning on defecting.

For all you know, a voice parried, so is Leia.

Would you turn Leia in?

Of course not. That was Leia. He—

Luke took a deep breath.

He'd hand them over. Those were his orders, and he was already in enough trouble with the Emperor as it was.

That didn't mean he had to like it.

The moment she left the meeting, Leia sent a surreptitious comm to Governor Vilrein to confirm what Tarkin had said. She scowled fiercely when the woman responded in minutes—messages from the heir to the Empire were generally given higher priority, after all—with a confirmation of what had been said.

Tarkin had ousted the governor they'd installed, and it hadn't even caused enough of a ripple for them to hear about it.

And he'd done it without Palpatine's blessing. Not that he needed it, per se, nor would he be punished for not seeking it, but that wasn't what concerned Leia.

What concerned her was that Tarkin hadn't needed it.

She hated Palpatine, but his utter and constant control over the Empire had always been a given, in her eyes. She'd presumed, whenever she saw something she disagreed with, that it could be traced back to Palpatine.

Palpatine was the source of all evil.

She'd never paused to think about the governors.

Because, come to think of it, Palpatine just controlled the Imperial Court and Senate. He revelled in manipulating particular senators or courtiers to serve his ends, but that was all he did: manipulate. That was what he enjoyed doing.

He didn't take much of a direct hand in ruling, simply because he didn't have to. He appointed governors he liked and when he told them to do something, they did it. Otherwise they did as they pleased.

Leia wondered how much the laws between sectors differed, simply because of the person who ruled them.

Palpatine had set up that system of corruption she'd observed in there, but it was the men and women within who maintained it. Come to think of it, there were very few governors she actually approved of, even discounting the effects of her father's intense dislike of politicians. Governor Vilrein—well, ex-governor now—had been one, if only because she was first and foremost an officer, rather than a politician. Moff Panaka had been another, but he'd been assassinated by Saw Gerrera the year before. And then there was Governor Pryce, who was ambitious, but canny and ruthless enough to back it up. But she was overseeing the ISB operation on Skystrike that Luke was a part of. And even then, Leia wasn't sure how long her impressive competence would last.

Leia leaned against the wall of the corridor, thankful that at least this one was deserted. She needed a moment to clear her head, and the standard Imperial greys and whites were soothing.

She rubbed her eyes. How much inter-sector politicking was there going on, which she had no idea of? How much control over it would she even have, once she became Empress?

She supposed that once she was Empress, she could put her foot down and monitor the situation more closely. Force them to obey her law, her plans and ambitions, even more closely than Palpatine did, and that was the only way to rise to theirs.

But the constant grovelling of the Imperial Court got on her nerves as it was. And she had the feeling that there would always be Governor Tarkins in the galaxy, always be someone too competent to dismiss but too wilful and underhanded for her liking. Every puppet she appointed would work out how to cut its strings eventually, and then she'd be dealing with this, every day, for the rest of her life.

She supposed that was what being Empress meant.

Footsteps came down the hall, and she detected one of those deeply loathed presences now. She instinctively straightened up, fixing a faint sneer onto her face as she tilted back her chin to look Tarkin in the eye and said, "Governor."

He gave a thin-lipped smile in response. "Miss Leia." He didn't return her nod, and she gritted her teeth. She might be young—and she was young, Force, the idea that soon she might be ruling an entire galaxy was terrifying—but that didn't mean it wasn't tactful for him to pay respect to his future Empress.

"I just wanted to express my admiration for your work on Kuat," he continued. "I have been assessing the damage that was repaired by your efforts, and I am very impressed. I do hope I get your work with you and your brother in the future; we may have a lot to teach each other."

She opened her mouth to instantly reject him. . . then closed it again.

As much as she hated the man's guts, she couldn't deny his competence—and his cunning. It would be good to see how he worked, so as to better understand how he thought.

He was Palpatine's favourite; Palpatine's creature. Once Palpatine was dead, she needed to know that that creature would not bite.

"It would be my pleasure," she lied—it wouldn't be a pleasure, but it would be useful. "I shall talk to my brother about it."

He nodded, then made to move on. Leia glowered at his back the whole time.

Maybe the governors were a part of the problem as well. . . but maybe understanding a problem was the first step towards fixing it.

When Luke returned to his bunk, he found an encoded message waiting for him on his datapad, ordering him to report what he'd found.

He hesitated only momentarily before typing out his report. . . but he made a point to avoid giving names, or committing to an escape attempt plan, before he was absolutely certain.

At least, that was the excuse he gave Pryce, and who was she to question it?

Her frustration over the meeting—and just how enlightening it had been on just how little she understood the Imperial Court—hadn't yet abated, so Leia took to the training room.

She could have returned home, she supposed, and trained there. But it was too quiet without Luke and her father's overwhelming presences, and there was technically a training room in the Imperial Palace, near to the rooms Palpatine tutored her in. The Inquisitors would sometimes come here as well, but it was primarily for Luke and Leia.

And the fact that the Inquisitors were entitled to come in here as well didn't stop her from trying to ram a lightsaber through the Sixth Sister when she entered the room all of a sudden, in the middle of a particularly complex manoeuvre Leia had been trying and failing to get right for a solid hour. Her frustration and mounting helplessness tore out of her with a scream; when she heard the doors hiss open, she turned and threw her lit lightsaber at the newcomer.

If it was her father or the Emperor, they could block it; if it was anyone else, she didn't care. They could get skewered for all it mattered.

The Sixth Sister saw it coming and barely deflected it in time, her lightsaber on her back and the manoeuvre to retrieve it too slow to execute. Instead, she seized the Force raggedly to push it aside not a moment too soon. . . but the blade carved a shallow furrow in her right palm nonetheless.

She hissed, her resentment mounting in the Force, but wisely didn't comment.

"What do you want?" Leia snapped.

The Sixth Sister lifted her chin. Her helmet was closed, so Leia couldn't see her face, but she imagined she was sneering.

"My apologies," she clipped out. "I was looking for your brother, and thought—"

"Why were you looking for him?" Leia didn't need an excuse—she knew that she and Luke felt similar through the Force, especially to someone as poorly trained as an Inquisitor—but she wanted an explanation.

"I needed to talk to him."

"About what?"

"Something he did for me before."

Leia frowned. Something he did for me. . .? "What did he do?"

"Ask him."

"I'm asking you."

Leia had never treated the Sixth Sister nicely—neither had Luke, at least until he'd done something for her, whatever that might be. It wasn't unusual for her to be so reticent in answering.

"And I'm telling you to ask him."

"I don't take orders from you."

The Sixth Sister clenched her fists. "And I don't take orders from you," she said quietly, "my lady."

She was right.

She took orders from the Emperor, and Vader. But not Leia.

Not yet, anyway.

Leia snapped, "Luke's away on a mission. Indefinitely."

"Thank you. Then I'll come back when he has."

With that, she turned around and left.

Leia was left staring after her, wondering what in the galaxy that had been about.

The announcement crackled through the corridors, each pilot stopping in their tracks to listen. "Squadron, report to hangar six."

So, Luke thought, Pryce was lifting the order to keep all the pilots grounded. That either meant they'd found nothing, and were relying on him to hunt them down, or. . .

This was a trap.

He turned left into the corridor that took him directly to the hangars, and fell into step with Wren as they exchanged a loaded look. He could sense Wedge and three others approaching from behind, tense and nervous, but forced himself to react like he'd only just seen them when they finally came into earshot.

"Sabine!" Wedge hissed. Luke almost cringed. He could see why Wedge had gone into piloting, and not espionage. "Darred! This is Rake, Biggs and Hobbie." He gestured to the people he was with. Each looked more tense than the last.

Wren asked, some of the general tension bleeding into her voice as well, "Are you sure you're all committed to this?"

"We've made our choice," 'Hobbie'—Derek Klivian, Luke knew, born on Ralltiir, who'd ranked ninth on the overall leader board at the end of the training session yesterday—said.

Rake—Rake Gahree, who'd finished seventeenth yesterday—added darkly, "There's no turning back now."

And there wasn't, Luke thought grimly. It was clear to him now: they were committed. They were actually intending to go through with this, renounce the Empire and join a band of terrorists. They would help wreak havoc on the galaxy if he let them continue, tear down everything he'd given so much of himself to protect. This was all of them, he had all their names: he should turn them in now, and let the ISB do their job in protecting the galaxy from Rebel scum.

But he'd spent days with these people. Laughing, sharing food, flying. They were not scum. They were friends.

Now they were enemies.

Weren't they?

What did that make him?

Considering the sort of thoughts Leia had started to harbour, what did that make her?

Luke swallowed, and hoped the others thought it was from fear.

These people were joining an Alliance which they believed wouldn't force them to fire on unarmed ships. They were abandoning the Empire because of a few officers' heartlessness and the need to follow orders.

But they were afraid. He could see it in the way Wedge fidgeted, the curtness to Rake's movements, Biggs's tacit silence.

They were terrified, but they were doing this anyway. And for what? An unstoppable tide of morality? Conscience, coming after them time and time again, every time they heard the order to fire?

Every time they followed it?

Luke. . . couldn't fault them for that.

But he was going to condemn them to death for it.

You must make sure your emotions don't work against you, his father's voice said into his mind. You control them, use them to access the dark side. They cannot control you.

He snarled, surprisingly himself with his vehemence, and pushed his father's voice away.

Not now. He'd spent enough time hanging onto every word he said and enabling every evil act.

Like this one?

They came out onto the walkways the TIEs were stacked on.

Wedge was the one to break the uncomfortable silence with, "I'm surprised they're letting us go up in all this."

So am I, Luke thought.

"Well, we have to make the most of this chance. We might not get another." Wren turned around, eyes narrowed. "Okay, listen. There's a rebel ship nearby, waiting for my signal."

The suns rose a little beyond the windows, bathing their faces in gold. Luke held up his hand to block it, while the others just squinted. It gave him a good opportunity to observe their facial expression.

"Watch me. When I go, you go."

This was definitely a trap.

But Wren seemed so certain. He wasn't going to be the one to point out some of the glaring faults in her plans; he could tell from the others' expressions that they were sceptical enough as it was. And Pryce needed them as gullible as possible if the trap was to be sprung.

"But you have to trust me," Wren stressed. It was obvious that she could sense their hesitation as well. "Agreed?"

There was a tense moment of silence. Then Hobbie burst out— "These Rebels you say are waiting for us. Do you trust them?"

Wren nodded, and said with more certainty than Luke had heard her say anything, "With my life."

The others remained unconvinced.

But then the call to get to the fighters echoed through the hangar, and they were out of time to argue.

"Yeah," Rake muttered, lifted his helmet to his head, "and all of ours."

Luke walked towards and dropped into his fighter. The moment he was securely in place, his helmet on, he reached for his comlink.

Pryce's clipped, imitated-Core accent prompted, "Well, agent?"

"I have successfully uncovered all of the Rebel sympathisers," he reported. This came easily to him: getting the words out clearly and concisely, all pertinent information condensed to a few moments of breath. "The Rebel infiltrator sent in to retrieve them plans to use this exercise to make their escape. A Rebel ship is nearby; when the infiltrator gives the signal, it will drop out of hyperspace and the Rebels will make for it."

"You are certain that all of the Rebel sympathisers have been routed? They will all make for the Rebel ship?"

"I am certain. If not, I can provide the names and identities of those who backed out."

"Then good work, agent. Continue with your deception. Make for the Rebel ship yourself, or they may grow suspicious. I will order that Captain Skerris avoids firing on the ship with your transponder."

How generous of you. "Thank you, Governor." He took a hold of the controls and prepared to take off. "Over and out."

The signal came, and they all took off as one, like a flock of black birds in the amber atmosphere.

As always when he flew, Luke felt his stomach go out from underneath him in a rush, an unconscious smile creeping across his face. He remembered being fourteen, and hating the fact that his father wanted his destiny to be greater than that of a simple pilot. He'd resented it for a brief spell before deciding he was right, as always; flying could always be a hobby while he was serving the Empire in grander, more influential ways.

Now, in the midst of his tension and pent up anger, he wondered if this was just another thing his father had been wrong about.

The crackle of the comms broke him out of his ruminations. "Squadrons, prepare to break formation and engage in a simulated dogfight. Your lasers have been nullified, but your hits will still register, and be scored."

Luke's smile only grew as they broke atmosphere, the ochre curve of Montross arching away beneath them and the twin suns peeking their way over the edge. The blackness of space hung beyond: Luke found himself automatically searching for Mustafar's star, as he always did when he was missing home, then Coruscant's star. Then, after a moment's hesitation, he looked for Tatooine's. He couldn't find it.

He looked back at Coruscant's.

Somewhere, orbiting that tiny pinprick of light, was his sister.

His sister.

Who was harbouring Rebel sympathies. Who he was on the mission to avoid.

The flock of TIEs split into two groups, and Luke found himself on Wren's wing again, staring down the other traitors on the opposing team. He automatically sank into the Force to manoeuvre into position, sensing the thoughts and feelings of the pilots around him, glowing like individual stars in their own right—

"Three, two, one, mark!"

The two sides converged, green bolts lighting up the darkness. Luke sensed someone aiming at Wren and fulfilled his job as her wingman and fired twice at the perpetrator, until the TIE peeled off to escape the barrage. It was Wedge, he sensed after a moment's pursuit. It was Wedge, and he was providing a perfect target right now, his back to him and his wingman off doing. . . something else. He made to fire—

And missed.

He made himself miss; yanked himself to the side very suddenly and fought to keep control.

He snarled.

This was a simulated battle. He shouldn't be experiencing this kind of. . . this kind of panic, this gravity. This wasn't real.

But he liked Wedge.

He was honest enough to admit it to himself. And for one moment, it felt like the man was already a Rebel. Like it was an X-wing on his scopes, and the bolts he fired would send it up in flames.

He had a horrible sense of déjà vu, and pushed it away.

He needed to focus.

If Wedge did feel like a Rebel, that was because he was. He'd made his choice, and in a few minutes he would suffer the consequences. Luke could do nothing about it.

The uneasiness remained.

He spun his craft in a sharp dive to avoid a fighter coming from behind; Wren shot out of nowhere to blast it dead centre. The blast temporarily disabled the craft, but Luke figured a few moments later it would be back up and running.

"You alright there, Two-Three?"

"Just fine," he got out through gritted teeth, and plunged himself back into the fray. He was absolutely fine—

The Force screamed a warning as the Rebel craft barrelled into realspace, materialising over the top of their heads in a moment. Luke could sense several people aboard: mainly human, and two presences that might well be the Jedi of Phoenix Squadron. . .

"Come on, boys!" Wren called out over the comms, her voice audibly more relaxed now her allies were here. Luke wanted to cringe. It's a trap, you—

But all of the defectors peeled off to make for the transport. Wedge, Biggs, Hobbie, Rake. All of them.

No one had had second thoughts.

Luke let out a breath through his teeth and made to follow. He couldn't give the game away now—

Pryce's sharp, self-satisfied tones came over the comms. "Cadets, return to base immediately. This is your only warning."

"Negative, command," Wren shot right back. She sounded somewhere between giddy with relief and satisfied at the success. Luke cringed again. "You're gonna have to come and get us."

They kept going for the Rebel ship. A sense of foreboding was building in Luke's gut—it's coming, it's coming, it's coming—but he kept going too, ignoring the sensation like a stone in his stomach, a noose around his neck—

He felt the panic before he heard the buzz. Suddenly an electric shock ran through his fighter, and it shook, the craft suddenly unresponsive to his desperate yanks on the controls. He was drifting dead in space.

His fighter spun around slightly, enough so he could see the others', and he understood what had happened.

The TIEs' wings had disconnected. All systems were down—no, not all. Life support still worked. Comms still worked.

Which was why he could hear Wren's sudden panic, as well as feel it. "We've lost power! Our fighters were rigged!"

I'd never have guessed, Luke wanted to snap back, but kept quiet. He knew he was safe.

This justice was reserved for the enemies of the Empire. They deserved this terror coursing through them, they'd earned it for their treason, and he did not feel sorry for them at all—

This is not justice.

He could sense Skerris and his wingmen converging on their position. He could hear Pryce's, "Captain, destroy one of the pods."

He could feel Rake's terror as he burned in space. The fireball vanished within moments, as though it had never been there at all.

"Rake!" That was Wedge, naked anguish in his voice. They deserve this.

Luke clenched his fists as he drifted further away from the planet. They deserve this.

They defied the Empire. They betrayed us. They would have flown into battle again and again against good Imperials risking their lives to protect the galaxy.

But Luke's useless platitudes meant nothing. He knew the truth.

They just didn't want to fire on unarmed transports.