The next day dawned bright and early, and unusual in that for once Luke, Leia and Vader were required to attend this new meeting.
The tension in the speeder on the ride there could have been cut with a knife. Neither of the twins had spoken to their father except in passing since his. . . revelation, and there didn't seem much to say.
"It would be helpful," Vader said—Leia cringed at the sight of Luke's knuckles whitening at the controls, but she clenched her fists just as tightly—"if one of you could summarise what this important meeting is about."
Luke kept staring straight ahead, but they could both feel his attention flick behind him in the Force. "You didn't read the report?"
Leia didn't know why he was surprised. What their father thought relevant or not was a thrilling saga of which reports they had to summarise to him mind-to-mind today, so that he didn't accidentally look foolish in front of some senator or choke another politician important to Palpatine's plans.
"No," Vader admitted. "I did not want to."
Everything he said was with such gravity that the flippancy in his tone made Luke pause. Exchange a glance with Leia. They'd heard him fiercely protective, intense, sarcastic—but it was rare for him to be flippant.
Luke relaxed, slightly. It was a sign he wanted to make amends, if nothing else, and Leia knew her brother would never be able to hold a grudge against Vader for too long. Even if his hero worship had died with their ignorance, he was still his father.
"It's a briefing," he said, a slight fond smile in his voice. "Palpatine, Tarkin"—Leia was glad to sense equal distaste in their father for the man to their own—"and some of the other important moffs will be there. It's about Empire Day."
"A waste of time."
"Agreed." Leia kicked back to plant her feet on the seat in front of her, near Luke's elbow, and slouched down in her own seat. "But they're gonna unveil the Executor—"
"Convenient," Vader muttered, "that the moment I clear all the spies from the Devastator he assigns me a new flagship."
"—and some other stuff. Project Stardust? I don't think we have clearance to know the details about that yet. But the Executor had been in production much longer than the Devastator's been clean."
"He accelerated the production once he realised he had no idea what was happening on my flagship."
"We accelerated the production, Father. We were the ones at Kuat." There was tension in Luke's voice again, and Leia couldn't blame him. Affection or not, Vader had betrayed their trust. He needed to earn it back, and accusing them of conspiracy was not the way to do it.
He didn't back down, though. "And who was it that sent you there?"
That. . . was a valid point.
"Who was it who didn't bat an eyelid when Tarkin commandeered the system for himself, no doubt keeping tabs on and codes to every military vessel that leaves it?"
Also a valid point, but Leia would die before she admitted it.
Luke had no such reservations. Conceding to Vader was his specialty, after all. "Alright. But the ceremony with the Executor's only a part of the celebrations. It's the eighteenth Empire Day—the Empire is an adult, has stood the test of time and all that—and Palpatine wants to go all out on the celebrations."
"It's your eighteenth birthday, as well."
That mellowed Leia slightly as well. Their father hated Empire Day—it was the day their mother had supposedly died—and while he did make sure to shower them with gifts for their birthday, he was always closed off and detached.
He wouldn't talk about the topic unless the Emperor forced him to. He disliked mere mentions of it. Half the time he had to lock himself in his hyperbaric chamber and leave them to their own devices for the day, for fear that in his anger and self-loathing he might unwittingly hurt them.
If he was bringing it up voluntarily. . . he was trying.
"Wow," Luke said, "I wonder what you'll get us as a present."
Vader's finger sprung out of his glove and jabbed the back of Luke's head. "Neither of you have ever worn the capes I gave you last year. Nor the year before that."
"We wore them to that stupid social function for Palpatine's birthday!"
"I do not mean to parties. They are not meant for looking stylish and sophisticated in any formal setting. They are meant for looking intimidating at any given moment, especially in front of one's enemies." He leaned forward to pat Luke on the head. The motion had the usual jerky uncertainty to it that all of Vader's affection did. "Something you need dearly, my son."
"Sure. Because I look terrifying when I accidentally slice off a portion of my own cape because it got in the way."
"They are not impractical if you wear them correctly. You simply need practice. I did not have them made blaster-proof, fireproof, as well as 'looking good', or whatever you are so hung up on, just for them to sit on the floor of your wardrobe for a year."
Luke opened his mouth to defend himself, then closed it again. Leia laughed.
She nodded at the Palace as they pulled onto the landing pad. "We're here."
"One more thing," Vader said.
They paused. Leia waited a moment before prompting, a little sharply, "What?"
"Palpatine is overseeing some executions immediately after this briefing," he said. Leia wondered fleetingly how he'd known that if he hadn't even known what the briefing was about—then thought about it. There was a good chance he had known all along, but just wanted to get a conversation going. "I propose that during the time in which we know we will be unoccupied, we should return to the apartment and discuss that project we are working on."
Luke and Leia exchanged a look, but nodded. "Alright."
"Good." Vader tilted his helmet towards the entrance. "Should we go in?"
Luke was distracted throughout most of the meeting, his encounter with Tano burning a hole in his mind. She'd rattled off a comlink frequency to contact her by if he ever wanted to know more about his mother—Luke really hated that she'd clocked onto the thing he was most desperate for—and while he couldn't remember it off the top of his head, he knew that if he drew on the Force to enhance his memory he'd certainly be able to.
He almost did, there and then in the briefing, but then Tarkin said something, they were all reciting Long live the Emperor, and they were dismissed.
Luke hadn't taken in a word of what had been said. He hoped they'd send out the scripts for the meeting—he'd need them, or he'd have no idea of the timetable.
The speeder ride back was less tense than the one there. Their father was flying this time, allowing Luke to sit in the back and let his mind drift.
Leia could sense his mood, the state of turmoil that seemed to dog them constantly nowadays. She left him alone.
Then they arrived at home, into the living room with the certainty of privacy, and his father started talking about the future of the galaxy.
"My power base on the Devastator is firm and unquestionable," he began, standing and staring out over Coruscant, the way the sun glinted off the steel spires. No holos or visual representations of this informal briefing; no damning evidence to be found. Vader was telling them the important things, in the trust that they would remember. " Admiral Montferrat is loyal to me and me alone, and his crew would follow him anywhere."
"All of them?" Leia asked, looking skeptical.
"Naturally some of the newer recruits, as well as the more cowardly ones, are loyal only to themselves, but they are too afraid of me to turn traitor. Any informants are dealt with swiftly by the rest of the crew."
Luke frowned. "So they're afraid of you. Is fear the only thing keeping them in line? What about me and Leia?"
"The two of you have a certain notoriety as my children, and as participants in the bloodbath that was the Kuat operation, as well as a few others—"
Luke's hackles rose. "None of those were our fault."
"I agree with you, son. But nevertheless, you are implicated in the minds of the general public, if only on those occasions, as the ones who re-established the peace. Overall, the two of you have cultivated a reputation for effectiveness, fairness, and a lack of corruption. Many of the stormtroopers, pilots and low-ranking officers would follow you for only one of those traits, let alone all of them." He turned, and—in a surprisingly affectionate gesture—rested his hand on Leia's shoulder.
His voice was undeniably proud as he said, "You are the model of what an Imperial leader should be."
Shame burned the backs of Luke's eyes, his throat, as he thought of his conversation with Tano just the previous night. He made sure to keep his shields steady.
Funny—he thought he sensed a strengthening of Leia's shields, as well. He figured he might know why.
You should tell her. About Skystrike, about Tano. She'd been voicing Rebel sympathies; she might understand.
But suggesting that the Rebels weren't all bad was a far cry from committing treason, as he'd now done. Twice.
He'd let those pilots go. He'd met with a Rebel spy and made no attempt to capture her.
He was a traitor.
His father remained oblivious to his turmoil, too wrapped up in his spiel of grand coups and greatness. He turned around to look out over Coruscant again, his back straight, and continued.
"I have been fielding officers whose loyalty is either assured or probable to assign to the Executor. Low ranks at first, until their superiors prove themselves incompetent and face their due punishment for it."
Luke didn't quite manage to keep the wince off his face there. He'd given up trying to justify what Vader did to his officers—no man was perfect in everything he did, he had been forced to learn, and certainly not his father—and now he had no excuse for him.
Executioner.
It was murder, executing someone for a mistake they made. There was no need to turn the military—the galaxy—against them if they didn't have to.
Vader was still talking. "Captain Piett of the Accuser is one such officer. General Veers of Death Squadron will require no reassignment. There are others, of course, and I will provide you both with a list, but those two are the most senior." He tilted his helmet over his shoulder to cast them a wry look. "I trust you know not to allow such a list to fall into anyone's hands but your own?"
The twins just rolled their eyes in response.
Vader kept speaking, his words hard and unyielding in their certainty. Plans; battle formations; Star Destroyers Imperial- and Venator- and even Executor-class, new and old, in action or still in production; odds calculated and recalculated by a droid who'd promptly had its memory wiped afterwards; potential bases of power, planets with enough resources to sustain an armada and governors who would back Vader, Luke and Leia over Palpatine.
There was so much information, and there was only one thing Luke could think of:
This was real.
This was happening.
His father's plans laid out baldly in front of him, the amount of detail and dedication and destruction in them. . . He'd been planning this for years. Pooling his resources, hiding it from them, lying to Palpatine's face. He'd been spinning dozens of plates at once with new allies, old allies, possible allies; now, in fifteen months at most, those plates would come crashing to the floor, they'd pick up the shards and drive one into Palpatine's blackened, shrivelled heart. Perhaps even two, for good measure.
This was real.
This was not a vague idea. This was not power play, the kicks and natural progression of dissatisfaction between a master and an apprentice. His father was preparing for a civil war that would dwarf the Rebellion's petty squabbles, on a scale the likes of which hadn't been seen since Vader himself had ended the last one.
Luke had known it was serious. He'd known it would never be the same again. The galaxy's fate had been sealed the moment Palpatine had placed that transmitter in Vader's suit, the moment he'd electrocuted Luke and Leia. . .
The moment Vader had found them on Tatooine.
For better or for worse, the galaxy would shift on its axis within the year, and Luke's family would be at the origin.
And he was terrified.
Empire Day approached fast. In only a few short weeks they were boarding the Devastator to make the trip to Kuat again, for the first time since they'd quelled the uprising months ago. When they were shown the quarters they'd been assigned for the trip, there was the customary scramble for who got the top bunk bed—Luke lost, which he was very grumpy about—before their comlinks chimed, indicating they needed to be on the bridge as soon as possible.
Considering the comlink went off during their scuffle, it was a few moments before they were collected enough to answer it.
They went to the bridge, as commanded, and Leia had to avoid wrinkling her nose at the dignitaries she was meant to greet there. She could sense the bridge crew's tension in the pits, and she couldn't blame them; having Tarkin, her father, and the Emperor in the general vicinity, ready to snap at them for the slightest mistake, weren't the most desirable working conditions after all.
But nor was having to make small talk with the viper himself.
"Ah, Miss Leia," Tarkin greeted smoothly. "I had hoped I would see you here—I know you had your doubts over what my leadership has made of you and your brother's fine work, and I hope that these displays will assuage them."
Over Tarkin's shoulder, Leia could see Palpatine watching them. He caught her eye and nodded a little, smiling, then turned away.
That meant she could say whatever she wanted, and he would simply be amused.
Alright then.
"I highly doubt that, Tarkin," she said. Her voice was as cold as the depths of hyperspace they now hurtled through. "Your placement of Governor Vilrein—"
"Director Vilrein, now," he corrected. "I kept her on. I recognise her talent for understanding the economics and the science of what Kuat is so famous for, as I know you did, but I feel she was better suited to a more hands-on role than the one you gave her. Handing someone with such negligible political experience so much power over perhaps one of the most vital systems in the Empire seemed. . . unwise."
I'd consider it wiser to give that power to a woman who served as the previous governor's aide for fifteen years and has the loyalty of over half the workers than to give it to a megalomaniac whose only claim to fame is his brutal massacres during the Clone Wars, she wanted to bite back. But she thought Palpatine might object to her going that far.
Tarkin was still a massively influential man, after all.
Besides, what had she expected? The galaxy was under the control of a megalomaniac. Like-minded people thrived.
"And yet I've seen the reports. Director Vilrein has constantly lobbied you for more funding in the previous months. She has explained quite clearly that without it, there is the risk that many of Kuat's projects will not be finished on schedule, and yet you refuse that?" If Vilrein was still governor, she wouldn't need that permission—she could green light it of her own accord. "Instead you funnel it all away to this. . . other project." She couldn't speak of Project Stardust openly like this, but he got her message.
"Miss Leia." He had the gall to place a hand on her shoulder. She glared at him until it was clear that if he kept it there a second longer, it would not be good for his health. He smirked slightly as he retracted it. "I cannot tell you more right now, but I assure you: after this visit, you will understand why this project requires—indeed, deserves—infinitely more attention than anything Kuat could produce. Even your father's precious Executor."
She lifted her chin and said coolly, "I very much doubt that, Tarkin. Will this project even be ready on time?"
"It is my estimate—"
"I do not care about your estimates. You are not a scientist. You are a politician pretending to be a scientist. And most of all, you are a man who does not care specifically about what he is doing. That is why you are unfit for this job."
Oh, Palpatine was going to kill her.
She heard a snickering behind him. Quiet, subtle snickering, but the Force allowed her to zero in on the man responsible for it. One of the directors, if she was correct: he wore a white cape and gloves, and held himself with all the rigidity of a man who desperately wanted to be here, but knew intrinsically that he simply did not fit it. He was watching their interaction with a barely restrained delight, eyes fixed on Tarkin.
Anger froze the governor's face; he couldn't do anything meaningful to Leia right here, right now, but she sensed it. She saw it, in the way he bit back in the only way he could: belittlement.
He patted her shoulder, quickly enough that she didn't have time to rip his arm from its socket before it was back at his side again.
"I suppose you must be forgiven for such naive things," he said. "You are only seventeen—you will understand soon enough. You did a good job with the system while it was in your hands, and you had only the best interests at heart"—Leia was going to murder him—"but one cannot be right all the time."
It was a clumsy blow, almost insulting to himself that he would ever have to resort to such a crude, rudimentary jab. But it worked.
She wanted to rip his tongue out of his head. She wanted tear his still-beating heart out of his chest. She wanted to unleash her rage and watch him shatter, like a dropped clay pot: unremarkable and mundane in every way, in no way unique, and now just useless. Now just a warning for the folly of clumsiness, and of stepping where you shouldn't.
But she couldn't do that.
Not yet.
So she just smiled. "You are absolutely correct, Governor," she said, sickly sweet. "And I look forward to the day where you realise just how rarely you are right."
She slipped away to find Luke before he could reply.
Mingling with the favoured servants of the Empire grew tiresome eventually, and Luke was forced to retreat to the sidelines, just watching things play out. His sister's conversation with Tarkin was very amusing.
After a few hours had passed, the dignitaries finally returned to their assigned quarters on the ship, leaving the bridge mostly empty. He could feel the pit crew's relief, and mirrored it with his own; he just wanted to take a break from this.
He'd always known that he despised interacting with the court, and the elite. But now, thoughts of the coup whirling around his mind, he was beginning to realise just how much he hated the upper echelons of the Empire he fought so hard to protect.
Was this who he was protecting?
He let his gaze sweep around the few who were left. Director. . . Krennic—yes, that was his name, listed in associated with the enigmatic Project Stardust—was standing alone at the viewport, staring out at the stars. Luke had no interest in making contact with him, and moved his gaze on: to this governor, that governor, this moff, this commander—
All the while, one thought dogged him:
How many of them would even blink at firing on an unarmed transport?
How many would have the courage to do what so many Rebels had done, and decided that from what they'd seen, the Empire was wrong? They were wrong, of course, but with this lot as the bright leaders of the galaxy, who could blame them for thinking that way?
Their coup might need to erase more than just Palpatine. Tarkin they'd always planned on doing away with, out of sheer spite if nothing else, but if the others were just as much a part of the corruption. . .
He sighed. He didn't know.
His attempt to go to Skystrike and figure out all these complicated ideas had backfired on him spectacularly; now he didn't really know anything. He was even more lost than before.
And Tano's words about his mother haunted him.
If she really wanted to know them—if she really cared all that much, enough to risk one of her best spies and Force-users to make conversation with him—then why had they been left on Tatooine?
Luke's memories of the planet were clearer from use, now, and he treasured what he could remember of his aunt and uncle. They'd been good people. They had loved him and Leia. But he also distinctly remembered believing himself an orphan.
Maybe Owen and Beru hadn't known. They probably hadn't; Luke doubted Kenobi, or whoever it was who had taken them to Tatooine, would've wanted to risk them not being accepted because the couple thought there was a danger to themselves. But that still begged the question: Why hadn't their mother let them know she was alive?
Why had she made them grow up like that, until Luke had jumped at the chance to know a man claiming to be his father, and his aunt and uncle had been executed for it?
He didn't know. There was a lot of stuff he didn't know, and he was starting to get a headache from it all.
He had better go to sleep, he decided. The. . . gathering, or whatever this was, had petered out by now, and no one would fault him if he slipped away. If his father did, then he could just whip out the thousand times Luke had covered for him at one gala or another, but he didn't think he would object.
Things were still too delicate between them for that.
So he snuck away, moved all of Leia's stuff off the top bunk bed and stole it for himself, and slept until the next day cycle. His sister was not happy with him when she came in, but by that point he was so deeply asleep she didn't have the heart to wake him.
The few days of the trip after that were spent tailing after his father. It wasn't studying under him in any official capacity—the Emperor still vetoed that, probably in hopes of preventing a coup that was already in the works—but it wasn't like there were any other duties demanding his attention. Nor was there any limit to where he could go on the ship. Leia spent most of the time mingling with the aristocracy in the officers' lounge, doing. . . whatever it was politicians did, but Luke spent that same time on the bridge.
Palpatine implied, in his faux-grandfatherly tone, that he might get bored.
Luke did not get bored.
He observed the pit officers at work, subtly enough that they didn't notice he was observing them. He stood at his father's right hand for hours on end, listening to every report given to him and every response he made. Often, if Vader sensed his confusion, he would calmly explain the reasons for each decision over their bond, until Luke understood.
Sometimes it would take a while for the understanding to click. Even hours, sometimes. They'd both stand at the viewport, both with their hands clasped behind their back, both half-watching the swirls of hyperspace while they commiserated, heads bent slightly together.
But. . . there was an awkwardness, as well. Luke pretended not to notice the way his father answered any and all questions with a zealousness that betrayed his eagerness, just as Vader pretended not to notice the suspicion in Luke's mind, the way that it was closed off to him in a way it never had been before. Luke was far more relaxed around him again by the time Kuat loomed beyond the viewport, but. . . he still didn't trust him. Not the way he had before.
He didn't know if he ever would.
His father had stolen his memories, then lied to him about it for ten years. He doubted he could ever forgive that entirely.
But he enjoyed himself.
He wished Palpatine would let him train under his father properly. This— this was a dream come true for him.
The bridge crew got used to his presence, as well. They even reported to him. Whenever his father was otherwise occupied—in meditation, in conversation with Montferrat, in conversation with Palpatine—they no longer hovered, or interrupted, their fear staining the Force. Oh, they were still afraid of Luke himself, but less so than his father; Luke wasn't sure whether he was flattered or insulted.
He thought of his father's executions. He'd witnessed one on this trip: a poor aide had tried to approach him immediately after a conversation with Palpatine that seemed to have plunged him into a bad mood. Probably the yearly diatribe about Luke's mother.
The aide's death had been quick. Luke had looked away as the distinct thump of his body hit the ground.
Vader had sensed his discomfort. He was reporting his own, unforgivable failure, he informed him, disapproval shooting over their bond, though there was something. . . defensive. . . about it.
Luke hadn't flinched. He no longer cared nearly as much about his father's disapproval as he used to. If anything, now his father had to care about his.
So he didn't bother answering. He had just turned away to watch the stars shoot past.
His father was not as close to perfection as a military commander—or any person at all—could get. If he was, he wouldn't have hurt Luke so badly—would have known that keeping such a secret risked tearing everything apart.
So he might well be wrong about his casual cruelty, and Luke might well be right.
So he quietly suggested the bridge crew to give Luke their reports and paperwork, and Luke be the messenger to give them to his father. If only because he was one person his father could not and would not hurt.
Vader was. . . amused. . . at this, he knew. Amused, and slightly apprehensive, but he wasn't about to say anything to push him away further.
Luke continued to keep the crew out of his father's rage. Mercy fosters loyalty, he thought. Things settled into a dream-like monotony, a naturalness to it that calmed his doubts somewhat.
Then they arrived on Kuat.
The dream passed.
The planet hung beyond the viewport, and he somehow knew that this small paradise for himself had met its end. It had been a fleeting journey. Here was the destination.
But on the planet—and on the construction facilities in orbit—he still didn't stop mulling over some of the thoughts he'd had while he stood there, staring out at the stars.