notes: Chapter updated 4/22/20.
CHAPTER 2
The next morning the Falcon left before dawn.
Luke left the ship when the moon was still up, shedding pale, bleaching light across the winding streets of Anchorhead. Luke found a ladder and climbed to the roof of one of the lower-lying buildings attached to the spaceport, sitting on the edge and swinging his legs over the edge. He stared up at the familiar stars and wondered how long it would be before he saw them again—wondered if he would see them again.
He wondered where his aunt and uncle were now. Had they followed him to Anchorhead? To Mos Eisley? Had they even left the farm? Did they care that he had gone?
Surely they did. They had professed to love him. He had felt their love for him, throughout the many years he had lived with them: had felt it in their hugs, their kisses, their smiles; had felt it in the days he had been sick, in the nights he had dreamed nightmares, in the birthdays he had celebrated with them.
Yes, they loved him.
Would they come after him, though?
Would they even know where to start?
Luke's thoughts turned back to the farm. He wondered how Uncle Owen would fare working it by himself. He had managed before Luke had grown old enough to help out; surely he would be able to manage again. How would Aunt Beru do, though, working the greenhouse without his help and laughter and songs to keep her company? How would dinner go, without his chattering? How would night unfold, without him to say goodnight?
Luke scrubbed a hand over his eyes, sniffing and pretending, to himself if not to anyone else, that he wasn't crying.
The stars stared down coldly, and Luke stood, taking a deep, steadying breath and shoving his damp hands into his pants pockets.
It was time to go.
"You sit here," Han ordered, leading the way into the Falcon's cockpit and motioning toward the navigator's chair, which sat behind the pilot and copilot's seats. The repairs were done, the supplies were all loaded, and the landing ramp was closed. All that was left was for the engines to be brought to coughing life.
Chewie appeared a minute later, whuffling to Han as he took his seat in the copilot's chair. He flicked on a series of toggles, and lights whirred to life on the dashboard. Han turned to the Wookiee, said, "Ready?" then turned to Luke and asked him the same when Chewie nodded.
"Yeah," said Luke with a grin. "I'm ready."
Han nodded, his gaze lingering on Luke's face for just a few seconds too long, as if he was measuring Luke. What he found, Luke did not know; he only knew that Han nodded once, as if to himself, and turned back to the controls.
"All right then," he said, and hit a button. The engines roared. "Let's go then."
They rose out of the berth and into the early morning sky. Luke's stomach swooped, and he gripped the edges of the chair. Flying in the skyhopper was one thing; this was something entirely different. He could not help the thrill of excitement that raced through him, though, from skull to sole, exhilarating and electric like a hundred thousand white-hot sparks.
He was flying—really, truly flying.
Even more than that, he was about to leave Tatooine and enter space—for the first time ever.
The sky opened around them, embracing the ship and her occupants. Han eased the ship up, up, up, accelerating once they were free and clear of the spaceport and its traffic, angling the ship so that she was rising at a degree not quite parallel to the ground below.
The sky faded from the navy grey of pre-dawn to black: open, yawning, swallowing black that seemed to devour light and sound alike.
"Welcome to the galaxy, Kid," said Han as they left the last trace of atmosphere, the Falcon's engines settling from a whine to a thrum. Luke half rose in his seat, eager to get his first look at outer space.
It was empty. That was the first thing he saw. It was huge—vast, enormous—and empty, but for the distant pinpricks of stars, and the even far more distant pinpoints of other galaxies shining through the fabric of their own.
"It's beautiful," Luke breathed, feeling, for the first time in his life, as if he was truly alive.
"Isn't it?" Han asked, glancing over his shoulder with a wicked grin. He met Luke's eyes for a second, and read something there that sobered him. "You've never seen this before, have you?" he asked.
Luke shook his head. "This is my first time off-planet."
Tatooine spread out beneath them like a bloated balloon made of stone and wind. The atmosphere shone in a blue and white line on the horizon, and tall clouds of sand—all that was visible of the giant, ravaging sandstorms that, along with the obscene heat, made the equator uninhabitable—obstructed the view of the earth.
"Are you sad to be leaving?" Han asked, surprisingly soft.
Luke took in a deep breath. "Yes," he admitted, feeling very small. "And no."
Han nodded his head. "I understand." He waited a moment, then looked back at Luke once more. "Ready?" he asked.
Luke took another deep breath and nodded as well. "Ready," he said with a shaky grin.
Han reached forward, toggled the hyperspace drive, and with that the stars streaked out into long, thin lines—and they were gone.
~oOo~
The journey to the planet Udur took eight days.
Luke spent much of the trip sleeping, catching up on years of short nights and hard labor. It was the first time in his life—that he could remember—where he didn't have a set time he had to be awake. While Chewie made enough breakfast for him, and he usually joined to eat with Chewie and Han, he often went back to bed once his meal had settled, and didn't wake up until ship's noon.
He helped around the ship, wiring loose circuits and crawling through the tight spaces neither Han nor Chewie could reach, tightening bolts and soldering plates. He came out of the narrow crawl spaces covered in dust and grease, forcing him to take more showers than he could remember taking in his life.
He didn't mind, though. The Falcon had a real water shower—something else that was novel and both fascinating and exciting for Luke. At home they had only had a sonic shower, but now Luke had the chance to feel water—warm or cold, depending on his mood—splash against his skin. He got to use real shampoo too, lathering it into his hair and spiking it up in every which way, then letting the water rinse it, and him, clean.
On the third day out of Mos Eisley, Han taught Luke how to play dejarik.
"It's simple," said Han, plopping himself down on the seat pulled up to the dejarik table in the Falcon's lounge. He turned on the table, and holographic players flickered into life. "You ever heard of the game "chess"?"
Luke shook his head.
"That's okay," said Han. "Only fancy people play chess. Us common-folk play dejarik."
He explained the rules to Luke, showing him how to move the player characters, which ones had special moves and what they were, and the basic rules of combat and engagement.
"It's a game of strategy," he explained at the end of the tutorial. "It's all about who is the last one standing. Sometimes you have to sacrifice one player to take down two more. You have to think two, three, four moves ahead—or at least, you will once you've played some. No one is great when they start."
Luke nodded, smiling. "Okay," he said.
Leia joined him three plays into his first bout with Han.
"Oh," she said, after watching for a few minutes. "It's like chess."
"You used to play chess?" Luke asked, surprised. He hadn't even heard of such a game until Han had mentioned it a few minutes before, but he supposed he shouldn't be surprised, given that Leia had been a princess.
"Yes," Leia said, a note of sorrow creeping into her silent voice. "I'd play with my Papá."
"Care to help me, then?" Luke asked, staring at the board. Han had already taken half of his players, and Luke had yet to kill even one of Han's.
Leia laughed. "Sure," she said. "But you should learn how to play yourself."
"Then teach me."
"Okay. Then pay attention to what I tell you. I'll walk you through each step."
Two moves later, Han knew something was different. Luke's actions had taken on a new sense of solemnity, of careful forethought, of wisdom born of patience and practice. Before he had even realized what happened, Han lost two of his players, the images of the beasts flickering out of life as they were "killed".
"Everything okay, Kid?" he asked Luke, frowning a little.
"Yeah, why?" Luke asked, sending another of his pawns forward in what Han could only guess was the first move in a Courtier's Dance: a complicated series of moves that boxed in another player's character.
Where did he learn a Courtier's Dance? Han asked himself, moving his most versatile and dangerous player out of range.
"You just seem like you know what you're doing, when you said you'd never played before."
Luke grinned wolfishly. Han had never seen him make that face before, and it gave him an uncomfortable, unpleasant feeling in the pit of his stomach, almost like someone had gnawed a hole in his gut.
"I just pick up on things fast," Luke said.
Han narrowed his eyes. "No one picks up dejarik this fast," he said matter-of-factly.
Luke shrugged. "I guess I do."
Luke—and Leia, though Han did not know Leia was helping Luke—lost the first game, but by a narrower margin than Han thought acceptable.
He's a novice, Han grumbled internally. I should have wiped the board with him. He has to have played before. That he lied about this was a black mark against him, in Han's book. Even so, his bright, blue eyes were open and honest, and Han couldn't help but feel like Luke was telling the truth: that he hadn't ever played before, in spite of all the evidence.
They played a second game. This time Han was better prepared to face Luke's sudden, inexplicable skill at playing the game.
The pieces moved back and forth across the board. Luke's face remained inscrutable, his blue eyes infuriatingly open and honest, his fingers deft as he commanded his soldiers around the board. Time and again Han just barely saw a trap laid for one of his men, or an ambush waiting to happen.
He fought right back, laying traps and ambushes and attacks. Luke pulled his pawns back, pushed his noblemen forward, swept his clergy in circles, avoiding and attacking all at once.
This kid has an eye for strategy, Han decided, halfway through the hour-long war.
"You really have a knack for this," Luke told Leia, as they took Han's last clergy.
"I had a lot of practice," Leia told Luke. She was silent for a moment, sorrow thick and purple in her mind. "Papá and I used to play chess every night after dinner, ever since I was old enough to understand the rules."
"Wow," said Luke. He wished that his aunt and uncle had done the same for him. Maybe, then, he would be a gifted strategist, just like Leia was.
"I'm not a gifted strategist," Leia said, sensing Luke's thought.
"But you're good at dejarik, and it's a game of strategy."
"Yes," Leia said, "but it's only a game."
"You don't think you're good at anything," Luke pointed out.
Leia shrugged. "Because I'm not. If I was—if I was a good girl, obedient and smart and quick—then Carlist and Mon would have loved me. But I'm not. I'm a bad girl."
"Bantha shit," said Luke. "You're good at lots of things. And you aren't bad. Who told you that you were?"
"Vrosha. And Pale Eyes and his friends. They say the only way to make me into a good girl is to punish me. That if I wasn't a bad girl they wouldn't have to treat me the way they do. That they'd be kind and gentle."
Luke recoiled, horrified. "That's not how you help someone become a better person," he said, shocked. "That's how you destroy someone."
"I have to believe that, though," said Leia. "If I don't, that means...that means Mon and Carlist had no reason to abandon me. That they shouldn't be hurting me. And I can't...I can't bear that."
Luke shuddered, hating hearing what Leia was saying. He did not know what to say in return, though—everything he could think of felt too small, too trite. "Okay," he said quietly at last. "I still don't think you're a bad person—but okay."
Leia was quiet for the rest of the day, remaining mostly in her own mind, not even coming into Luke's when he went crawling through the Falcon's guts to swab down pipes and make certain that they were tightly connected. Usually she kept him company as he worked, humming and chatting and telling him stories, listening to him tell stories of his own.
"Leia?" Luke asked when he was laying in his bunk that night, knowing she was likely still hurting from their earlier conversation. "Is everything okay?"
"I miss Papá," Leia admitted softly. "And...and everything hurts. I lost so much, and it's all my fault. My life is hell now, but once it was full of soft, pretty things, and people who loved me. At least, people I thought loved me. Maybe they never loved me. Maybe they stopped loving me when they found out how bad of a person I am. Maybe..." She trailed off.
Luke curled around her thoughts, hushing her gently.
"It's okay," said Luke. "It's okay to be sad. And it's okay to be hurt. You did lose a lot. More than I can imagine."
He felt Leia shake her head. "You understand pretty well, I think. You left everything you loved behind."
"But they still love me," said Luke. "And I can always go back. You can't."
~oOo~
They arrived at Bal'than, the capital city of Udur, in the middle of a storm. They slid through the atmosphere with the ease of long practice, the flames of entry licking at the ship's shields, and then they dropped through a thick layer of ominous grey clouds. As soon as they broke through the lowest layer they were battered by pounding rain and driving winds, making seeing difficult.
"Lovely," said Han from the pilot's seat. "Just how I wanted to start this job."
They landed at the interplanetary spaceport a few minutes later, after receiving confirmation and a landing pad. Han and Chewie settled the Falcon down gently, her landing struts groaning as they extended and then again as they took the full weight of the ship.
"What now?" Luke asked.
"Now we stick to the plan," said Han gruffly. He turned and fixed Luke with a hard stare. "Understood?"
Luke nodded, trying to look innocent and dependable. "Understood."
Han nodded and rose, clapping Chewie on one shoulder. "We leave at 1700, planetary time."
The plan was a simple one: they were to meet with a contact in a tapcafe at 1800, learning from him the location of a ruined merchant freighter. The freighter was a Hutt ship, and according to Han was carrying sensitive datatapes that couldn't fall into the wrong hands. In order to mask their true purpose, however, they were going to strip the wreck of all valuables.
That was where their need for Luke came in: Han knew, he said, that Chewie wouldn't be able to strip the freighter in time alone. As soon as they reached the wreck and entered it, alarms would go off—until they disarmed them—alerting all Imperial cruisers around that someone was tampering with a ruined ship. The Imperials didn't like scavengers; while they would leave a ruined ship alone for as long as no one came to collect, they would fall on anyone who decided to take the risk.
"First, though, we have to meet our contact," Han had said at the end of the meeting in which he outlined the plans. "Luke, you'll come with me. I need someone to watch my back."
Luke had frowned, surprised. "What about Chewie?" he asked.
To his surprise, Han had shaken his head. "Chewie is too conspicuous," he had said. "We're trying to be covert here, not flashy."
Luke had looked at Chewie to see how the Wookiee was taking this. Chewie had warbled something Luke did not understand, but Han had laughed.
"What?" Luke had asked.
"He said he understands," Han had said. Luke had been certain that was not all—but he was not comfortable enough in his position yet to press for further details, and so had let it go.
Han and Luke left the Falcon two minutes after 1700, Han dressed in bloodstripe pants, white cotton shirt, and a vest, his gun belt slung low on his hips; Luke wore breeches tucked into the tops of his laced knee-high boots and a black shirt with a high collar, a belt and borrowed blaster hanging at his side. Han had been wary of giving Luke a weapon—until Luke had shown him how good of a shot he was.
"Gods," Han had said as he crossed to the target practice droid. He and Luke had gone down to the largest cargo bay, an hour after landing on Udur, to practice and show off—or, rather, for Luke to practice and show Han what he was capable of, and Han to show off.
Han had picked up the slightly smoking orb and had examined it carefully. "All three shots are within centims of each other." He had looked at Luke with new respect.
It was still raining when they left, soaking both of them through before they had made it to the door into the spaceport proper. When they stepped through, Luke ran a brisk hand through his hair, shedding water droplets in every which way. Han glowered at the accidental spraying.
"Careful," he groused, wringing out his vest and checking his blaster.
"Sorry," said Luke penitently.
They left the spaceport and walked for another fifteen minutes through the winding streets. The buildings were tall and narrow, made of adobe and clay bricks and wood. It all seemed very fragile to Luke, who was used to the adobe and stone of Tatooine.
"A sandstorm would flatten this entire city," he told Han in a hushed voice, quickening his stride so he was abreast of Han, rather than following a step behind.
"They don't get sandstorms here," said Han, squinting through the rain turning the street into a small river. "Only rainstorms, apparently." He said that bitterly, his consonants as sour as his vowels. "Here we are," he added a few seconds later, and veered toward a building squashed between two taller ones. There were lights on inside, and the windows had letters painted on the glass: TAPCAFE, OPEN UNTIL 3AM.
Han opened the door to a chime and stepped through, wiping his boots on the mat just inside. Luke followed suit, and once more ran a hand through his hair, splattering raindrops onto the floor and walls. It hardly helped; he was soaked through and already cold.
Glancing around, Han hesitated for a second, then made a beeline for a booth on the far side of the room with a clear view of both the kitchen door and the front door. He slid onto the synthetic leather bench, then motioned for Luke to join him. He did so, wrinkling his nose at the cracked and peeling material beneath his thighs, then put it out of his mind.
A waiter came to take their orders. Han ordered only an appetizer of fried shrimp and tuscuni, a vegetable very much like cauliflower only sweeter, and a tankard of the house ale. Luke ordered a sandwich and a lemonade, and then the two of them settled down to wait for their contact.
"So, tell me, Luke," said Han, leaning forward to brace his elbows against the table. "How do you feel now that you've been away from home for a bit?"
Luke shrugged. "I'm a little homesick," he admitted. "But I'm okay."
Han's hazel eyes were piercing. "Do you wish you hadn't left?"
Luke shook his head quickly. "I had to leave," he said. "I had no choice."
Han's eyebrows rose slightly. "And why is that?"
Luke felt Leia, asleep in her cell after a long session with Pale Eyes and his friends, and bit his lower lip. "I just do," he said. "I can't say why—I just do."
Han sat back, folding his hands on his lap, a critical look on his face.
"I don't know you," Luke added. "I didn't even tell my best friend why I was leaving, so why do you think I'm going to tell you?"
Han grinned. "I can respect that," he said. He sobered again. "Everyone's got secrets, kid, so I won't pry into yours. But if whatever you're hiding is trouble for me and my ship, you'll regret not telling me down the road."
Not likely, Luke thought, but he let the subject drop without another word.
Their food came and they ate in silence, Luke wondering if he had done the right thing, Han pondering what Luke's secret could be. They finished, and their server whisked their plates away, leaving only their drinks on the table.
They waited. 1800 came and went. They waited some more.
"Do you think he's coming?" Luke asked at last, once 1830 had vanished beneath the slow slide of time.
"He's coming," Han said stoutly, sounding more confident than his eyes betrayed.
"I don't think he's coming," Luke began to say fifteen minutes later—only to be cut off as the door to the tapcafe blew open, admitting a short, plump, balding man dressed in a long coat tied with a sash, and a triangle hat pulled low over his brow. He stamped his feet on the front mat, shook his coat, and took of his hat, looking around. When he saw Han his eyes lit up, and he hurried toward them.
"So sorry I'm late," he said, his words short and snubbed, much like his nose and mouth. "I had some...trouble getting here."
Han raised his eyebrows. "What kind of trouble?" he asked. "The kind that follows you here?"
"I lost them," said the man, sliding into the booth beside Luke, who gave way before him. "Don't worry," he said quickly, seeing Han's mistrust and glance toward the door. "I lost them," he said again.
"How did they find out?" Han asked. "And just who is "they"?"
"They are a rival gang from Zeno. They want the datatapes—and the wreckage—for themselves."
Han cursed. "Of course they do." He looked at the man, who was nervously jittering one knee beneath the table, and tapping a staccato rhythm on the tabletop with the fingers of his left hand.
"Who's Zeno?" Luke asked, looking from Han to the nervous man.
"Zeno is Jabba's uncle," explained Han. "He's a nasty piece of work—a scheming, conniving, treacherous slug of a Hutt. Don't get me wrong, all Hutts are scheming, conniving, and treacherous, but Zeno is especially so. He took over in the vacuum of power left by his much older brother Ziro's death. He keeps his court on Coruscant, and he runs half of the underbelly there."
Luke filed that piece of information away. He could use friends in the underbelly of Coruscant—would need friends in the underbelly of Coruscant, if he was to pull of a prison escape. Maybe this Zeno could help—or would have contacts who could.
"Well?" Han asked, changing the subject and looking at the man. "Where is this wreckage?"
The man fished in an inside pocket of the coat he was wearing, bringing out a small thumb drive. "Here," he said, reaching across the table and pressing the small black device into Han's hands. "The coordinates are on there."
Han nodded. "Thanks," he said, and rose. "Come on, Kid," he said, looking at Luke. "Let's go."
The man wriggled out of the booth to let Luke out, who followed Han out of the tapcafe and back into the rain.
They walked back to the Falcon in silence, Luke's hands shoved deep into his pockets, head bowed against the wind and rain. When they reached the shelter of the landing ramp, however, Han stopped Luke with a hand on his shoulder.
"You did okay today," he said, tightening his grip. "I wasn't sure I could trust you. I'm still not sure I can trust you."
"Then why tell me the whole plan?" Luke asked, crossing his arms over his sodden shirt. "If you don't trust me, why'd you bring me along today?"
"Because you have to earn my trust somehow," said Han. "And I'd rather you do that where I can keep my eye on you, rather than letting you get into mischief. As for telling you the whole plan—well, keeping secrets like that is how you ruin a mission. I can't risk that, so I'm taking a risk with you."
Luke smiled, small and careful. "Well, you'll learn you can trust me," he said. "I'm going to do my best to help you in whatever you need."
Han nodded. "Good," he said. "That's what I wanted to hear." He released Luke's shoulder and grinned. "Now let's go in and get dried off. Chewie will have some real food ready for us soon."
"When are we leaving for the wreckage?" Luke asked, following Han up the ramp.
"As soon as I get dry and get the coordinates plugged into the navicomputer," Han replied.
Luke smiled. "Okay."
He had a feeling the next few days were going to be very interesting.
