Disclaimer – Despite my begging letters to Mr. Lucas, he simply won't give me even a few minutes alone with Luke Skywalker and company. I know, terrible isn't it? So I can't claim any ownership over them, this is purely for fun.

An AU story, at the time of ANH – what would have happened if Biggs hadn't jumped ship and had mouthed off at the wrong moment about Luke's piloting skills?

NB – large sections of italics are either thoughts or dreams. I.e. not real-world.


Shooting Stars


Chapter Four

The frozen touch of a hard floor against his cheek told him he must have rolled off the homespun-and-foam pallet Beru had given them to sleep on. It was extremely uncomfortable and icy cold, which was probably why his muscles ached so much. He felt like he must have run the length of the Lar's homestead yesterday, with a weighted pack and no water. Still in the grip of sleep, he couldn't push away from the floor and he lay there a little frustrated.

A few metres away lay the small, sleeping form of Luke Skywalker, and Biggs could see his breath crystallising in the air around them, wisps of blonde hair floating upwards with the small breaths.

This was dumb! He'd told Luke this was dumb! And it was cold too! "Bet you couldn't rough it, rich boy," he'd said, he'd taunted. "Bet you couldn't. Bet you'd be crying for your daddy." Grinning wide as his hands made mock sobbing noises. He was a fine one to talk, wasn't he always the one to moan about not having a dad? And more than that, the sly little womp rat had maneuvered him into this.

Cold and pain and breath crystallising in the air in sharp gasps around frozen lungs.

That little pint-sized runt! "I can, I can rough it! Don't call me 'rich boy'!" Biggs had whined almost as loudly as Luke often did, and the pout was definitely a mannerism he'd gotten from the smaller boy. He'd made Biggs sleep out here just to prove a point, and now Biggs was cold and hurting. He glared at the small sleeping form on the pallet opposite, seemingly perfectly contented under the loose coverlet.

And it really, really hurt.

"You don't know how! You haven't got the guts," he'd accused him. The little rat was clever; he knew Biggs could never take a poke at his courage. That had been all he needed to get Biggs to take up the challenge of a camp-out. Well, sort of; Beru had banned that idea, especially when the sand storm had blown up and hurled itself against the small, grubby homestead. But he wasn't a 'rich boy'. He could do this. Biggs could picture the pout of injustice on Luke's face as he tried to worm his way around his Aunt. That sly smile and dough-eyed plea when she seemed to be breaking.

"Boys, it's not safe. But you can set up in the garage. Will that do?"

Luke had complained but the woman had given a wise chuckle and refused any further concessions. So they had spent the afternoon in the dust and half-light of the garage, moving old pieces of equipment out of the way to make a clear spot for their camp, laughing and fooling in the dust motes shown up by the light of twin suns.

It was funny; Owen had taken the opportunity to bellow at his nephew for not having fixed the stuff they were hefting out of the way, but Biggs knew that as soon as he managed just that, Owen always got even angrier, especially when it seemed as if the thing had been unsalvageable. Biggs knew that upset his friend but they never mentioned it. Just like they never mentioned Bigg's dead mum. Never.

Biggs shivered in the cold.

So Luke and him had grabbed a roll of tatty and dusty synth and constructed posts from broken 'vapoator supports, Biggs dutifully not complaining about the material's condition. He was not a spoilt rich kid! Luke had tinkered with an old pocket luma until it was working, 'though it flickered on and off unless you whacked it hard.

"What now?" Biggs had asked, trying not to shiver. Luke had grinned back at him, seeing right through him.

"I got this picture of a Skyhopper-"

"A T-16?"

"Yeah, see?" Luke had searched his tattered pockets - though Biggs didn't mention their state – and pulled out an old crumpled piece of flimsy with a picture of the little ship. Both boys grinned despite the cold, the torch light flickering again and throwing shadows against the 'tent' walls.

"Think we could model it?" Luke's voice held the enthusiasm that touched it whenever they talked about anything to do with flying. Luke bit his lower lip in contemplation and hope, hair afire in the reddish light.

"What with? Why don't you just buy-" Biggs had fallen over his own words, and then scowled at the realisation that he had slipped back into what his friend called his 'rich-mode'. "What have you got?"

He shifted uneasily on the cold floor.

The younger, smaller boy hadn't missed the slip, but for a miracle didn't mention it. He scrambled around on the floor out of the circle of light and came back, presenting a handful of shards of thin transparisteel and some unrecognisable pieces of durasteel that could pass for a T-16 cockpit. Maybe. Biggs had looked at him questionably as he produced a small, pocket welder and grinned, eyebrows raised.

Biggs lay on the cold floor, wishing he could get off it and back onto his pallet. Adult features screwed themselves up into a childish pout.

In the corner was the discarded, half-finished model they had worked on all night. Luke's face had been a picture of concentration as he delicately and expertly stuck the wings into a triangular array around the cockpit, the torch swinging from a piece of sythrope they had rigged to hold it roughly centrally under the 'tent', the complicated network of supports for the syth-and-duct-tape hut only shadows in the backgrounds. Luke had sat cross-legged, biting his lip, ever-so gently teasing the wing to stick to the cockpit.

The sandstorm was still going, though it sounded different to what he was used to. Sounded more like... well, voices really. And feet against hard decking. Maybe Owen and Beru were up already.

Luke had looked up from his work and given a toothy grin. "Your go," he'd said, brandishing welder and model in small tanned hands. Biggs had learnt throughout the evening that making the little ship actually meant quite a lot to the kid, and he stuttered when the boy offered him the chance to take part in its creation. Then it was his turn for a toothy grin and the moment passed between them quickly - respect, trust, friendship – as Biggs affected a cocky 'I can do anything' glint in his eye and took the ship from his friends hands.

"You missed a bit, see?" he mumbled through numb lips.

He'd finished the final wing, and puffed his chest out in pride at his handiwork. Luke hadn't tried to compete, he'd just grinned and nodded sagely.

Biggs had understood then, somehow, that this was his best friend. That he would protect, be loyal to and poke fun at this diminutive boy as long as the two remained stranded in the sand wastes of Tatooine. And he promised himself that for Luke's next birthday he would get the credits out of his father to buy Luke a real model, though this toy would probably sit on his bedroom shelf for a long while.

The luma batteries had begun to fail then, despite Luke's best effort to keep the ancient device alive and -

- and the scene gradually faded into darkness.

---


Darth Vader had the Adamant return to fleet after her brief but entertaining - and enlightening - scuffle with the pirates.

It was a short jump and when they arrived he had Darklighter shuttled across to his flagship, the Devastator, whilst he flew his TIE Advanced into dock there. The boy, sedated after he had begun to hurt himself with the thrashing, was transferred to Vader's private quarters, to a small room accessed only through his apartment. It was a modification of the usual Officer's quarters, such as those he had 'interviewed' Darklighter in aboard the Adamant, that he had put to use many times upon receiving prisoners he took a more personal interest in. Not only was it more secure, but it prevented any mention of the prisoner appearing in Imperial records. That could be very useful at times, usually for interrogating prisoners that it would be better never made it into the Records; to get information for the Emperor. He had never dreamt that he would use it to keep information from the Emperor.

During the transfer he'd had time to think over what he had learnt, and his nerves were steadier now, the problems created by this strange and very welcome twist in plans evident. He had made efforts to prevent the knowledge of what had occurred in the Adamant's docking bay from traveling any further.

Darklighter's squadron has been reassigned to outer-rim duties; Darklighter's execution for treason was formerly recorded and used as a reason to demote the whole squad. Notification of his death was sent to next of kin, a father only; no mother. The troopers transferring Darklighter would know nothing other than that they were transferring an injured pilot to medical bay, where droids, whose memories could easily be purged, would deliver him still sedated to the cell.

All this was done by his aide – who very soon should be meeting an unfortunate coolant leak accident in the shuttle transferring him over. Shame.

And the cogs of Imperial back-biting kept on turning.

Now, this accomplished and Darklighter still out cold beyond the Force-locked door, Vader sat in his meditation bubble, eyes staring blankly at the few possessions the boy had brought with him for a glorious career in the Imperial Navy.

For a Tatooine native, and friend of a moisture farmer, he was surprisingly rich. Or, his parents were surprisingly doting. Either way, it was unusual. The clothes were not homespun: they were well made, probably even offworld cottons, and not the usual Tatooine beige and whites. Interesting. Maybe Luke also lived in such relative luxury, although he doubted that. The Lars, in his opinion, never exactly screamed of a success waiting to happen.

Other small momentos of home also spoke of a rich upbringing including... a datapad? Why bother bringing a datapad? It was fairly average (although would have been a luxury on that Sith-forsaken planet) and there would be plenty at the Academy had he needed one.

Curious, maybe even getting a nudge from the Force, he switched it on and was greeted by the shaky, hand-held image of a blonde-haired young man backlight by a brilliant blue sky, the angle obscured due to the fact he was obviously holding the camera himself.

With a shiver of certainty settling deep in his gut, he knew that this was Luke Skywalker, and the grin on the grainy image made that conviction complete. That was Padmé's smile.

"Biggs, it just isn't going to be the same when you're gone."

The voice was like Bakuran fruit liqueur on a lazy summers evening, sweet and enticing and holding a world of hidden depths. His son had pale-golden skin and Biggs hadn't lied about his eyes; they were as blue as the distant skyline. Or perhaps Vader was just seeing what any parent would, not that he would ever admit it.

The camera shook as Luke began to walk, giving a brief view of a sand-and-sky landscape unbroken to the far jundland wastes that Vader remembered around the homestead.

Luke gave the camera a winning smile, "You're lucky, you know? Escaping this place." He seemed to sigh and Vader could imagine him kicking futilely at the sand that covered everything on Tatooine. There was a look in his eyes of being caged and desperately needing escape, a look Vader could readily understand. He had to get away.

"I'll be following one day, you know? Uncle Owen, he... well he just needs me for another couple of seasons, and then I'll be following you." He grinned sheepishly.

As he walked with the camera into the garage, the pickup went dark and the blurry outline of his son showed him adjusting something behind the view until the image returned, compensated for the change in lighting.

"Bet you're wondering how I got your dad to pay for this huh?" He smiled wickedly, "Wasn't so hard. He really cares for you, you know? You're like his... favoured son." Was that jealousy or did Vader just want to hear it? "I don't suppose fixing those hydro units for him hurt either."

He winked at the camera and then spun it around to show the interior of the garage. In a corner lay the half-repaired pieces of a skyhopper, then the pickup spun back to Luke looking sheepish. "Anyway, I just wanted you to know you were right," he said, "I burnt her out on the needle racing Windy." He shrugged. "He cheated! Flashed my stabiliser as I was Threading. I still beat him though, he had to bail." He lifted his chin in triumph, "So I guess you were right, I nearly did make a nasty stain on the canyon side."

He leaned in closer to the pickup as he set it atop a work surface to give a stable picture, then stepped backwards into where he presumed he would be centred in the pickup. He was nearly right.

The intense gaze tore straight through the supposedly unshakable Dark Lord. "Don't go copying me, okay Biggs? The city'll make you soft and... well, things really wouldn't be the same without you." He raked fingers through the blonde hair, "I guess what I'm saying is be careful. Oh, and watch out for me, I'll be on your wing some day." He grinned suddenly, "Hell, I'll still make Lieutenant before you do."

He gave a nod to the camera and reached to turn it off.

Vader sat very still for several long breaths as the screen went blank, not quite sure what would be proper for a Dark Lord of the Sith to be thinking right now. All he knew was that he had just seen his son, Luke Skywalker. How would you describe him? Enigmatic, certainly. Enthusiastic but naive: a farmboy both in dress and accent. But there was something else there too. Every movement he made was deliberate, behind every thought was a deep well of consideration and his eyes were wise beyond the age his young skin. Much like Anakin.

So eager, the boy, so needing to escape. Well, he wouldn't have to wait much longer.

Vader felt a frown pucker his skin at the brash statement. That wasn't true. He hadn't just taken great pains to rid the records of any evidence of his discovery, including sacrificing a good aide, just to order the whole fleet to Tatooine. That would be stupid. What possible reason would he have for going there? Why would he ever return to that damned place?

"My Lord?"

Enraptured by his thoughts, he hadn't heard the approach of his Aide aboard the Devastator, Daine Jir. He still grasped the datapad firmly in his hands like it might disappear if he let go, and he forced his tense fingers to set it aside,.

"I asked not to be disturbed," he growled.

"Quite so, My Lord, but we have received a communication from your contact on the Tantive IV with the destination of the consular ship." The man nodded gravely. Usually outspoken, he was for once holding his tongue.

Vader felt annoyance worm in his gut, this time directed at himself. Since this revelation that Anakin was not the last Skywalker, he had completely forgotten his priority mission – chasing Leia Organa and the stolen Death Star plans. How had he forgotten something of that magnitude? Had he truly been so effected by this discovery? No, that couldn't be.

"Where?"

"Tatooine, My Lord."

Vader forced down the shock in case his aide picked up on it, remembering the secrecy he was attempting to hold together. But... it was perfect. A truly valid reason to go back to his homeworld, and fetch a certain Luke Skywalker from the surface whilst he was there.

"Very good, inform the Captain to set course and jump to a rendezvous with Princess Leia's ship, and instruct U-3PO to continue monitoring her actions in case she tries to hide the plans."

"Yes, My Lord," the Aide gave a formal and well-practiced nod.

"Dismissed."

He turned on his heal and left without a sound and Vader stared back down at the discarded datapad, Biggs' present from his best friend.

Biggs.

What was he doing calling the boy by his first name? He shook his head tiredly, no longer sure what was going on his mind anymore.

---

Biggs stirred on the floor of his cell again, but didn't wake when the medics arrived to inject nutrients and sedative into the restless young pilot. Images of Tatooine buzzed his mind, swoops racing through Beggars canyon, memories at full throttle and not sparing him any recovery on the emotional joyride.

And all the while there was the image of the kid he called 'best friend'.

And all the time there was a feeling of failure.

----



I'm ermm... sorry if it's not so good as you hoped. I typed out this whole section, stupidly not saving it, and then my computer decided to randomly reboot, so this is the second draft. Anyway, Que sera, sera. It's one in the morning too, so there will be typos. I'll fix them tomorrow. Always tomorrow....

Please review, it honestly helps me to know what you're thinking. I've already changed some minor details after Tegarend's suggestions, so it's not a futile gesture.

I'll start the next chapter tonight, meanwhile, think about this -

"Even damnation is poisoned by rainbows" – Leonard Cohen.

Mina.