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?

Shooting Star

Chapter Five

Luke Skywalker stripped the goggles from his face and tossed them into the back of his speeder, shortly followed by his hat and whatever was left of his courage. Luke needed to find strength right now, had to get his heart to stop clocking up the parsecs, but he couldn't. Even the sight of the Darklighter homestead was making his stomach churn, and the worst thing was he couldn't say why.

He'd been here many times before, mostly with his absent friend, and they'd explored every inch of the land. From staging mock blaster battles in the tall shoots of the hydroponics gardens, a green blur in the distance, to climbing all over the vehicles stationed in the spacious, well lit garage, the antithesis of the Lars own modest garage. Taking old speeders apart and putting them back together until long after the twin suns had set.

Usually, the homestead would bustle with droids, not managing to be as discreet as their manufacturers promised as they picked, processed and packaged the food for shipping to Mos Eisely and further. Another sharp contrast to Luke's home - Owen apparently believed in 'servant' labor rather than droid labor wherever possible. The rough calluses on his hands were testament to that.

Normally the reminder of being stuck in this place for yet another season would have made Luke's blood begin to boil like the quite gurgling of water in the irrigation pipes hidden in the sand at his feet. Now though, all he felt was a quite tug of loss pulling at his stomach, it seemed to demand he bow his head as he walked slowly to the rather grand front door, it seemed to want him to drag his feet in denial. If only he knew what he was denying.

Luke waited for the door to be answered, quietly noting the inordinate amount of time it took for Huff Darklighter to appear, face stony, expression deeply disturbing. It was what he saw in the mirror every time he thought of his lost father.

"Mr Darklighter, sir. You asked me to come over..." Luke found the words catching in his throat and wondered at that. Probably it was just a reflection of the somber mood of the homestead, probably he was being paranoid. Luke shuffled his feet uneasily.

Red-rimmed eyes averted from Luke's gaze and gestured for him to enter, not quite managing to keep the slump from his shoulders, certainly not managing a smile for the small farmboy. The suspicion was smothering Luke and he felt the desperate need to scream what's going on? But he kept his voice in check, following the broad man into the house, also shrouded a thick veil of misery and hopelessness. He really needed to scream.

"Sit down, Luke." The man never turned to look at him as Luke took a seat on one of the couches used to entertain visiting businessmen, conspicuous in their absence. He wondered why his fingernails were digging welts into the fabric. He felt like he was suffocating.

He reached down deep, trying again to find that strength and courage he hoped lay beneath the image of a naïve and disarming boy. Almost found it, too.

Huff turned back to him. Again, that look; that look that sent millions to their graves.

"I'm afraid I have some bad news, Luke."

Clinging to the edge now, clinging like it was the only stable thing in his world, wishing the next words would never come, because he knew what they were. Of course he knew; he'd always known. In those timeless moments that shape your life and leave their marks whilst fate shrieks like a maniac at your tears, you always knew; had known; would know. No time, no life, only the here, the now; only this moment locked in time that was over so quickly but you never truly escaped.

"Biggs died several days ago."

He'd known. He was right. It didn't dampen the reaction. He felt his stomach recoil inwards like he'd been struck physically and the first words of denial never even made it to his lips. In the distance, beyond peripheral vision, his childhood waved goodbye as it stepped out the door.

"H-how?"

Huff was refraining from tears, so would Luke.

"I'm... I..." He stopped, gathered the tatty remains of composure around himself like a cloak and burying his head in it, he finally continued. "The Empire executed him for treason."

The indignation, the disgust, the pity. It all came out in a choked gasp, not even a word. Treason? Biggs? Well... of course. Hadn't they promised each other not to be drafted in? But Biggs had been, and it sounded like he'd tried to escape, and gotten caught. He didn't know who to be more angry with, himself for that stupid pact, or Biggs for getting himself caught.

Knowing his friend, his dead, deceased, blasted-to-star-dust friend, he'd probably just mouthed off at the wrong moment. And it had gotten someone killed. Namely himself.

And just why did that feel wrong, somehow, some crucial point not quite right...?

"Sithspit."

It was a poor word to use, not coming within spitting distance of the depth of feeling the news brought to him. Not that anything ever could, so he supposed it didn't matter what he said, really. Biggs was dead, so who cared if he was being too colourful with his words? Not him, certainly.

Luke stood shakily and Huff tried to get him to sit down, platitudes about 'you've had a shock, you need to recover' falling on ears listening to nothing more than the self-recrimination for their stupid- damnfool idealist sithhell stupid! -pact.

He'd killed him. He had. He'd leached his naïve idealism into the older boy, tainted him by his childishness, gotten him killed. It turned his blood from red to grey.

"I... need to be alone."

No, not to cry, but to escape. To run fast through the desert, shedding his pain and guilt and hatred like heat to the desert night. Then to collapse in the sand and scream, because now he had a reason to scream. He really had a reason to curse every deity he had ever heard of, and them some. And still he wouldn't be done; maybe then he'd just lay out on the dunes. Even stare at the stars like the two best friends used to on lazy evenings with the sandstorms whispering of bright futures as star pilots in the distance, and just lay there. It was so incredibly tempting.

You're stronger than that, Luke Skywalker.

Was he?

He proved it. He stood up straight, shoulders back out of the farmboy hunch, and he gazed sadly at the grieving father. He was so proud of his son, the boys mother's death had made him idolise Biggs. Dead Biggs. Dead fighter-pilot traitor Biggs.

You were so lucky, Biggs. What happened?

"Mr Darklighter, it was an honour to know your son, and I considered him a true friend. Believe me when I say I will miss him sorely, and I know you will miss him even more. I want to offer my sympathies, but I know right now they will sound contrite and preconceived. They are not. He will always have been the best friend I've ever had."

Did those words come out of his mouth? He was sure they held the tone of a deeper voice, a wiser voice.

To Luke's lasting surprise, the man managed a small smile, not in the least mocking, and then pulled the slight blonde-haired youth into a fierce hug. And when he felt the tears staining his back, Luke no longer felt the need to supress his sorrow.

The Devastator bore down on the Tantive IV, easily overpowering her with a few well-placed shots in a very brief firefight. The fight for the inside of the ship was more lengthy and satisfying, and Vader oversaw the boarding, ordering a search for the hiding Princess of Alderaan. He was growing ever more impatient, he needed to get this task out of the way, and with the Princess hiding and the Death Star plans nowhere in the ships computer, this quick, simple task was rapidly turning into something much more complicated.

And then there was Luke, down on that planet somewhere, probably sleeping since it was the middle of the night in the Anchorhead area. He felt his fingers flex as he thought of the delay he was enduring in order to not rouse the suspicions of the Emperor. He didn't trust sending crew down to collect his son without him along; that would only offer more chances of complications. And besides, as the boy had admitted himself, it wasn't like he was going anywhere.

The image from the datapad came back to him, Anakin's eyes sparkling mischievously. He needed to get down there.

In his frustration and the musing of his thoughts, he barely realised he had killed the Captain of the rebel covette.

In the dim red wash of lantern light, Luke sat gazing at the distant horizon. The craggy landscape, viewed from the edge of Beggars Canyon, was rapidly approaching dawn, a red streak in the low sky and a faint blue tinge to the air around him where the comforting presence of the lantern didn't reach. And one place it truly didn't come close to touching was the rift left in Luke's hopes and dreams from the death of his best friend.

A heavy sigh from the boy was the only sound on the precipice top, except for the occasional tumble of rocks down the steep walls where womp rats displaced them as they came out to meet the dawn. The ground was a dull grey colour, personifying his mood in the shadows lurking outside the lamp light. Beyond the circle of light sat the swoop he and Biggs had worked on up until he had left for the academy, after which it had sat in Huff's garage waiting for Biggs' return. It seemed only fitting that Luke brought the finely tuned raked speeder with him instead of his own battered speeder. It sat as silent as it's master now, although not nearly as contemplative.

This was all Luke could think to do – to hold a very silent, very lonely vigil in the place he and Biggs had spent some of their more pleasant times, waiting for dawn and some sort of new hope.

He hugged his knees to his chest and knew that it probably wouldn't come.

Pain in his wrists, pain in his back, pain in his neck and... complete confusion. Biggs tried to move his head and felt the muscles there bunch and spasm and he found the energy to moan slightly in protest.

That did not have good consequences. A hand came into his blurred and erratic vision, grasping painfully at his chin and lifting it into the light source, making him protest hoarsely at the pain in his eyes. The light didn't help him to see either, only spotted shadows moving into his perception.

The black gloved hand dropped his head and he heard the distant rumbling of thunder, murmuring words like the Tatooine sandstorms whispered to lost travelers, sending them slowly mad as they wandered confused and in pain.

Confused and in pain; he understood that. His head lolled against his chest and he didn't really care, at least it wasn't shocking him with strained neck muscles. His broken vision made out his feet, a metal grill underneath them, and something in him that might have been his more logical reasoning finally awakening told him that if he his head was lolling against his chest, he had to be sitting or standing upright.

Sitting, he decided: the pain in his back centering around the base of his spine. He wanted to move a hand to brush the confusion from his brow but he found his hands held down. Restraints? Or just a result of the intense weariness settling over him like dusk falling.

Not dusk: dawn rising.

He ticked off the return of his senses on mental fingers. Touch first, cold metal against skin. Taste next, a bitter, sour sensation of citrus fruits and tannin. Then his vision made it's way back to something resembling normality, and as he lifted his head he saw, in a strangely muted world, the back of a lambda shuttle, filled with the white emotionless stormtroopers and, naturally, the owner of that hand – Darth Vader.

His hearing came last, the thunder jumping suddenly into discernible words like a faulty holoprojector retuning itself -

" - droids. They can't have gone far. Check for Jawas."

Biggs licked parched lips before the Dark Lord deigned to notice the now awake young man. From his position on a bench in the back compartment, Biggs couldn't see far into the cockpit, and Vader stepped forward, occluding what little he could make out. Sand. Brilliant blue sky – Tatooine?

The memories finally came in late and Biggs remembered his 'interview' not too many days ago. And with it, the disturbing reaction of Vader to his best friend.

You called it all right. Tatooine. Home sweet home.

Vader looked like he might speak then, but instead he turned briskly to the cockpit as the whine of repulsorlifts settled the shuttle to the familiar soft landing into sand. The cloak swept around him, shrouding a little of his agitated stance. Not too much though, not to Biggs who knew exactly what to look for after a prolonged stay in the Siths presence. The clenching of his fists, the slight lean forwards in his stance; the eager, fast movements. He didn't suppose any of the troopers would dare to notice such a thing.

Eager for Luke? Anger was boiling up inside him, writhing in his gut like a womp rat stuck in the blaster sights of his T-16. Inescapable doom, but still fighting. Still hoping.

I'm sorry, Luke.

And then they were moving from the shuttle, down the ramp into the sunshine, both painful and comfortingly familiar. Vader at his side, guiding him with a firm hand on his shoulder. Almost immediately, the metal binders soaked up the combined heat of Tatoo1 and 2 greedily, despite it being only early morning. But that discomfort was nothing compared to the deep sense of dread he felt upon recognition of the shuttles choice of landing ground. The Lars homestead.

I'm so sorry, Kid.