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?
A
solemn dawn was breaking over the Lars homestead. The place hadn't
changed much since the last time he'd stood on this spot, so long ago
now, barely even a memory to trouble him anymore. The squat, domed
buildings showed a little more wear from sandstorm and sun damage;
the dunes had reshaped the horizon as they had crawled sluggishly
onwards for the last twenty years like docile huttlings searching out
grubs. But the sunken courtyard was the same; the garage still small
and gaping open to the distant jundland wastes.
There was one
small but very, very significant difference however; so slight that
had he not known to look for it, he might have passed over it without
a second thought. This place, from the dusty sunken courtyard to the
distant figures of 'vaporators standing sentry on the farm perimeter,
was washed with shadows of the Force, a light dusting over the sandy
ground. In fact, this whole area of the planet incited a warm tingle
to stir in the back of his mind, a feeling that could only be the
Force trying to tell him something.
Something; it was
such an open word, containing a wealth of information that really
told you nothing at all. Much like the Imperial newsheets Palpatine
was so fond of seeding misinformation in.
Something was going
on; something had happened, something was about to happen. He
could practically taste it. And if he hadn't known the answer, he was
sure it would have been infuriating.
But he knew. It was
Luke, the echoes of his sons presence. The feeling was both familiar
and unique; intoxicating and demanding his complete attention. It was
a favourite novel rediscovered, dust blown from the cover and seen
with new light.
Try as he might though, he couldn't pinpoint
any presence that might have been his son. And he had tried
relentlessly; in the shuttle from the Devastator and now down on the
farm as the troopers took up a tight fan formation and encircled the
small home. There was something.... something he hadn't felt
in a very long time, that wasn't Padme, wasn't Luke, wasn't Lars...
Even as he tried to reach for it it skittered away like dustballs in
a sandstorm, and he felt he could have chased them all day and gotten
nowhere.
The present pulled him back from the past when the
smaller figure of Biggs Darkligher stumbled at his side and gave the
Dark Lord a hard but clumsy glare as Vader turned to the troop
leader.
"Bring me the occupants, and set your weapons for
stun."
---
"Got to... got to wake
up... Owen!" Beru felt the panic rising as her husband tried to
bat her hand away sleepily from his shoulder. "Owen, wake
up!"
As clearly as she had heard the whine of
repulsolifts landing a ship, she now heard nothing but a brooding
silence.
Dreaming; she had thought she was dreaming that
nightmare again. Where stormtroopers came to their house and took
Luke. They turned him into... no she couldn't think about that. It
was vile, it was disgusting, it was probably even destiny.
The
dream was so familiar, like a recalcitrant relative you detested but
endured because it was inept not to acknowledge their existence. So
familiar that she hadn't stopped to think it might actually be
real.
"Owen!"
Her voice
shrieked and she clamped a trembling hand over her mouth. Had they
heard, were they coming, would they kill them in their beds, or drag
them out to quarter them in the morning light of Tatooine?
Calm,
Beru, be calm.
Kneeling, tangled in bed sheets, skin
covered in a sheen of sweat despite the cool Tatooine morning, she
was beyond being calm. She tried to force down sobs of terror and
anguish by breathing deeply and failed utterly. Short dusty hair
clung to her face with the tears.
Owen had shot upright in bed
at her cry, legs getting tangled in the covers, an expression of
anger and horror on his sleep-creased face. And he didn't even
realise what was happening.
"Beru?" He reached a
hand for her trembling shoulders, but before he got there his head
snapped up at the sound of footsteps, many footsteps, in the hallway
outside.
Was that recognition she saw on his features? Did she
see the horror in the hard set of his jaw, the lunge for the blaster
under the bed as the door blew inwards and pale morning light showed
the death mask of a trooper in their doorway.
Was that terror
in his angry cry?
She tried to make her muscles move but her
hands only clawed at the coverlet over her body. So scared, so
afraid, so utterly terrified that she couldn't make a sound other
than a garbled cry at recognition of the blaster rifle in the
troopers hands as it swung towards Owen.
He never stopped; he
wasn't as weak as her, wasn't cowering on the bed like a two year old
staring down the monster from her dreams given form, her greatest
fears personified. His hand probably even made it around the grip of
the weapon before the blue stun bolt entangled his body.
He
fell over her then, heavy across her legs and finally she
screamed. Terror, panic, horror, Oh Force help me!
Who
was she calling to? She was hysterical, her hands clawing to pull her
husband off her, but the trooper stepped forwards and took both her
wrists into one gloved hand, yanking them up away and ignoring her
cry to let go.
He continued the pull until her legs
disentangled from the dead weight of the body and she fell from the
bed to the floor, knees hitting the rough woven mat she had made. Had
made with a two year old Luke gurgling on her lap.
Luke!
She
fought furiously against her captor as he made to drag her in her
nightshift to the hallway, pulling on the hands that held her,
desperate for her nephew and her husband but mostly, she was ashamed
to acknowledge, terrified for herself. The trooper ignored her, maybe
even laughed a little at her and her tear-stained cheeks.
Beru
was a meek, mild woman. Kindly, but her greatest strengths were in
compassion and empathy, not fighting. And she knew it; she didn't
have the discipline of mind to block images of so many terrible
futures running behind red eyes; cried because she couldn't fight
back.
A sick thud behind her, then a dragging sound and Owen
was being pulled along the floor.
She cried blindly, wondering
what she said and if anyone was even hearing the pleas of a
hysterical, petrified woman. No one appeared to rescue her; no relics
of a long lost past jumping to her cries. She kicked her legs out but
they slipped and she was falling again, this time to the stone
hallway floor.
And still the trooper ignored her, continuing
to drag her towards the light.
---
Breath
Biggs, breath.
Beru Lars was dragged up the steps of the
sunken courtyard, kicking and screaming. She had obviously been
pulled from her bed, wearing nothing but a nightshift stained by
tears. Behind her they dragged the stunned body of Owen Lars. No
Luke.
Maybe he was putting up a fight somewhere, but there
were no sounds of scuffles, only troopers booted feet on the hard
ground and Beru's futile curses.
Vader seemed to notice the
lack of Luke too, and Biggs had to fight not to turn around and smirk
triumphantly in his face. Ha! Not so easy, huh?
Beru
fell roughly to a sobbing heap at their feet and Biggs couldn't help
but feel for her as she gathered the folds of her dress around
herself protectively and adamantly refused to look up at the two
figures. He made a move to offer comfort to the woman he had
sometimes thought of as his own surrogate aunt, but Vader stepped
forward towards her first.
Now move Darklighter. Now
while no one is holding you back!
Shame he'd forgotten
Vader could read minds. Or at least that was how it seemed sometimes,
times such as now. Even as he began to spin on his back heel and
reach for the blaster of a near trooper, he felt himself shoved in
the side to a grazing landing in the sand. His breath came out in a
gasp and he heard Beru's cry of "Biggs!" as he
scrambled back to his feet, shaking the stars from his vision. Two
troopers had grabbed his arms and pinned him into place, and he
waited for some form of punishment from Vader.
The Dark Lord
didn't seem inclined to be bothered with any though as he dismissed
him with a look that might have been disdain before turning to the
petite woman at his feet.
Her eyes were hard with disgust and
fear and she couldn't make herself meet his gaze. Instead, she fixed
it on the peaceful features of her stunned husband, appearing to
sleep contentedly as destiny played out relentlessly around him.
Vader stepped forward and took her roughly by the chin, much as he
had done with Biggs on the shuttle down. Biggs wanted to help even as
he bit back a comment he knew would be ineffectual and only get him
punished. The worst he could do was hope the Dark Lord would boil to
death in that suit.
That was childish and he knew it; it was
the kind of hiding-under-the-duvet philosophy that got you killed
when you curled up into it in the heat of battle. From Beru's
distraught expression, he knew she was rapidly retreating to that
place, to denial of the obvious. She was tense with fear, quivering
as the Sith forced her gaze upwards. He spoke to her in those
commanding bass tones.
"Where is he, Beru?"
He
thought he might have seen some flicker of hope blown out by the
words and she shook perceptibly. "Who...?"
Didn't
she know it was foolish? Biggs wanted to tell her to just give
him what he wanted, because he inevitably got it anyway.
Like
a mental slap, he realised his mind was playing a cruel trick on him.
Something Vader was doing with that damned Sith magic? What was he
doing thinking like that? So defeatist. That wasn't Biggs
Darklighter. He used to have defiance, he used to have a cause, he
used to believe in Luke and some misplaced hope that this would turn
out okay and-
"My patience wore thin many hours ago,
Beru. Where is my son?"
Son? What was he talking about?
Wasn't he after Luke, wasn't that what this was all about, some
orphaned farmkid he-
Son!
The landscape shook in
time to a racing heartbeat. He stumbled backwards against his guards,
fighting off the realisation, parrying it with a fierce burst of
denial.
But... he was a fighter, his father had always told
him that; Luke had made him prove it, but sometimes, well sometimes
there were some things you just couldn't fight. And the truth was one
of them.
Beru didn't appear to be denying the fact; she was
just still kneeling in the hot sand, tears on her cheeks, arms hugged
around herself, but her expression was steely. "Not here Vader."
She all but spat the last word, vehemence clear in his voice.
Hatred of this man, this monster responsible for the death of
millions, this father to her nephew. What was he to her? Brother?
Brother-in-law? Or no relation at all; was the designation of 'aunt'
irrespective of family?
He saw Vader's fist curl and Beru
gagged, clawing at her throat, choking against the sand under her at
the Dark Lords feet.
"Beru... tell me." His voice
was strangely compelling and she stopped trying wrestle his grip away
from her to look up into the black mask, transfixed, mouth moving but
no sound coming out.
"No...! Beru...!" Biggs tried
to surge forward away from the troopers, but it was so much wasted
energy. He might as well have tried to drag the Dark Lord away by his
teeth. It did have some effect though; Beru's head snapped upwards in
recognition and she growled angrily.
"Is this what you
want him for him, Vader? To teach him how to kill and main and
control? Is genocide and murder part of your Sith curriculum?"
With one comment she reduced Vader's beliefs to childish teachings.
Such sarcasm from so small a woman, and in such a state, impressed
Biggs. "Well I don't know where Luke is. Go on, use that
Force of yours, you know I'm telling you the truth. Go ahead if you
want to take another rummage through my mind." She glared at
him, fists curled in anger, suddenly shedding the image of a
terrified farmer.
But only a for a second, before the windows
shut down again and her eyes blinked more tears down her cheeks.
Vader seemed to consider her for a moment and then turned from the
scene, striding back towards Biggs and towards the homestead.
For
a second, a wishful second where the impossible ruled, Biggs thought
Vader might leave the farmers be; let them sit in the desert
recovering, mourning even. That was not to be.
"Kill
them."
---
"Send out speeder patrols to search
the perimeter." He said, hearing the protests of Darklighter as
the two troopers holding him down dragged him from the bodies of his
friends guardians. "Work outwards for two hundred kilometres."
He turned and pointed a finger at the troop commander, "And if
you find anyone don't harm them. Set all weapons for
stun. I will hold you personally responsible for any deviation from
that order."
The trooper never even flinched, trained as
he was to take in such statements as easily as he slaughtered jawas.
"Yes, my Lord." He snapped to attention, turned and left. A
heartbeat of consideration and Vader indicated that Darklighter
should be brought forwards.
The boy finally got enough of a
grip to turn a hateful glare on the Dark Lord. "Your son?!"
He hissed through lips still stinging from throwing up. "Your
son?!"
"Follow me." He growled, the last
thing he needed to deal with here was a obstinate boy. He already had
one to chase down.
"Your son?!"
How
many times would he repeat it? Vader ignored the boys shocked
babbling and entered the small garage. Inside, as expected, were the
tattered pieces of skyhopper hull, an oil bath on the far side, and
pieces of nondescript machinery in various stages of disrepair. And
no speeder. Vader had been in this room before but somehow it was
strangely disconcerting to walk in the footsteps of his son,
following the route he had taken in the farewell recording to his
best friend.
"Release him." Vader ordered the
troopers. Darklighter shoved his guards away from him and stormed
towards the Sith. There was shock and horror on his face, emotions
Vader remembered well from experience in the Adamant's docking bay.
Vader had a son?!
Darklighter had moved before
actually thinking, and suddenly stopped as if considering his
next actions. Now he was standing very still, furious, disgusted and
in shock.
"Your son?!"
Apparently he
intended to repeat it several times until Vader answered him. Fine.
"Yes, thank you for enlightening me. I might never have known of
his existence had you not been quite so liberal with your
views."
Guilt washed his expression for a second before
he pointed an angry finger at the Dark Lord, "You... you
are..."
"What?" Vader challenged, "A
sith-hell bastard? Well yes. A murderer? That too. Father of your
best friend? Absolutely. Shall we continue or would you prefer to
stand here bickering childishly?"
His tone was dangerous
and Darklighter heard it. He subsided a little. "Continue what?"
He asked bitterly, rubbing at the bruises forming on his biceps.
"You know Luke, where has he gone?" Vader
asked.
Biggs scoffed, "As if I'd tell you! You-"
Vader
finally snapped. He reached out and clamped a hand around his throat,
cutting of the boys words, all pretense gone. "Be warned, my
patience truly has run out. Watch your words."
Biggs
blinked heavily, another sign that he might be going into shock. He
was barely recovered from being sedated for nearly a week, after all.
Unable to speak around the tightening hold, he nodded and Vader let
him go, barely noticing the gasping for breath.
"I don't
know."
"Think."
"I am thinking!"
He shouted, nerves obviously broken by the revelation. His eyes
seemed to stray behind Vader and caught on something. Vader turned as
Biggs walked past him to look ruefully at a small model ship sat on a
shelf, a layer of dust marring her surface.
He didn't stop
him when he lifted the crude model of a skyhopper into his hands.
Biggs closed his eyes and sighed, shoulders slumping under an
unbearable burden.
"I really don't know."
--
Luke
snapped awake, hands searching blindly, covering his ears to stop the
screaming, to quite the sobbing, to-
And then it stopped with
an abruptness that made him lurch forward in confusion, released
suddenly. He felt nausea in his stomach and he wiped his
sweat-covered face with a hand.
"What?"
He
stood shakily, only then recognising the scene; on the ridge of
Beggar's Canyon with twin suns rising in the sky, swoop bike behind
him, lantern burning low by his side. He must have been dreaming,
having yet more nightmares.
He must have fallen asleep on his
vigil. Some friend.
Stretching, feeling strangely empty, he
dusted the sand from his trousers. He thought he knew what had caused
that gorge in his mind; Biggs. But even as the assumption settled, he
knew there was something more, that yet again something had been
lost...
His eyes lazily scanned the horizon, heat waves
obscuring the dune sea in front of him, Tatooine loosing herself to
the atmosphere the way he wanted to loose himself to grief. A
shivering breath and he pushed down those thoughts, knowing that to
remember his friend was honourable, but to wallow in his own
self-pity was pointless and, in the end, self-destructive.
Blue
eyes spotted something in the distance, something like the heatwaves
only denser rising into the atmosphere. Frowning, the sick feeling
returning, he went back to the swoop bike and unhitched the pouch
he'd rigged onto it's side for his possessions. Unsheafing the
macrobinoculars he lifted them to his eyes, his features still
puckered by the concern and curiosity.
In the enhanced view
of the macros he swept across the horizon, locating that point again.
There it was; a thin curl of smoke rising into the morning sky, the
flames at it's core not visible at this distance. The display told
him it was a good two hundred kilometres from the ridge on which he
stood and that feeling slowly began to claw its way from his gut and
up his spine on cat-claws to nestle next to the deep concern forming
in his mind.
He lowered the macros and whispered a denial, a
hope.
"No." It couldn't be! That couldn't be his
home – his home. "NO!"
This was too
much – too much! The binoculars fell to the ground from his hand
and he screamed across the desert towards his home, his burning home.
"No!" His voice was already scratched by grief for his best
friend, and now it was weighted by his anguish.
Owen? Beru?
He had to get to them, he had to go, had to run to them, to
help them, to die with them even. So he didn't have to loose any
more.
He spun on his heel, face hot with indignation, all
notion of caution gone. He had to go. He had to -
"Don't
move."
Even a naïve, grieving farmboy could
recognise the clipped mechanical tones of a stormtrooper.
Mina. - who loves all Americans really.