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?
----
Sorry this has taken so long guys, but it has been beta-read by the
wonderfully patient and forgiving Lilah,
who has no small amount of talent herself, as you can see for yourselves in the
'Biggs scene'. Cheers babe, you're a miracle. If you still spot mistakes… well
then they're obviously deliberate, right? I hope this is up to
standard/expectations and… as ever… please review and help me keep going!
Mina.
Chapter Seven
Luke turned around slowly.
"You're coming with us." The clipped tones of the stormtrooper were emotionless,
but the stance was one of disdain, regarding the small youth with something
akin to contempt.
Several troopers surrounded Luke, motionless, white armour stained by
Tatooine's intrusive landscape. Their blaster rifles were held loosely in one
hand, and Luke didn't fail to see the opportunity there.
Cocky. They would pay for that mistake.
Luke had seen stormtroopers before, on a few rare occasions. He never had liked
those death masks, those down-turned expressions. He had never cared for the
inhumanity, both in their actions and their uniforms.
He was sure that from their point of view Luke looked terrified, shaking and
eyes blinking fast in time with his heartbeat. This was not exactly the usual
assignment; they could only assume from his reaction that the boy was harmless
and would easily submit to them. True, the boy was neither emotionless nor
motionless, but it wasn't submission colouring his thoughts, and he could see,
could feel the troopers make that assumption.
Mistake number two.
Shock, horror, desperation; all were running thick in his veins, boiling
beneath his skin until he felt flushed red with emotions he had never had the
need to name before. He was trembling, muscles that had been rallying for
action dismayed at being forced into inaction. His cry at the loss of everything
was still an echoing ghost in his ears. It tormented him, gaining volume and
bluster from the remnants of his nightmare, of the screaming and the pleading
and-
The trooper approached and Luke no longer cared what happened to him, no longer
gave any thought to his own safety. The only ideas he gave audience to in that
instant were the ones that instructed him to get away.
Farmboy-Luke might have frozen in shock at the horror of looking down the
barrel of a blaster rifle, might even have obeyed the orders. But this Luke,
this Renegade-Luke still cooling from his forging through fires of grief, loss
and the bitter taste of failure didn't even bother to dwell on such feelings.
A black-gloved hand reached for him and revulsion finalised his decision. Luke
pivoted on his foot and kicked out at the hand holding the blaster. He took no
satisfaction in the crack of bone in the wrist as the blaster fell, not
hesitating to scoop it up midair, rolling with it and firing blindly.
The strength he had searched for all night in his dreams and in stark reality
was finally here, found in the midst of the fight. It was not the time he
needed it most; he'd needed it last night, craved it, needed solace from
it. But at least he'd found it now. He embraced it, letting it feed his
determination.
Trooper armour flashed through the blaster sights and he fired, knowing the hit
wouldn't be enough to kill the man, but strangely satisfied as the man clutched
a hand over on his stomach, doubling over.
Luke rolled back to his feet smoothly, years of practicing blaster fights with
Biggs in the hydroponics gardens finally finding a use. He scraped a foot out
in front of him as the remaining blasters came up, kicking desert dust up into
the air even as he cracked the weapon down across the face of the nearest
trooper who was groping for a hold on the suddenly active boy.
He didn't stop to wonder how he knew what to do – to ask himself where that
naïve kid had gone. Maybe watching your life fall apart changed you a little.
Maybe it had something to do with the thrill of power and knowledge filling him
from blonde roots to feet skipping out of the way of crackling blue blaster
bolts.
He felt like a spectator, watching and cheering on a small wiry kid as he
kicked back another trooper with his foot, blasting another bolt into the gut
of one further away as the dust screen settled back to the ground and the crack
of the bolt echoed in the Tatooine morning air.
With a lurch, the scene became first-person again as the blasted trooper gave a
guttural cry and, clutching a bleeding stomach where armour didn't reach, fell
to his knees in the sand before collapsing. Dead.
Dead Biggs, dead Owen, dead Beru, dead dad, dead trooper. Who cared?
He cared. The sickness in his stomach might have been sympathetic to the
fatal gut wound, or might have been disgust at what he had just done. He
had killed; murdered. It didn't matter if the man was a stormtrooper – Tank had
left to be a stormtrooper - he had just taken a life that should never have
been his to take. He wanted to choke and cough and cry, and yet all he did was
run, legs stiff with the shock of his first kill. Blood, crimson in the bright
sunshine, burned its memory into his mind as he turned and gagged, his stomach
trying to empty at the sight.
You did that.
He ran, blindly almost, stumbling into the swoop; his swoop; dead Biggs' swoop.
Clumsily, hands slippery like they were slicked with blood, he hauled his
slight body onto the seat and shaking fingers gunned the engine with a
practiced ease. He never would have managed it if he'd had to think about it.
His first kill; the first time he would see blood spilling between fingers
desperately trying to hold tattered skin together, trying to stop the flow even
if they knew it was impossible. Guttural, terrified cries as death smothered
your enemy, cold and clammy like a wet blanket wrapped around your
throat to strangle you and-
He hit the thrusters and the bike barreled forwards. There were angry cries
behind him as the troopers tried to reassert control of the situation, as
someone screamed into a commlink, as they clambered to their own speeders. He
barely realised the whole scene had lasted just a few seconds, a brief fight
before he ran to his bike.
Then the swoop was over the edge of the precipice, another barrier between the
childhood and the manhood of Luke Skywalker breached with the bloody body
spread out in the sand. The swoop skipped from the edge like a stone across the
oceans Luke had never seen, and might never see now. She fell with no ground
beneath her and the canyon walls were clawing past him, craggy and as deep in
shadow as his emotions. He fumbled to readjust the thrusters, ticking down the
seconds before impact, the logical part of his mind dismayed at his indecision.
Turn them on? Why bother?
Because I'm not ready to die yet.
The thrusters kicked in and a plume of sand and grit hit him as they displaced
the loose ground underneath him, the bottom of the bike ringing with the sound
of a grazing impact of metal against rock. He glanced upwards through a tunnel
of sand and saw troopers appear on some sort of modified speeder bikes, white
armour flashing in the sunlight. The bitter taste of inevitability soured his
mouth. His thoughts were so confusing, so contradictory, that he barely managed
to obey them, hands reflexively tightening around the handlebars.
And then he saw Biggs in his mind, grinning widely as they raced through the
twisting channels of Beggars Canyon, and anger flared up inside him. The Empire
had killed Biggs, murdered his best friend and he would be damned if they were
going to get him too! Who cared if that was childish? Who cared if the farmboy
was back, scared for his own life? He had to get away.
He hit full throttle at the same time as his heart tried to free itself from
his ribcage with the first of many hot, red blaster bolts. The bike jumped
forward as he grabbed the goggles from the handlebars and strapped them over
his eyes, not ready to loose his sight to a mote of dust. The stolen blaster
rifle dangled from the inside of the handlebars. A burst of acceleration
matched his fiery determination, and the canyons walls were reaching for the
bike. He had to concentrate, had to trust his instincts to take over the
delicate controls.
He had her gunning around a first spire of rock as the loud groan of the
speeder bikes settled on his tail, but he barely noticed it next to the thrill
of the turn. Then he was leaning over to duck his head beneath another
outcropping, trying to fasten the goggles with one hand whilst controlling the
bike with his other.
Wind and sand and grit bit into him but stars! It was fun! His body was
tingling like a live wire, blood rushing to his head as he kicked her forward
again, taking great pleasure in the sand churning underneath the bike, the pull
on his body, the pure adrenaline rush.
Suddenly constricted, he undid his tunic with the one hand, fumbling at the
fastenings and holding on with his other hand. He let it flutter away as the
speed built, the walls of Beggars Canyon Main Avenue approaching fast, the
stormtroopers approaching faster.
And then he was only feeling, no longer thinking. Knowing the terrain through
experience and something much more intimate, something that had only begun to
take on a true form in the past two days. Something he gave immediate and
unthinking trust to.
And then the chase was on.
---
No longer was it just the twin suns' heat that scorched the desert air. Flames,
crazed and twisted, beat at the subdued sky, dirty from the thick, sooty curls
of smoke. Tatoo1 and 2 almost blazed brighter in recognition of the kindred
spirit they found in the fires, and all three combined to make the air burn,
oppressive in their collective rage.
Mid-morning winds danced across skin made sensitive by heat. Biggs shuddered.
He could not accept this mockery of reality. Could not accept that those
blackened piles of flesh and bone were people
– were the bodies of the Lars couple, people he knew well. Bloody streaks
congealed in the sand under his feet as Vader lead them onwards, never turning
back to the burning farm.
One gnarled hand reached towards Biggs in supplication.
I'm sorry. I couldn't save you. I'm so
sorry.
And the fire kept burning, burning…
Biggs turned his eyes away from the gore.
Dead Uncle Owen and Dead Aunt Beru. What had they meant to him? He was no
longer sure. Even during all those tedious days he and Luke had played in the
desert, working and flying, laughing and arguing, they had never discussed the
designations of 'aunt' and 'uncle'. Biggs had never stopped to consider what the
words meant and Luke had never volunteered to share. In fact, his friend had
rarely talked about Owen and Beru as if they were family.
Had Luke known? Known he was Sith-spawn and not said anything??
No, that couldn't be true. It wasn't.
Biggs' cheeks burned for even considering it, and he hoped it was the shock
thinking, not him. That blonde tow-headed boy he had spent the better half of
his childhood with was nothing less than good and honest, no matter who his
father was.
His friend's silence was one borne of frustration, not guilt.
Luke, who was always so frustrated by the Lars' stubborn refusal to answer his
questions. Luke, whose frosty attitude made it seem as though he didn't care
what relation Owen and Beru were to him. Luke, who cared so much more than he
would ever tell…
---
Luke leaned hard right on the swoop, pushing the bike to go faster, skipping
her off the side of the canyon walls to duck under the spines of rock above
him. Past them now, straightening the bike out. More power, always more speed,
eyes barely registering the land, trusting his experience to get him through
this.
The bike was fast; well tuned from the hours of tinkering in the Darklighter's
garage. But the troopers' bikes were apparently faster – they weren't gaining,
but they weren't falling behind either.
A blaster bolt exploded to his right, and he jerked the bike over to the side,
quickly bringing her back before she could start barrel rolling to the ground.
The shot managed to graze him with splinters of rock from the exploding spine,
but didn't come close to hitting him. So the rumours are true – stormtooper
aim is terrible.
Unless... well unless they didn't mean to kill him. Those had
been stun bolts...
His jaw hardened in determination. If those troopers thought they were going to
get him alive for that Imperial interrogation he had heard so much about, they
had better think again. Dewbacks would fly before they managed that.
He gunned the bike forwards, rolling her through a narrow sequence of spires of
rock; left, right, nose down but don't hit the ground. The troopers
followed doggedly, although a little more cautiously, blasting at him when he
skipped through their sights. The heat of the bolts never reached him, but he
could feel the late morning suns burning his bare arms, and the vest-top clung
to him with sweat. But this was nothing new – he'd done this a thousand times.
Except usually those following him weren't trying to blast him out of the air.
This was no game. Not that it mattered. He whipped her around another spire and
found himself grinning, grief forgotten.
Dead Man's Turn.
Here was the opportunity he'd waited for. It was too much to hope that all the
troopers would be poor enough pilots that they would under-compensate for the
turn and make pretty explosions on the canyon wall. Never mind. Luke knew a way
to make some explosions anyway.
First, though, he had to get through the turn. He slew the swoop over, twisting
her on her side and kicked her roughly around the corner, slowing her so she
didn't slam into the side wall. She protested a little, engine growling, but he
knew this bike. He knew she would take it.
Straighten her out; get her level, more power again. The terrain was relatively
clear for a few heartbeats. He twisted in the seat then, stolen blaster back in
hand, and aimed. A sharp spike of rock above the turn collapsed under the heavy
volley of a blaster rifle at full power, crumbling and falling into the canyon.
He twisted back as it slammed into the canyon floor with a thunderous crack, so
he didn't see the blooming explosion of speeder bikes crushed under the rock as
fuel tanks exploded. But he felt the heat, saw the light flash outwards, and he
couldn't keep a whoop of triumph from escaping his lips. He cheered and
hurriedly got both hands back on the bars, the swoop jerking from his
one-handed guidance.
More power! He had to go faster. He looked over his back, and frowned grimly as
two bikes emerged from the fire, all that was left of the squad. He had never
counted how many troopers there were, but the number had to have been large
enough to be classed as 'a lot'. Now he could count his odds. Two to one.
Child's play.
The Needle.
Wind snapped at his hair and his skin was cold with the draft against sweaty
skin. He barely noticed it. This was his domain. He was truly in his
element here, guiding the bike through the fastest, although probably not the
safest, route to the infamous Needle. He allowed his breath to come evenly,
feeling no terror at the obstacle that had dominated his childhood. He had
faced this particular obstacle; drilled himself with practice until he could
'thread' it. The spire of rock jutting out across the canyon, making it
impassable by any route other than straight through. He knew – he'd tried all
the others and wound up fixing dents in his skyhopper for days.
But this was a swoop – a lot different from the T-16. Not as big, but a hell of
a lot more temperamental.
More blaster bolts sizzled over his shoulder as the troopers closed in and he
juked her side to side, obeying his instincts when they told him to move.
More speed! More despite the fact that the landscape was now a blur – sharp
spikes that would skewer you deceptively softened by movement.
He knew this. He could do this with his eyes closed. Well... Maybe not, but the
confidence didn't hurt any.
Just don't get too cocky, Skywalker!
One sun watched him through the eye of the Needle. His shoulder muscles tensed
with his grip on the handlebars as the walls snatched at him. The bike
scratched the sides, a high-pitched scream over the deep booming of the engine.
He gritted his teeth, held on, trusting he could do it – and he broke free of
the structure with another cheer of victory.
Go Luke Skywalker! Anchorhead Ace!
In his mind, Biggs was rolling his eyes to the brilliant blue sky, so far
above him. Behind him there was the sudden sound of an explosion, a fuel tank
letting loose, and he knew at least one stormie hadn't been much of a
seamstress.
He could always hope the troopers had been stupid enough to ride too close to
each other. Maybe they'd both gotten blasted. A quick look over his shoulder
and there was disappointment – one was still following doggedly, his
determination punctuated with blaster bolts.
Well, fine. Extreme danger of death be damned! This was what Luke
Skywalker did best!
---
Meditation was a very personal thing. It wasn't something you couldn't teach a
'proper' method for, but something you had to let a student find for
themselves.
Obi-Wan Kenobi had learnt that many, many years ago – at about the same time he
had learnt that his form of meditation often involved sinking into the
sweet, warm flow of fleeting visions. Visions of the present weaving out a
future; memories of the past, lessons for the present, adding a rich overtone
of foreboding to the flow as it pooled around him. He rarely paid attention to
the images around him, but only basked in them and strength and serenity of the
Force.
Today, that rule was about to be broken.
– Two dark figures stalked forwards, purposeful and shrouded in shadows.
Both held an unlit saber in their black-gloved hands. Hate poured off each, as
vile as the Emperor's dark dreams.
Luke Skywalker turned an intense and hateful blue gaze towards Kenobi's
viewpoint and he only recognised the boy by the intense blue eyes. Nothing of
the disarming young man remained in that shell, that soul overpowered by
darkness. In the saber light, the black cloak was slippery and wet with blood.
Palms too were doused in the thick crimson fluid, slick but the hands on the
saber handle were sure and unrelenting. Everything covered in blood.
And the two figures continued their approach.—
He closed his eyes and tried to force back his assumptions.
It felt like the future, but that meant little when it came to the Force
and its perverse way of dealing with and shaping events. He reached out for
Luke's presence, out beyond the dune sea to the Lars homestead –
Again, green eyes flew open.
Vader. He had felt the unmistakable presence of Vader.
How was that possible? What was he doing here? And Luke – Luke's
emotions surged with the heady adrenaline of a fight. A fight not yet over.
Vader was here. Luke was fighting.
Ben Kenobi, eyes grey in horror, attached the lightsaber he hadn't used in
decades to his belt and ran for the door.
---
This one was relentless, and pretty good too. Not like Biggs though; not like
dead Biggs.
Luke hated to admit it, but he didn't know how much longer he could evade these
blaster shots. The canyon walls flew past, ever decreasing in height and he
knew that soon he would run out of canyon. And then, in the flat desert
straights, with no cover to move behind, he wouldn't have a chance.
Sweat-covered hair plastering itself to his forehead, he risked another glance
behind. The trooper was gaining on him. Luke throttled back a little, feeling
inevitability taking his hands and tying them behind his back. The womp rat
could only run from the dragon for so long before he gave in and just lay down
to die.
Die? Die? Like Biggs? Like Owen and Beru?
Like father?
Like hell.
The plan was forming in his mind, even as the logical part of his mind that
sensible Lars-like part of him – grimly reminded him of the scant odds of
survival. Too late. His body was already in action. The muscles in his legs
tensed, feet cramped against the hot foot-plates, hands rested lightly on the
handlebars. He had to time this right; he had to get in closer, even if the
blaster bolts became close enough for him to feel the heat.
He had to jump.
Sucking in the hot air, both from twin suns and the heat of the engine, he
pushed off from the bike, hoping that he wouldn't get his legs caught in the
handlebars at the last second. He didn't. His legs made it clear from the bike
and he tucked them up against his stomach. Turning his head away, he wished he
could have gotten more strength in his legs. He needed to get further away
before-
The speeder behind him tried to evade the suddenly immobile bike. It couldn't.
The shock wave from the explosion barreled into his falling body, knocking it
around like a grain of sand in a storm. The heat wave came next and he didn't
look at the fireball; Tatooine natives knew all too well the consequences of
looking into lights too bright.
The heat enveloped him, skin singing in pain, but only for a moment and then he
was falling, tumbling, arms grasping to catch onto something, anything.
When the mad tumbling began to slow, he saw the fireball above him as it fell
back in on itself.
The canyon walls rushed past, his back to the ground. He tried to twist around,
knowing a collision between his back and the canyon floor at this speed would
be more than fatal. He succeeded a little too, starting a lazy turn towards the
ground –
He hit – pain jarring him and blacking his vision for a moment. When it cleared
he was still falling, tumbling down a scree slope and he rolled with it, head
over heels over head. Fire blistering up his side, skin breaking under the poor
protection of trousers and vest. The speed of the descent could only be slowed
by hitting the rocks and debris around him.
A lazy slide along the ground and he stopped falling, sucking in hot, dry
breath through parched lips.
For a whole minute he lay exactly as he had fallen, the beating of his heart
like a countdown. When it passed one hundred he tried to flex his hands and
found the bones mercifully unbroken. Two hundred and he managed to get his legs
to move a little, although he felt the sting of bruised bones. Still no breaks.
Luke Skywalker had always had this kind of luck. Four hundred and he realised
the brash statement was not quite true. He tried to lift his chest and pain
spiked in his abdomen. Looking down, the black and blue was already spreading
across his stomach. A broken rib probably, although the farmboy was no medic.
It didn't matter; he had to get up. He pushed off from the ground, quickly
crouching and hugging the injury. Blinking in the bright light, he looked up.
And up and up and up. The canyon was so much taller when you were stuck at the
bottom.To one side cinders and charred flecks drifted to the ground in wind
current eddies through the channel. On the other the remains of one speeder and
one swoop sat in a twisted crater of sand at the bottom of the scree slope.
Beyond that only canyon walls and deep shadows in one of the few places on
Tatooine where the light of Tatoo1 and 2 never reached.
Upwards. He had to go upwards.
Clutching his ribs, he hauled himself into a shaky kneeling position, wiping
the first drops of blood from his knees where the grazing skid had broken his
skin. He wondered why he bothered; it only got the crimson blood everywhere and
it was not like it did any good. He pressed a palm against a deeper cut and
looked around the canyon sides.
He had to climb upwards.
It was a strange compulsion he couldn't defy. To the side was a winding pathway
up a shallower area of the canyon. Bantha track? The sandpeople certainly migrated
through these areas.
One hand shading the light from his eyes, the other clutching the broken ribs
in his side, he started a painful walk up the canyons sides, the sticky
metallic scent of his own blood invading his numbed senses.
---
Darth Vader stepped forward, enveloping the Troop Commander in his shadow and
his stern gaze. The Darklighter boy, sitting subdued and probably in shock in
the back compartment, didn't appear to notice the stormtrooper's slightly
agitated tone. But Vader did, and he felt the growing sense of... something he
couldn't identify. It felt like destiny but it tasted of death. It was a sour
sting on his tongue and it shaped his voice into a clipped tone.
"What is it, Commander?"
The man jumped, clearly unnerved. "Lord Vader!" Who else had he
expected? "We're getting a report in of a scuffle and-"
"A scuffle?" Vader was mildly displeased by the sudden lack of
imperial discipline, but more annoyed by the lack of details in such an
innocuous word. "What kind of 'scuffle'?"
"Group six reported finding a young man in their sector."
Vader felt his hope surge, felt his chest tighten in expectation.
"And?"
"There was some sort of fight, My Lord." The man cringed. Apparently
he wasn't completely stupid. He at least had the brains to realise this was no
average mission.
"He escaped?" No – don't tell me that. Don't tell me you found him, warned
him that we are looking for him, and then let him escape. Don't.
"Momentarily, My Lord."
So few words! More time given to title than information. "And?" How
many times would he have to ask?!
"There was some sort of chase underway, through a canyon." The man's
voice was starting to shake. Too intelligent for his own good if he had
realised this would displease his Lord.
Beggars Canyon? If so, they would never catch Luke. "'Was'?"
The man stuttered, then seemed to fall back on his Academy training. "We
lost contact a few moments ago. It appears the group has... been
disconnected."
Despite the anger, the frustration, the need to crush this imbecile's throat
with a mere thought, Vader felt pride burning through him. His son had taken on
half a squad, and won? A true Skywalker. It was the only thing that saved the
Commander's life. He could thank Luke later.
"Commander, set course for the last transmission. I want-"
The man unwisely interrupted. "My Lord, that will take a few moment to
calculate; given the nature of the signal."
"Nature?"
"A hand held commlink, Lord Vader. We have to triangulate the signal
with-"
Vader gave him a withering glance for even thinking he had to give Darth
Vader a lecture on commlink transmission. This man would definitely be dead at
the end of this mess. "I understand." He doubted the man understood
the sarcasm. "Lift off as soon as we have it."
In the back, Darklighter's eyes widened in fear and Vader felt destiny squeeze
a little tighter.
---
Halfway up the uneven track, after gaining several new and colourful bruises
from tripping on loose rocks, Luke leaned against the canyon side and tried to
breathe. It was getting harder. The broken ribs pressing against his lungs were
causing him to gasp for breath rather than inhale deeply. He felt the lack of
oxygen in the weakness in his muscles and in the dizzy, lazy spinning of the
canyon sides – a kaleidoscopic merry-go-round of pictures that wanted to trap
him into sitting against the canyon side and waiting for the inevitable to take
her toll.
He didn't. He couldn't, because the inevitable was on that cliff top. And
whatever it was, he had to get up there, had to find out where this was taking
him. Had to keep going.
He stumbled onwards a few yards, nearly to the top now. Still many kilometres
from anything resembling 'help', but he was still nearly there.
He looked up, suns directly above him. Noon on Tatooine. The cliff was a dark
bar across the sky, giving a stark contrast between dark and light. And against
those two opposites, pushing them apart, there appeared the silhouette of a
cloaked man, peering down at him with something resembling agitation.
Luke stared back, squinting, brushing flecks of blood from his hair.
"Ben?" Pain blossomed in his chest at the word and he gritted his
teeth, pausing for breath. "Ben Kenobi?"
The man nodded once and Luke sighed in relief, despite the pain it caused.
Struggling forward, scrambling towards destiny, he barely noticed the fire in
his side. This man, this kindly but crazy old man, would be his help.
He had to be; there was no one else.
Mina.