Chapter 10
By the time Vader got to the last protocol droid, he was thoroughly ready to call it quits. Loading new language updates into over a hundred prissy, self-important droids wasn't his favorite job; it wasn't even in the top hundred. It probably ranked down at the bottom of his list, right there with being locked in a cell with a rabid gundark or serving as Ghede's wingman.
He would much rather be working on the Desert Angel or sorting out the heap of jury-rigged scrap that was the Millennium Falcon. His fighter was tantalizingly close to being flight-ready. And the Falcon was always a welcome challenge, for Han always seemed to undo his repairs within hours. But the Alliance came first, and with the influx of new recruits of all species, they had to be sure the interpreter droids were up to speed.
"Oh dear, I always hate this," the last droid worried, his very proper voice clashing with his anxious manner. "One never knows what's going to be removed or installed…"
"Oh, be quiet," Vader ordered shortly, plugging a cable into a small port on the droid's neck. "Nothing's getting erased. I just need to examine your language databanks and make sure you have the languages we need."
"Of course I know the languages the Alliance needs," the golden droid informed him somewhat stuffily. "I am fluent in over six million forms of communication…"
Vader shook his head and hooked the cable to a hand-held readout screen. A list of languages appeared, and he called up a search program to locate those he'd been told were required. All protocol droids, even those that endured frequent memory wipes, had an uppity air about them. They could have distinctive personalities, of course – cheery or moody, irritable or placid, skittish or unflappable, even manic or suicidal – but he had yet to meet a shy or humble protocol droid.
Bocche… check. Twi'leck… check. Huttese… three different dialects. Old Basic… variations from five galactic eras. Binary… check. Wookie… check. Sullustan… an archaic dialect that would require updating. Bothan… only half-uploaded, an error that he needed to correct.
"You wouldn't happen to know your number, would you?" he asked. The previous droid had developed a corruption in its memory banks, giving it the personality of an absent-minded professor.
"I am C-3P0, human-cyborg relations…"
Vader dropped the readout. "Threepio?"
The droid's head jerked a bit in surprise. "Pardon me, sir, but… I don't believe we've met before."
"Threepio," he repeated. "So long ago… no, it can't be…"
"Uh, sir?"
"When I was a boy," he explained, "I built a protocol droid. Its number was C-3P0. But I've no idea what happened to it."
"Oh," Threepio replied. "Well, I can't verify your story, sir. I've had at least one memory wipe…"
On impulse Vader grabbed Threepio's head.
"Oh!" he yelped. "Don't hurt me! What did I do?!"
"Hold still," he ordered. "I'm not going to hurt you. I'm just going to remove your face plate."
"Are you sure that's a good idea?" the droid whimpered.
Carefully Vader unlatched the facial covering and pulled it away. Two round amber photoreceptors stared back at him from a tangle of repeatedly repaired wires and aging circuits. The chipped Vocoder, the jury-rigged components, the sand still embedded deep in the mechanical workings even after so many years and countless oil baths…
"My stars," he breathed. "It's you, Threepio."
"Of course it's me!" huffed Threepio, indignant. "Who else would I be…" Then he realized what Vader had meant, and his voice fell somewhere between a resigned moan and a hysterical babble. "Darth Vader… my Maker… oh, my!"
Vader grinned eagerly, feeling a rush of excitement at this incredible find. This droid was part of his past! And what wonders it could reveal to him! True, the memory wipe essentially meant he had amnesia as well, but most erasures merely removed the information from the droid's accessible memory and stored it in a blocked section of its databanks. If he could just bypass the block – and he was sure he could…
But further consideration tempered his enthusiasm, and in a matter of minutes he'd dismissed the idea. Threepio was obviously already shaken from learning who his maker was. Further probing into his databanks would traumatize him even more. And he couldn't do that, even to a machine.
He picked up the readout again and set it to upload Bothan and a more up-to-date dialect of Sullustan. A few more minutes, and he would be free to resume work on the Angel…
Shouting reached his ears, and his head came up sharply. He could make out Luke's tenor… and Ghede's angry baritone. That meant trouble. And it sounded as if it was coming from the hallway leading into the hangar.
Vader stood and headed toward the altercation, intent on defending his friend.
"Wait!" shouted Threepio. "Aren't you going to put my face back on? Come back!"
Night was falling rapidly on this hemisphere of Yavin IV, which meant another flight drill for Rogue Squadron. Luke couldn't suppress a boyish grin as he zipped up his flightsuit. If Ghede ever found out about their nocturnal jaunts, he'd suffer a brain hemorrhage. Which, of course, only increased the thrill.
The rest of the squadron was busy preparing themselves and their fighters for tonight. Wedge and Dekham were arguing over who got the better astromech tonight. Mela was busy making preflight checks, being a cautious sort. Conversely, Zev was already strapped into his fighter, raring to go. Squib, ever the nervous one, was clutching a small diamond-shaped pendant he always wore for good luck. Everyone was almost ready, except…
"Where's Bekme?" he asked.
"Had to use the 'fresher," Ar'ya answered.
"Had to go touch up her makeup, I bet," Dekham teased.
"Shut up," Gavin told him. "You're just jealous of Luke."
"Of me?" Luke stared at Gavin. "Why?"
"Oh come on!" Wedge shouted, looking down from lowering a piece-of-junk R4 unit into his X-wing. "Everyone knows you two are an item. Every time you get KP, she gets herself into trouble so she can serve KP with you. You talk after meals. You plan the flight drills together. What else can you be besides an item?"
"Friends," Luke replied firmly.
"Translation: they just haven't kissed yet," Janson remarked.
Luke felt his face go hot. "Even if we were an item – and we're not – what business is it of yours?"
"None," Zev put in. "Which is why we're all so morbidly curious."
"I can imagine Ghede won't be too happy," Rocky said via translator. "He'll ground the two of you indefinitely and lecture you about having romantic relations with the underlings."
"That's for sure," Hobbie replied, and he puffed out his chest and did an exaggerated impression of Ghede's precise, nearly robotic gait. "You should treat them like an officer treats his troops!" he barked. "That means no talking to them, no sabaac, no fun, and by the way, if I catch you kissing one of them you get KP for a week!" He whirled and pointed at Mela, who had an amused expression on her aquatic face as her mind drifted into the gutter. "KP for a week for dirty thinking! And another week if you don't wipe that smirk off your face – hey, no laughing! KP for laughing! That's it! All you immature pipsqueaks are grounded for a month for being excessively happy!"
By the time everyone was done laughing, Luke's ribs ached badly. Gavin, on the verge of incontinence, bolted for the men's refresher, still giggling uncontrollably.
"That was good, Hobbie," chuckled Janson, wiping tears of laughter from his face.
"But not quite accurate," Dekham replied. "Hold your breath and act like you've just taken a big swig of Neimodian vodka. Much better," he applauded when Hobbie complied.
Luke rolled his eyes even as he started snickering again. /Yup, these are my friends/ he said to himself.
When he casually glanced down the hallway, he saw Bekme lurking there, watching quietly. She gave him a smile and motioned for him to come with her.
"Be right back," he told the squadron. His statement went unheard, however, as Hobbie did a frenzied reenactment of the jig Ghede had performed when Janson had slipped a stinger lizard down the back of his flightsuit.
He ducked down the hallway. "What is it, Bekme?"
She nodded toward the hangar. "They're talking about us, aren't they?"
"Oh, nothing derogatory," he assured her. "They think there's something between us."
An odd smile quirked her mouth. "Is there?"
/Not her too!/ he thought. "Hey Bekme, you're a good friend. Don't get me wrong. I've enjoyed having you around. But I'm not sure if I feel anything beyond that…"
She cut him off by pulling him out of the squadron's sight and planting a kiss squarely on his lips.
A million thoughts and feelings shot through Luke's brain at that moment, bouncing around randomly like blaster bolts in a magnetically sealed room. The only one that was halfway coherent was /Wow, this is interesting./
Later he would be embarrassed to admit that Bekme was the first girl he'd ever kissed. Sure, he'd been friendly with Camie back at Anchorhead, but Fixer had always made it known she was his. So he was naturally clueless when it came to his first romantic encounter. But Bekme took charge, holding his face in her hands as he began to respond to her touch.
"Do you feel that?" she asked, pulling away.
"Yeah," was all he could say, so stunned was he.
She laughed softly. "Now do you think there's something between us?"
He nodded. "Yeah. Could be."
She slapped his chest. "You are so unromantic, flyboy."
"Hey, when it's your first time kissing a girl…"
"Oh really? Well, I'm honored to have been the first."
He chuckled and bent down to kiss her again.
Why was it that, whenever he was enjoying himself, Ghede had to muscle his way in?
"Commander Skywalker!"
Luke flashed him a "give me a minute" gesture, not breaking off the kiss just yet. Might as well get the most out of this if he was going to get into trouble. The problem was, Ghede's shout had just attracted the attention of the other pilots.
"I knew it!" shouted Wedge triumphantly.
"Go Luke!" cheered Gavin.
"Stang, come up for air!" Dekham jabbed.
When Luke finally released Bekme and gave the Commander his attention, the Chiss had gone an odd color of purple.
"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded. "What have I told you about…"
"It's my fault, Commander," Bekme cut in. "I kissed him first…"
"I wasn't asking you, Olie," Ghede retorted tartly. "I have told you repeatedly, Skywalker, that to best lead the squadron you must be a leader, not a flight buddy…"
His voice trailed off as he stepped into the hangar. Luke silently swore in dismay. Every pilot was flight-ready at a time when they should have been in bed. All the X-wings were primed for takeoff – even Ghede's, in hopes that Vader would finish his work early and be able to join them. As if to add one more nail to the coffin, Hobbie was still doing his lizard-down-Ghede's-flightsuit dance, howling "KP! KP!" all the while. Upon seeing the Commander he froze in mid-step, one leg raised and arms at crazy angles.
"Uh… nice evening," he greeted lamely.
Ghede was expressionless, but his crimson eyes flashed angrily. He let his gaze sweep Rogue Squadron, making them look away or shrink back.
"I see," he noted coolly. "This explains it." He gave Hobbie an especially disgusted look, then raised his voice. "From a source that shall remain anonymous, I learned of your night flights and took it upon myself to see if the report was accurate. I see that it is. From now on, any pilot who misbehaves will not be grounded, but rather taken off the squadron entirely. Flight drills begin at 0600 every morning, no exceptions. And also let it be known that Life Squadron will spend every evening cleaning the ships, no exceptions."
"That's groundcrew work!" protested Zev.
"It will put your excess energy to good use," Ghede replied. "You seem to have it in spades, if you can plot juvenile pranks by day and fly all night."
"Oh, lay off!" Luke snapped, his irritation having reached a breaking point. "This squadron's been run into the ground by your training tactics. Lighten up and give them a break!"
"War gives not breaks, Skywalker! It's serious, grim, bloody conflict, not a game! And I won't encourage my men to see it as such!"
"We know war's not a game! We know that firsthand! We've all lost friends and family to the war! That's exactly why you should ease up! Life's not all about the blasted war!"
"When you take charge of the squadron, you can run it as you see fit! But until then, my orders override yours. And as it's obvious that this rebellion stems from your lack of leadership, I have no choice but to…"
"No!" exclaimed Vader, striding up at that moment.
"Go away, Vader," ordered Ghede. "This is Life Squadron business…"
"It was my idea, Commander Ironmoon," Vader interrupted.
Luke's gut went taut. /He's going to take my heat!/ He couldn't let Ghede punish Vader for something he didn't do!
"Vader, beat it!" hissed Dekham. "We're the guilty ones!"
"No," Vader replied. "It's the truth. I encouraged the pilots to show their displeasure in an inappropriate manner. If anyone is to blame, then blame me, not Luke."
Ghede glowered at the mechanic. "I knew you were nothing but trouble, Vader. And if you were under my control, I'd see that you suffered severe disciplinary action. But the happy responsibility isn't mine, so I shall report this to Mothma. I'm sure she will not be as lenient this time. As for the rest of you, lights out. Drills begin in the morning." He stormed off.
Squib gawked up at Vader. "Why'd you do that?"
"To keep Luke from suffering from my actions," Vader replied. "I have no doubt that Ghede was planning on demoting him."
"So?" Luke retorted. "Let him. I hate being told to act like a snob and that I can't have any friends…"
"Rogue Squadron needs you, Luke," Vader retorted calmly. "They need a voice of reason, even if it goes unheard. They need one who will champion their cause, not Ghede's. If you were replaced, Rogue Squadron would have nothing to bring an end to Ghede's iron-handed leadership."
"He's right," Mela added. "Ghede isn't going to be Commander forever. We want Luke to replace him, not a Ghede clone."
"Spare me," groaned Rocky. "I'd rather work groundcrew."
"Speaking of which, who ratted on us?" asked Wedge. "I'll bet it was the night sentries."
A red-furred Bothan entered the hangar. "Darth Vader, Mon Mothma wants to see you in her office."
Vader nodded and followed the messenger out.
"How much do you want to bet that's the last we see of him for awhile?" asked Bekme.
Luke just sighed. "To bed, pilots. Looks like our night flights are over."
/Finished at last./
Vader stepped back to have a better look at his handiwork. The Desert Angel gleamed in the dim light of dawn, shining with a coat of paint and fresh polish. She was beautiful… and she was flight-ready.
/At least I've done something right/ he thought, reflecting on last night's conversation with Mothma. She hadn't been angry with him – indeed, she'd seemed more amused than upset over Ghede's complaint – but he had received an official reprimand for disrespect toward an officer.
"All higher officers deserve respect, if nothing else," she had explained. "Yes, Ghede is a difficult man, but he is one of our best fighters. If you have issues with his leadership, please bring them to Admiral Ackbar or me. Don't take matters into your own hands."
Once she'd dismissed him, his first instinct had been to go find Ghede and put a fist in his eye. But that would only reinforce his image as a violent Sith lord, an image he'd tried so hard to be rid of. So instead, too frustrated to sleep, he'd gone to the hangar and spent all night sorting the last bugs and glitches out of the Desert Angel. The effort, he thought with happy exhaustion, had been well-spent.
"Darth?"
Vader turned to see Han and Chewie running toward him, the latter carrying a duffel bag.
"You're up early, Han. If you need a hand with the Falcon, I'm available…"
"Have you been here all night?" demanded Han, wiping sweat from his unusually pale brow. He looked strangely worried – no, frantic. And Chewie's eyes were wild with panic. What was wrong? Had there been an accident?
"Yes, I've been here all night. What's the problem?"
"You're sure?"
"Yes, why?"
"C'mon." Han grabbed his arm in an effort to steer him toward the Falcon. "We're getting you out of here. Chewie's got your stuff."
"Exactly what is the problem?" demanded Vader, wrenching away.
"I'm your bodyguard," Han shot back. "It's my job to protect you. And right now half the base is itching to lynch you, so we're going to lay low awhile somewhere inconspicuous…"
"What's going on, Han?"
"You don't want to know."
"Yes I do, Han."
"Fine." He blew out his breath in exasperation. "Ghede's been murdered. And the evidence points to you."
By the time Vader got to the last protocol droid, he was thoroughly ready to call it quits. Loading new language updates into over a hundred prissy, self-important droids wasn't his favorite job; it wasn't even in the top hundred. It probably ranked down at the bottom of his list, right there with being locked in a cell with a rabid gundark or serving as Ghede's wingman.
He would much rather be working on the Desert Angel or sorting out the heap of jury-rigged scrap that was the Millennium Falcon. His fighter was tantalizingly close to being flight-ready. And the Falcon was always a welcome challenge, for Han always seemed to undo his repairs within hours. But the Alliance came first, and with the influx of new recruits of all species, they had to be sure the interpreter droids were up to speed.
"Oh dear, I always hate this," the last droid worried, his very proper voice clashing with his anxious manner. "One never knows what's going to be removed or installed…"
"Oh, be quiet," Vader ordered shortly, plugging a cable into a small port on the droid's neck. "Nothing's getting erased. I just need to examine your language databanks and make sure you have the languages we need."
"Of course I know the languages the Alliance needs," the golden droid informed him somewhat stuffily. "I am fluent in over six million forms of communication…"
Vader shook his head and hooked the cable to a hand-held readout screen. A list of languages appeared, and he called up a search program to locate those he'd been told were required. All protocol droids, even those that endured frequent memory wipes, had an uppity air about them. They could have distinctive personalities, of course – cheery or moody, irritable or placid, skittish or unflappable, even manic or suicidal – but he had yet to meet a shy or humble protocol droid.
Bocche… check. Twi'leck… check. Huttese… three different dialects. Old Basic… variations from five galactic eras. Binary… check. Wookie… check. Sullustan… an archaic dialect that would require updating. Bothan… only half-uploaded, an error that he needed to correct.
"You wouldn't happen to know your number, would you?" he asked. The previous droid had developed a corruption in its memory banks, giving it the personality of an absent-minded professor.
"I am C-3P0, human-cyborg relations…"
Vader dropped the readout. "Threepio?"
The droid's head jerked a bit in surprise. "Pardon me, sir, but… I don't believe we've met before."
"Threepio," he repeated. "So long ago… no, it can't be…"
"Uh, sir?"
"When I was a boy," he explained, "I built a protocol droid. Its number was C-3P0. But I've no idea what happened to it."
"Oh," Threepio replied. "Well, I can't verify your story, sir. I've had at least one memory wipe…"
On impulse Vader grabbed Threepio's head.
"Oh!" he yelped. "Don't hurt me! What did I do?!"
"Hold still," he ordered. "I'm not going to hurt you. I'm just going to remove your face plate."
"Are you sure that's a good idea?" the droid whimpered.
Carefully Vader unlatched the facial covering and pulled it away. Two round amber photoreceptors stared back at him from a tangle of repeatedly repaired wires and aging circuits. The chipped Vocoder, the jury-rigged components, the sand still embedded deep in the mechanical workings even after so many years and countless oil baths…
"My stars," he breathed. "It's you, Threepio."
"Of course it's me!" huffed Threepio, indignant. "Who else would I be…" Then he realized what Vader had meant, and his voice fell somewhere between a resigned moan and a hysterical babble. "Darth Vader… my Maker… oh, my!"
Vader grinned eagerly, feeling a rush of excitement at this incredible find. This droid was part of his past! And what wonders it could reveal to him! True, the memory wipe essentially meant he had amnesia as well, but most erasures merely removed the information from the droid's accessible memory and stored it in a blocked section of its databanks. If he could just bypass the block – and he was sure he could…
But further consideration tempered his enthusiasm, and in a matter of minutes he'd dismissed the idea. Threepio was obviously already shaken from learning who his maker was. Further probing into his databanks would traumatize him even more. And he couldn't do that, even to a machine.
He picked up the readout again and set it to upload Bothan and a more up-to-date dialect of Sullustan. A few more minutes, and he would be free to resume work on the Angel…
Shouting reached his ears, and his head came up sharply. He could make out Luke's tenor… and Ghede's angry baritone. That meant trouble. And it sounded as if it was coming from the hallway leading into the hangar.
Vader stood and headed toward the altercation, intent on defending his friend.
"Wait!" shouted Threepio. "Aren't you going to put my face back on? Come back!"
Night was falling rapidly on this hemisphere of Yavin IV, which meant another flight drill for Rogue Squadron. Luke couldn't suppress a boyish grin as he zipped up his flightsuit. If Ghede ever found out about their nocturnal jaunts, he'd suffer a brain hemorrhage. Which, of course, only increased the thrill.
The rest of the squadron was busy preparing themselves and their fighters for tonight. Wedge and Dekham were arguing over who got the better astromech tonight. Mela was busy making preflight checks, being a cautious sort. Conversely, Zev was already strapped into his fighter, raring to go. Squib, ever the nervous one, was clutching a small diamond-shaped pendant he always wore for good luck. Everyone was almost ready, except…
"Where's Bekme?" he asked.
"Had to use the 'fresher," Ar'ya answered.
"Had to go touch up her makeup, I bet," Dekham teased.
"Shut up," Gavin told him. "You're just jealous of Luke."
"Of me?" Luke stared at Gavin. "Why?"
"Oh come on!" Wedge shouted, looking down from lowering a piece-of-junk R4 unit into his X-wing. "Everyone knows you two are an item. Every time you get KP, she gets herself into trouble so she can serve KP with you. You talk after meals. You plan the flight drills together. What else can you be besides an item?"
"Friends," Luke replied firmly.
"Translation: they just haven't kissed yet," Janson remarked.
Luke felt his face go hot. "Even if we were an item – and we're not – what business is it of yours?"
"None," Zev put in. "Which is why we're all so morbidly curious."
"I can imagine Ghede won't be too happy," Rocky said via translator. "He'll ground the two of you indefinitely and lecture you about having romantic relations with the underlings."
"That's for sure," Hobbie replied, and he puffed out his chest and did an exaggerated impression of Ghede's precise, nearly robotic gait. "You should treat them like an officer treats his troops!" he barked. "That means no talking to them, no sabaac, no fun, and by the way, if I catch you kissing one of them you get KP for a week!" He whirled and pointed at Mela, who had an amused expression on her aquatic face as her mind drifted into the gutter. "KP for a week for dirty thinking! And another week if you don't wipe that smirk off your face – hey, no laughing! KP for laughing! That's it! All you immature pipsqueaks are grounded for a month for being excessively happy!"
By the time everyone was done laughing, Luke's ribs ached badly. Gavin, on the verge of incontinence, bolted for the men's refresher, still giggling uncontrollably.
"That was good, Hobbie," chuckled Janson, wiping tears of laughter from his face.
"But not quite accurate," Dekham replied. "Hold your breath and act like you've just taken a big swig of Neimodian vodka. Much better," he applauded when Hobbie complied.
Luke rolled his eyes even as he started snickering again. /Yup, these are my friends/ he said to himself.
When he casually glanced down the hallway, he saw Bekme lurking there, watching quietly. She gave him a smile and motioned for him to come with her.
"Be right back," he told the squadron. His statement went unheard, however, as Hobbie did a frenzied reenactment of the jig Ghede had performed when Janson had slipped a stinger lizard down the back of his flightsuit.
He ducked down the hallway. "What is it, Bekme?"
She nodded toward the hangar. "They're talking about us, aren't they?"
"Oh, nothing derogatory," he assured her. "They think there's something between us."
An odd smile quirked her mouth. "Is there?"
/Not her too!/ he thought. "Hey Bekme, you're a good friend. Don't get me wrong. I've enjoyed having you around. But I'm not sure if I feel anything beyond that…"
She cut him off by pulling him out of the squadron's sight and planting a kiss squarely on his lips.
A million thoughts and feelings shot through Luke's brain at that moment, bouncing around randomly like blaster bolts in a magnetically sealed room. The only one that was halfway coherent was /Wow, this is interesting./
Later he would be embarrassed to admit that Bekme was the first girl he'd ever kissed. Sure, he'd been friendly with Camie back at Anchorhead, but Fixer had always made it known she was his. So he was naturally clueless when it came to his first romantic encounter. But Bekme took charge, holding his face in her hands as he began to respond to her touch.
"Do you feel that?" she asked, pulling away.
"Yeah," was all he could say, so stunned was he.
She laughed softly. "Now do you think there's something between us?"
He nodded. "Yeah. Could be."
She slapped his chest. "You are so unromantic, flyboy."
"Hey, when it's your first time kissing a girl…"
"Oh really? Well, I'm honored to have been the first."
He chuckled and bent down to kiss her again.
Why was it that, whenever he was enjoying himself, Ghede had to muscle his way in?
"Commander Skywalker!"
Luke flashed him a "give me a minute" gesture, not breaking off the kiss just yet. Might as well get the most out of this if he was going to get into trouble. The problem was, Ghede's shout had just attracted the attention of the other pilots.
"I knew it!" shouted Wedge triumphantly.
"Go Luke!" cheered Gavin.
"Stang, come up for air!" Dekham jabbed.
When Luke finally released Bekme and gave the Commander his attention, the Chiss had gone an odd color of purple.
"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded. "What have I told you about…"
"It's my fault, Commander," Bekme cut in. "I kissed him first…"
"I wasn't asking you, Olie," Ghede retorted tartly. "I have told you repeatedly, Skywalker, that to best lead the squadron you must be a leader, not a flight buddy…"
His voice trailed off as he stepped into the hangar. Luke silently swore in dismay. Every pilot was flight-ready at a time when they should have been in bed. All the X-wings were primed for takeoff – even Ghede's, in hopes that Vader would finish his work early and be able to join them. As if to add one more nail to the coffin, Hobbie was still doing his lizard-down-Ghede's-flightsuit dance, howling "KP! KP!" all the while. Upon seeing the Commander he froze in mid-step, one leg raised and arms at crazy angles.
"Uh… nice evening," he greeted lamely.
Ghede was expressionless, but his crimson eyes flashed angrily. He let his gaze sweep Rogue Squadron, making them look away or shrink back.
"I see," he noted coolly. "This explains it." He gave Hobbie an especially disgusted look, then raised his voice. "From a source that shall remain anonymous, I learned of your night flights and took it upon myself to see if the report was accurate. I see that it is. From now on, any pilot who misbehaves will not be grounded, but rather taken off the squadron entirely. Flight drills begin at 0600 every morning, no exceptions. And also let it be known that Life Squadron will spend every evening cleaning the ships, no exceptions."
"That's groundcrew work!" protested Zev.
"It will put your excess energy to good use," Ghede replied. "You seem to have it in spades, if you can plot juvenile pranks by day and fly all night."
"Oh, lay off!" Luke snapped, his irritation having reached a breaking point. "This squadron's been run into the ground by your training tactics. Lighten up and give them a break!"
"War gives not breaks, Skywalker! It's serious, grim, bloody conflict, not a game! And I won't encourage my men to see it as such!"
"We know war's not a game! We know that firsthand! We've all lost friends and family to the war! That's exactly why you should ease up! Life's not all about the blasted war!"
"When you take charge of the squadron, you can run it as you see fit! But until then, my orders override yours. And as it's obvious that this rebellion stems from your lack of leadership, I have no choice but to…"
"No!" exclaimed Vader, striding up at that moment.
"Go away, Vader," ordered Ghede. "This is Life Squadron business…"
"It was my idea, Commander Ironmoon," Vader interrupted.
Luke's gut went taut. /He's going to take my heat!/ He couldn't let Ghede punish Vader for something he didn't do!
"Vader, beat it!" hissed Dekham. "We're the guilty ones!"
"No," Vader replied. "It's the truth. I encouraged the pilots to show their displeasure in an inappropriate manner. If anyone is to blame, then blame me, not Luke."
Ghede glowered at the mechanic. "I knew you were nothing but trouble, Vader. And if you were under my control, I'd see that you suffered severe disciplinary action. But the happy responsibility isn't mine, so I shall report this to Mothma. I'm sure she will not be as lenient this time. As for the rest of you, lights out. Drills begin in the morning." He stormed off.
Squib gawked up at Vader. "Why'd you do that?"
"To keep Luke from suffering from my actions," Vader replied. "I have no doubt that Ghede was planning on demoting him."
"So?" Luke retorted. "Let him. I hate being told to act like a snob and that I can't have any friends…"
"Rogue Squadron needs you, Luke," Vader retorted calmly. "They need a voice of reason, even if it goes unheard. They need one who will champion their cause, not Ghede's. If you were replaced, Rogue Squadron would have nothing to bring an end to Ghede's iron-handed leadership."
"He's right," Mela added. "Ghede isn't going to be Commander forever. We want Luke to replace him, not a Ghede clone."
"Spare me," groaned Rocky. "I'd rather work groundcrew."
"Speaking of which, who ratted on us?" asked Wedge. "I'll bet it was the night sentries."
A red-furred Bothan entered the hangar. "Darth Vader, Mon Mothma wants to see you in her office."
Vader nodded and followed the messenger out.
"How much do you want to bet that's the last we see of him for awhile?" asked Bekme.
Luke just sighed. "To bed, pilots. Looks like our night flights are over."
/Finished at last./
Vader stepped back to have a better look at his handiwork. The Desert Angel gleamed in the dim light of dawn, shining with a coat of paint and fresh polish. She was beautiful… and she was flight-ready.
/At least I've done something right/ he thought, reflecting on last night's conversation with Mothma. She hadn't been angry with him – indeed, she'd seemed more amused than upset over Ghede's complaint – but he had received an official reprimand for disrespect toward an officer.
"All higher officers deserve respect, if nothing else," she had explained. "Yes, Ghede is a difficult man, but he is one of our best fighters. If you have issues with his leadership, please bring them to Admiral Ackbar or me. Don't take matters into your own hands."
Once she'd dismissed him, his first instinct had been to go find Ghede and put a fist in his eye. But that would only reinforce his image as a violent Sith lord, an image he'd tried so hard to be rid of. So instead, too frustrated to sleep, he'd gone to the hangar and spent all night sorting the last bugs and glitches out of the Desert Angel. The effort, he thought with happy exhaustion, had been well-spent.
"Darth?"
Vader turned to see Han and Chewie running toward him, the latter carrying a duffel bag.
"You're up early, Han. If you need a hand with the Falcon, I'm available…"
"Have you been here all night?" demanded Han, wiping sweat from his unusually pale brow. He looked strangely worried – no, frantic. And Chewie's eyes were wild with panic. What was wrong? Had there been an accident?
"Yes, I've been here all night. What's the problem?"
"You're sure?"
"Yes, why?"
"C'mon." Han grabbed his arm in an effort to steer him toward the Falcon. "We're getting you out of here. Chewie's got your stuff."
"Exactly what is the problem?" demanded Vader, wrenching away.
"I'm your bodyguard," Han shot back. "It's my job to protect you. And right now half the base is itching to lynch you, so we're going to lay low awhile somewhere inconspicuous…"
"What's going on, Han?"
"You don't want to know."
"Yes I do, Han."
"Fine." He blew out his breath in exasperation. "Ghede's been murdered. And the evidence points to you."