Out of the Shadows and into the Light
He pulled back on the yoke as his quarry came within his sights. His target tried to evade him, making sure that he would not lock onto the quarry.
The quarry was in the shape of an angular snub fighter, with four wings, two on either side: it was the Rebel Alliance X-Wing.
Nice try hotshot, he thought. But you won't get away from Luke Skywalker that easily. He flipped a switch; shunting all of his power to his engines, as he made sure his weapon levels were at a moderate recharge rate.
The X-Wing tried valiantly to evade and barrel roll away from Luke's TIE fighter, but to no avail.
Luke continued to come in faster, knowing the pilot had pushed his own fighter to its limits.
The X-Wing was much more advanced than the rest of the fighters in the Rebel Alliance, but where it was a moderate fighter—used for all sorts of missions—, the TIE fighter was only built for one thing: speed and imminent death.
The pilot continued to shift port and starboard, trying to hang on for a few more moments as help undoubtedly arrived.
Luke fingered the trigger, gently caressing it as he paced himself against his foe, reducing speed and easing the yoke so as to make the pilot think that Luke was losing.
The pilot took the bait—Luke could only smile as his targeting reticule went green and squeezed the trigger turning the fighter before him into debris and three wings.
"Luke! We've got two slugs and three mainstreams coming in at point three!" A voice warned over the comm.
"Just like old times, Biggs. Like shooting wampas down in Beggar's Canyon."
"Like old times," Biggs agreed as he came racing portside Luke, his fighter screaming with its powerful Twin Ion Engines.
Luke noticed on his sensors that the pilots were switching to engage him: two mainstreams—X-Wings—and one of the slugs—Y-Wings. He checked his system gauges and was satisfied that his fighter was in prime condition. He sighed internally, under his black helmet and flightsuit. Sometimes I wish these fighters had shields. It was no secret the Empire chose to be liberal with the lives of its own soldiers—yet they were the best trained in the Galaxy.
"You take the other two, I've got these three," Luke spoke onto the channel to Biggs.
"Copy that, Alpha Leader," Biggs replied as he broke off and poured quick emerald fire into his first victim—the unfortunate Y-Wing.
Luke didn't follow up to see what happened as he quickly realized he was coming under fire from one of the X-Wings that had broken off to engage his six.
Blast, he thought. He banked his fighter starboard as he flew between the other X-Wing and Y-Wing, forcing his pursuer to break away.
He pulled his fighter around and quickly poured energy into the Y-Wing, tearing away its shields and port nacelle as the fighter careened away, exploding in a small fireball as Luke pushed the TIE through the wreckage.
Suddenly he was forced to pull his yoke forward, arcing the TIE on a ventral course as he evaded a piece of the nacelle—from the unfortunate Y-Wing—from crashing into his cockpit.
He watched as crimson energy lit up and sliced through the nacelle as he brought his fighter around to fly between his last two victims. What was it Ben once said? He thought as he managed to tail one of the trailing X-Wings. Trust my feelings? Open myself up and follow them?
He heard indistinct chatter on the open channel as he heard Biggs cheer as he eliminated one of his opponents—the Y-Wing. No time for that now, Luke thought as he poured unrelenting emerald energy into the X-Wing, forcing his quarry to close the fighter's S-Foils.
Luke had scored several shots into its stabilizers and port engines. His prey was defenseless. I have you now, he smiled as he watched his target tear apart like a piece of flimsiplast.
He arced himself in a dorsal vector as he watched crimson bolts fly just under his cockpit. This one's clever, Luke thought one more as he admired the Rebel's ability to use the death of his comrade as a means of catching Luke off guard.
It was too bad for the Rebel that he was fighting a Skywalker.
Luke shifted back his throttle as he took the liberty of watching the X-Wing scream past him. Bang and you're dead, Luke thought to himself as he fired several bursts of energy into the fighter and drinking in the sight of it bursting like an overripe fruit.
"End of Simulation," a computerized voice spoke as Luke's screen went black and his "canopy" opened to reveal the interior of the flight simulation training room.
He rose and watched several of his classmates cheering him on as he and Biggs rose from their seats and left the simulators.
"Good job, Trainee Skywalker," a rough, but commanding voice spoke out.
Luke turned around and stood at attention as he replied, "thank you, sir."
"You too Trainee Darklighter." The older man looked more intently at Luke and almost in awe he said, "that was fine flying if I ever saw it."
Luke couldn't help but crack a smile at the praise he gained from his commanding officer. It had been weeks—nearly three months since he had joined the Academy. He cast it aside as he asked, "if I may so bold, sir, who did I have the privilege of fighting against?"
The older man, with silver hair pulled back pointed to another simulator. From it came a man with hair that was darker than Luke's sandy hair, yet was not dark enough to pass for black. "This is Lieutenant Third Class Derek Klivian."
"Hi," the young man said as he looked at his compatriots—Luke with something akin to admiration. "You can call me 'Hobbie.' You're a great pilot Skywalker," he said, as he was panting slightly.
"You too, Hobbie," Luke said.
"Well gentlemen," their instructor spoke, "if there is nothing else, I would like to conclude that today was a marvelous display of dedicated action. If there were more men like you, Skywalker, we would have defeated the Rebel Alliance already. But since there are not, we can only hope that more pilots will follow your example of fine piloting skills. You would even catch the eye of Lord Vader, no doubt," the old man said, booming with some measure of pride.
The three pilots nodded as the rest of the trainees stood in line.
"Well, I believe that the time has come—you are to report to the conference room at once. You've passed the final exam, congratulations gentlemen." With that he left the room as Hobbie ordered the general dismissal.
Hours after the ceremony, where in the pristine chambers over a thousand new trainees were sworn in as new Imperial Flight Officers—protectors of the Empire and threat to those who opposed them—Luke, Hobbie and Biggs had found time to meet at the local cantina. They had left the Academy on leave and the benefit about the Imperial Academy was that in the Core, there was plenty of adventure for everyone, including a former farm boy.
"So, Lieutenant Third Class Skywalker," Hobbie began, his speech somewhat slurred after hopping through three previous cantinas—this one being lucky number four—, "how does it feel to be a protector of the Empire?"
"Wait—wait a minute there, Harpy," Biggs slurred as he cackled at his own joke, "I have a few words to say—to say about this-this fine looking man here." He rested one hand on Luke's shoulder, impressed that his friend had been handling his alcohol really well. "This man is-is a fine young man. Yes you are, Look. He stood farm for me when I thought—I thought I was losing my face—no, no that's not right. Faith—yeah, that's it. To you, Look, a true friend," Biggs barely managed to make out as he lifted his third tumbler of Corellian Whiskey.
"To you two: the best wingmen a pilot could wish for," Luke managed as he couldn't help but laugh at his debauched friends.
As they downed the last of their amber liquids, Luke ordered another round for the three. We're going to wake up with a headache the size of a Bantha, come tomorrow, he couldn't help but think. They sat in a booth, in black Imperial uniforms that they wore to their commencement. As the waitress—a very attractive human female—served them their drinks, a disgruntled patron called out for her.
"Hey Merma, get us some deathstick shots! And come over here so we can have a…chat with those lovely weights you're carryin'!" He called out as his friends laughed around him. They were obviously surly and had already annoyed Luke for the night.
They just keep getting worse everywhere you go, Luke thought to himself as he noticed Biggs and Hobbie sobering up instantly with the tone of the patrons.
"Seems like they've certainly had one too many drinks," Biggs said as he took care and effort into speaking. "Can we have some cups of Jawa Juice?" He asked the waitress who was still serving them.
"For you, Flyboy, certainly," she cooed, causing Luke and Hobbie to look at each other and smile.
"Hey Merma, I'm talkin' to you!" The voice called out again. This time, it was much closer.
"Looks like we're in for a bit of trouble," Luke stated matter-of-factly, as four tall, burly and rotund human men came up to their booth.
Their clothes were dirty and it looked like they had not even bathed in years. It was obvious these were not the ordinary run-of-the-mill workers. They were most likely factory or foundry workers that had as much value as a labour droid.
"You know, I am working right now," the waitress—Merma—addressed the men.
"I can see that, so where's my damned drink?"
Luke sighed internally. He sized up the four and looked at his comrades. They could handle them. It appeared a conflict would soon be inevitable. He rose and looked at the leader of the four—who appeared to have taken a notice in Luke and his companions.
"What do you want, flyboy?" He snorted derisively.
"Look, I think it is best if you guys just go back to your seats and wait for your drinks. Right now, your lady-friend is working and she happens to be serving us. Just give her a minute and she'll help you out, won't you?" He smiled softly at the waitress.
She smiled back and nodded—albeit somewhat nervously.
Luke had the impression that she had been through this situation a lot. He immediately recognized her expression telling him that he just signed the proverbial death certificates of him and his friends.
But Luke Skywalker was certainly no pushover. He hadn't come this far to be taken down a peg.
"Why don't you just sit down and shut up, flyboy," the man said, shoving his finger into Luke's chest.
"Sir, do not do that. I am an Imperial Officer and I am asking you to sit down and wait."
The cantina had gone deathly silent as everyone else looked on to what was transpiring before his or her very eyes.
"Well, you don't rule me, Imperial Officer," the man replied as his friends laughed. "You should know that I don't take kind to anyone trying to order me around," his voice becoming grim and threatening.
Luke stood his ground, his blue eyes were a raging storm within it. What would old Ben say at a time like this? He thought. He was growing angry and impatient, yet somehow he managed to belie that as he spoke through gritted teeth, taking care to emphasize every word. "You will sit down and wait for your drink, sir."
Almost instantly, the man complied as his eyes seemed to go dull—if only for a moment. "I will go and sit down and wait for my drink," he replied. He started to turn and leave—causing a widespread sigh of relief from the entire cantina—until one of his friends stopped him.
"What are you doing, man? He's trying to scare you. We don't need his kind of authority here," his large and darkened companion said.
"You're right," the instigator spoke, his voice becoming furious as he spun around and swung out with his right fist.
Oh Sith, Luke thought as he quickly ducked and brought his own fist to slam into the man's throat, causing the man to fall back and choke, gasping for air.
In a blur, the man's companions were reaching out to attack Luke as Hobbie and Biggs rose, taking on the other two as Luke faced the one who had coerced the instigator back into the fight.
"You're dead little man," he teased as he swiped for Luke's face—only to feel hot pain in his arm.
Luke ducked and grabbed the man's arm, twisting it and rolling around the man's back and twisting the arm up and into a full 360-degree rotation as there came a satisfying pop from the man's shoulder. Luke shoved his right foot into the man's left knee, dropping him onto his knees as the young pilot rewarded the thug with a right-hook to the man's ear.
Hobbie had crouched as the man ran at him, forcing himself to take the man's weight on his back as he had the satisfaction of lifting the man and throwing him across his shoulders and into an empty booth. The table cracked in two as the man was sent flying into it, rendering him unconscious.
Biggs managed to block a right-hook and then a left-hook as he was pushed back and lost his footing as he fell from a piece of broken table. He blacked out for a second and narrowly dodged a rapidly descending foot stomp. I'm a pilot for Force's sake! He thought to himself as he rolled to the left and then to the right as his opponent continued to try and merge Biggs with the ground.
He heard his executioner grunt in pain as he was struck with something blunt. "Thanks Hobbie," he said as a hand extended down to pick him up.
"Not a problem, Darklighter," Hobbie replied as Biggs rose.
They both turned around to see their mutual enemy come rushing back towards them. They both looked at each other and moved out of the way as the man was sent stumbling into his unconscious friend, shortly before he felt the blunt impact of a chair across his head from both Biggs and Hobbie.
Luke looked up to see that his first victim had recovered and was stumbling towards him. Luke smiled internally. Fool, he thought. I warned you not to mess with a Skywalker.
As the man lumbered towards the pilot, he failed to anticipate the foot that rushed out to crash into his face, breaking his nose and causing Luke to smile with satisfaction. He screamed as he fell back, only to find a burst of hot pain across his face as Luke's foot smacked across the man's face. As quickly as the kick occurred, the man knew no more as darkness enveloped him.
And just like that, the fight was over. Luke looked at his companions, who were breathing heavily, and he looked at their booth. Their drinks had been knocked over during the brawl.
He groaned. "Come on guys, let's go home," he said as he tossed a credit chip towards the bartender. "Sorry for the trouble," Luke said as the three pilots walked out of the cantina, carrying each other to their mutual home. Tomorrow—as the pilots who graduated at the top of their class—they would ship out to a classified station as their new post; a station known only as the 'Death Star.'