Author's Notes: I'll respond to comments at the end of Chapter 33. Don't want to step on these two chapters.
General Garm Bel Iblis gave in to an old habit of his he'd never been able to break and gripped the familiar metal armrests of his command chair on Peregrine. His five dreadnaughts bored down, pouring turbolaser and ion cannon fire into the closer of the two Victory-class Star Destroyers, the venerable Arlionne. A Victory I that dated all the way back to the latter years of the Old Republic, Arlionne was still of a more recent vintage than any of his dreadnaughts—but not so much newer that it compensated for its numerical inferiority. Worse, Arlionne and Furious' two TIE fighter squadrons were outnumbered by the New Republic's two pairs of A-wing and B-wing squadrons, and as the superior A-wings cleared the threat board of Imperial starfighters, the B-wings set up to make their runs.
Someday soon, Bel Iblis thought to himself, the Empire will wake up to the fact that throwing away their pilots' lives in unshielded fighters is losing them this war. Hopefully that revelation won't come anytime soon.
Furious was the more serious threat, but Furious was heavily laden with freighters and transports which had been evacuating personnel and equipment to the newer Victory II. Forced to try to protect those valuable resources—and get as many of them aboard as possible—Furious had turned to present its superstructure to Bel Iblis' forces, giving them a nice big target for their ion cannons and for his B-wings to target.
A quartet of B-wings from Guardian squadron unleashed a full salvo of proton torpedoes. The first two ripped a hole in Arlionne's shields; the latter six slammed with righteous anger into Arlionne's hull. Small explosions became bigger ones as something—probably a backup power generator—detonated within the hull, and the ship's running lights briefly flickered. His two lead dreadnaughts, Karearea and Saker, took advantage of the sudden weakness, raking turbolaser fire over Arlionne's hull and shredding overheated armor. More explosions rippled along the length of the ship, and Arlionne's turbolaser fire slowed to a trickle as the ship started to spin out of control.
Bel Iblis grinned wolfishly. "Amur and Laggar, use your ions to suppress Arlionne. All other ships, target Furious." His eyes settled on the larger, newer Victory II, the richer prize, whose turbolasers were scattering across all three of his lead dreadnaughts. Peregrine shuddered mildly from the strikes. "One down, one to go."
As his ships moved to obey his orders, Bel Iblis focused instead on the real threats that remained. Stuck in its docking slip at the far end of the Imperial orbital platform was the far more powerful Invidious, a fully-armed and equipped Imperial II. And farther away, settled in the repair yards, was the still damaged Agonizer and its two dreadnaught escorts. Neither of the big ships had yet made a move, but Bel Iblis knew that whatever happened with Furious, the battle was far from over.
He heard a gasp from his comms officer, and someone cursed. "General, Invidious!"
His head swiveled back to Tavira's flagship and inhaled sharply. With sudden ruthlessness, the Star Destroyer's heavy turbolasers had opened fire, and it took a second for Bel Iblis to realize what he was seeing.
The green blasts slammed out, targeting not the still distant New Republic forces, but the orbital platform. The extended docking slip, which had trapped the Star Destroyer, vanished in a sudden explosive vapor, debris spitting out in all directions. More guns fired, shredding the personnel tubes and repair struts, then Invidious' big engines flared to life, pushing the ship through the cloud of debris.
It had been ruthless, Bel Iblis thought with something close to awe, but it had freed the Star Destroyer faster than would have been possible otherwise. And they were abandoning the facility anyway, he thought. Why not wreck it? What could possibly be worth taking the care to preserve?
For the hundreds, perhaps thousands of people who staffed the section of the platform that had just been opened to space, it was a final question.
But Furious was exclusively targeting Peregrine now, its ion cannons wreaking havoc on his ship's systemsand he didn't have the attention to spare for Invidious. For the moment, Tavira was Wedge's problem.
Mara peered through the Millennium Falcon's cockpit, Kyp leaning to look over her shoulder. In front of them, Han and Chewbacca were guiding the Falcon into an open hangar for a landing. Already landed was the commando transport, and Mara could see an exchange of blaster fire between Major Page's commandos and the Imperial stormtroopers guarding the orbital platform. Luke and Hobbie's X-wings were soaring into the hangar alongside the transport, the four engines of each starfighter losing their glow as they hovered on repulsorlifts, and then their laser cannons sent powerful bursts of energy at the bunkered stormtroopers, chasing the remainder of the Imperials deeper into the platform.
Han nodded approvingly. "Let's go, Chewie," he said, and they brought the Falcon into the hangar as the X-wings were settling to the deck. Luke popped his canopy and waved at the Falcon, his expression serious.
"Come on," Iella called from the Falcon's central room, holding a blaster rifle confidently. She had a comlink attached over her ear. "Major Page's commandos are clearing out the main corridor leading deeper into the station, and trying to pin down where the New Republic prisoners are." She pointed at Mara. "You could be helpful with those Imperial computers, like you were on Kessel."
Mara nodded, moving to follow.
Kyp was hot on her heels. "Are you some kind of slicer genius," he asked curiously, peering at her sideways. He might still be a teenager, but he was already taller than she was and his childlike curiosity struck her as just a bit unnerving.
"No," she said.
"Then how do you do it?" he pestered as they trotted down the Falcon's ramp. Luke was hopping down from his snubfighter, his expression lighting when he saw her; she felt her own tension ease at the sight of his smile—
"She's got Imperial command codes," said Han from behind them, his hand on his blaster. He tossed Luke a friendly salute. "Hey kid."
Kyp's expression froze and Mara felt a sudden surge of disgust and revulsion. "You were an Imperial?"
"A lot of us were, kid," Han said. "Even me."
"Hey, Han," Luke returned Han's greeting as he approached, walking over towards them, his lightsaber swinging on his belt. Behind him, Hobbie was jumping down from his X-wing, then cursing as he fumbled with the fighter's cargo compartment. Luke only had eyes for Mara, and she had a sneaking suspicion that if there wasn't so much company she'd be in his arms again.
She wasn't sure how she felt about that.
She probably wouldn't shoot him.
Han cleared his throat. "Luke, meet Kyp," he nodded. "Kyp was a prisoner on Kessel," he said awkwardly. "He helped Chewie and me in the Spice Mines and then helped us escape. He… wants to see Coruscant."
"In the Spice Mines?" Luke said, blinking a few times. "What were you doing… no, you know, we'll have time to catch up later." He extended his hand to Kyp, and Mara could see those blue eyes evaluating the youngster even as he did the same with the Force. "Hi, Kyp. Thanks for looking after my brother-in-law." He winked. "Han has a tendency to get himself into trouble and often needs help getting back out of it again."
"Yeah, look who's talking," Han retorted.
Kyp was still visibly digesting the fact that Mara and Han had both been in the Imperial service. Mara could feel an instinctive, deep hatred for the Empire and anything it had touched churning around him in the Force, and she didn't blame him. Given the life he'd lived, and the Empire's role in it, he had every right to hate Imperials. Still, she thought, it only added to her discomfort that his hatred was at that moment mostly directed at her. Kyp shook himself. "Han and Chewie weren't so bad," he said after a moment.
"I'm glad to hear it," Han groused. "Look, kid, I know you're going to want to come with us, but you're going to stay here with Chewie and the Falcon. We need someone to make sure the Empire doesn't come in and take our ships from us, yeah?"
Kyp looked like he might protest, glancing between Han, Mara, and Luke.
Han unshouldered a dropped blaster carbine and belt of power packs and handed it to him. He took the time to give Kyp a fuller tutorial than the one the kid had gotten on Kessel. "Safety, firing modes, sight, stun setting. Finger off the trigger unless you want to put a hole in something."
Kyp nodded, cradling the carbine like it was a combination of delicate artifact and powerful symbol. "Consider it done," he agreed, less grudgingly. He squinted. "It's a little bright in here anyway."
Iella walked over, Major Page at her side. "Mara, we think we've identified the prison where our people are being held, but there are a lot of layers of defenses between us and them," she said. "We're going to need your help getting through them all, or we're going to be here for hours."
Mara's gaze flicked to Han and Luke. After a moment she nodded reluctantly, not liking the idea of letting Luke go after the bronze-armored Force-adept on his own, but knowing that Luke probably didn't need the help and Iella did. "Let me talk to Skywalker for a minute." She reached out and snagged his arm, pulling him away from the crowd.
He followed. "It's good to see you," he said as they got out of easy earshot. I missed you were the words he didn't say.
Mara realized she was still holding his arm and let her hand drop. She plucked Ranik Solusar's lightsaber off her belt and pressed it into his hand. "His name is Kam Solusar," she said quickly, opening her mind to him and letting him see her memory of the events on Coruscant. "I think he's Ranik Solusar's son—the Jedi from one of the exhibits we were near."
Luke's expression paled as he saw her memory of the duel on Coruscant and the moment of frozen horror when she had been sure she was about to die. He turned slightly, putting his back to their comrades, hiding her slimmer form in front of him, his fingers stroking over hers as they both held Ranik's lightsaber. "Mara…"
She rolled her eyes, putting as much determined scorn into it as she could; knew she wasn't wholly successful at pushing off his instinct to overprotectiveness. "I'm fine," she hissed, but there was no bite to it, not with his fingers warm over hers. "I'm fine," she repeated, more earnestly, peering up at him.
The pinched concern on Luke's cheeks relaxed, and he nodded, exhaling.
"Vader killed his father," she said, drawing Luke's attention back to more important matters. "Then he seems to have been impressed into the Inquisitorius."
Luke frowned again. "Vader," he sighed. The mention of his father, the reminder of who Anakin Skywalker had become, of the harms he'd inflicted and the pain he unleashed, darkened his Force sense with undeserved guilt.
Mara didn't like it. Her eyes flicked to his holster. "Have you gotten any use out of that blaster yet?"
Luke's expression lightened. He withdrew Ranik Solusar's lightsaber, hanging it on his belt next to his own. "Not yet, Mara, but the scope's handy."
She swallowed as their hands parted. "His armor seems to short out lightsabers," she said. "But it's only a temporary effect."
"I know."
"Time to go!" called Iella, and Mara pulled herself away, brushing past him. Later, maybe, she'd let herself think about it. Maybe. Instead, she put on the expression the Emperor's Hand had worn before every mission, plucking a datapad out of Iella's hand and examining the base's defenses as they walked with Major Page towards the cluster of waiting shock commandos.
"Where are we going?" asked Han as Luke approached him.
Luke was still focused on Mara. His eyes tracked over Han and Hobbie, but his mental focus was on Mara, her Force-presence, and the way even as she walked away he could feel a corner of her own mind still focused on him. Feel her worry and her undeniable protectiveness.
"Kid!" Han rested his hand on Luke's shoulder, then leaned in, lowering his voice to a whisper. "I know you're worried about her, but she can take care of herself."
Luke flushed and nodded. "The Force-adept," he said, reaching out with the Force, seeking other presences than the ones he already knew. He could feel Corran in space beyond the platform as the Rogues and the rest of the fleet bore down on Invidious, the battle surging back to life. He could feel Mara, leading Iella and Page towards the platform's prisoner complex, could feel her reach back with an annoyed but reassuring confirmation that she was still there. Could feel Kyp, the gleaming potential standing on the Falcon's ramp, with an unhappy Chewbacca rumbling his annoyance at being told to stay behind to watch the kid and the ship.
And he could feel another presence, more polished than Kyp. Focused. Frustrated. Old pain from wounds that had never healed; the warring impulses of oath and instinct. Luke turned, letting the Force guide him like a compass, his eyes slowly opening. He nodded, a sense of confident purpose settling over his shoulders. "They're not far," he said.
The Linuri orbital platform wasn't the largest orbital facility in the Empire—not by a long shot—but in total it massed almost eighty percent of an Executor-class Super Star Destroyer and fully in operation it would have a crew that reached hundreds of thousands. A dozen Imperial-class Star Destroyers could dock at it at once, or many more smaller vessels. Even more impressive, Linuri had been an ad-hoc construction, built quickly after the fall of Druckenwell, one of the Empire's more impressive spasms of productivity after the probably fatal wound it had sustained at Endor.
The prison facility was buried deep in the guts of the facility, far away from the damage Invidious had just inflicted to its docking facilities—and from the closest escape pods. Mara, Iella, and Page stared at the schematics, a knot of commandos watching over them. "I can get you through these checkpoints—" Mara was saying, her finger tracing over the long axial turbolift "—especially given how chaotic things aboard seem to be right now."
"With the evacuation underway," Major Page said, his the solid, confident voice of a professional soldier, "we have an opportunity to make our way there with little opposition. But we can't afford to wait. Whatever guards remain might decide to execute our prisoners just to make a point." He nodded at Iella. "They have Captain Tabanne and the crew of Ession Strike."
Iella's expression froze. "The Empire captured Strike?"
Mara looked up at her. The flash of emotion passed quickly—they knew Wedge and the Rogues were alive, they'd just fought alongside them—but the news that Strike had been lost still struck the other woman like an almost physical blow, the sudden wrenching mourning pain suppressed quickly behind the calm, reassuring knowledge that Wedge and her friends were all right.
It was a familiar echo of what she'd sensed from Skywalker just a few minutes before.
"I'm afraid so," Page said.
"I'll need a terminal," Mara interrupted the exchange. "Somewhere I can input my access codes. I'll just redirect the stormtroopers between you and the prison to evacuation sites. Maybe I can convince the prison guards to evacuate as well, but—" she grimaced "—if the prison is garrisoned by ISB they'll probably execute the prisoners before withdrawing."
Iella's emotions had returned to her usual calm. "Well, with the maps we have, we can plan an assault." She tapped the map. "This says it's a local guard station. That's our first target."
Page waved his men down the hall. "Move out!"
The third time the whole room shook, Atril knew something was up. She scrambled to her feet, moving to the sliding door to her cell. She banged on the metal door furiously. "What's going on!" she yelled, hoping that maybe one of the guards would open the window that allowed them to look in on occasion. Nothing happened, and the entire cell rocked again, more lightly this time. She slammed her fist against the door until her hand ached.
To her surprise the window slid open. She recognized the guard; he'd delivered her meals in the past. He was young—he couldn't be older than nineteen—and dressed in a Corporal's uniform. He looked as confused and terrified as she felt, looking down the corridor in each direction. "I don't know," he said. "There was an alarm but no one is sure what's going on…"
A detention alarm went off and the Corporal grabbed at his comlink, turning half-away from her. "Breach, breach!" a voice yelled on the other end of the link. "Rebel troopers have—" the sound of blaster fire cut the voice off, but the link remained open, conveying the sound of blasters and explosions for another few seconds before it finally closed again."
The Corporal's expression was one of abject horror. He scrabbled for his blaster, holding it with the wary uncertainty of unused training. "Command, this is Corporal Ganl," he said. "Cellblock 109. Requesting instructions."
"The New Republic is here for us," she said confidently, hoping she was right. Triumph and fear warred in her. It had to be Bel Iblis—who else could it be?—and there was only one reason for Bel Iblis to rush to hit Linuri so early in the campaign. But that he was here was not immediate salvation; she remained in an Imperial prison, deep in the bowels of an Imperial base, surrounded by Imperials. And she had not forgotten that they still considered her a defector and most of her crew subhuman.
Ganl seemed to be processing all these facts himself. He opened his mouth to speak; the words were cut short by the squawk of his comlink. "Corporal, this is Colonel Best. What is the status of your guard unit?"
The young guard stepped into the middle of the long prison corridor, his booted feet clicking on the metal walkway. The hexagonal corridor stretched in both directions; the sound of blaster fire came from Atril's left, along with the sounds of combat chatter. "We're under attack," responded Ganl nervously, bracing his blaster. "The Rebels are attacking the main guard post; our stormtroopers are holding for the moment."
"Listen to me, Corporal," Best's voice took on a stiffer, commanding tone. "Are you armed?"
"I have my sidearm, sir," Ganl reported, swallowing. "Should I reinforce the stormtroopers?"
"No, soldier. That is what stormtroopers are for. They will give you enough time to perform a more important task." The Colonel's voice made Ganl straighten, and Atril's heart dropped with sudden understanding. "The Rebels cannot be allowed to escape to make war on the New Order again, Corporal. You will have the honor of ensuring they do not."
"Sir?"
The voice was stiffer now, a serpentine hiss. "Shoot them, Corporal. All of them. Quickly, before the Rebellion can fight through your troopers."
Ganl's eyes flicked guiltily to meet Atril's. His mouth opened, closed again and no sound came out.
"They are enemies of the Empire. Do you not know all they will do? The chaos and corruption of the Republic? The venality of the alien, the—"
The Colonel's voice vanished in a wash of sudden static, the device screeching. Ganl winced and drew it away from his ear. When the sound had stopped, he stared at the little device as if expecting the Colonel to emerge from it.
Atril knew the words, the rhetoric all too well. The propaganda, repeated over and over again, echoed over speakers and in the unfree Imperial press. Believed by all too many because to human ears familiarity often sounded all too much like truth. She'd heard it all her childhood and to her eternal shame she had occasionally slipped into believing it herself. She'd even joined the Starfleet, gone to Carida, so sure in her belief that there had to be some truth to it. There had to be. There had to be.
But there never was.
"Imperial Forces," a new, female voice said over the speaker. "You don't know me, but I promise I know you. I served the Empire too, just as you are. I fought for the Empire, I killed for the Empire. And there's something you need to know. You need to know that it was all a lie—"
Again the audio vanished in static, the screech of competing jamming. Blaster fire was growing in volume now, an errant shot flashing down the hallway, missing Ganl by bare feet. He yelped, sounding and looking more like a child than a soldier.
"—an Imperial soldier," came Best's voice, "and it is your duty, your obligation, and your privilege to serve the New Order, in the Emperor's memory! They are alien-loving scum and you all know exactly what that means—"
"—asked you to do terrible things, things they told you were needful. How many nights have you dreamt of—"
"—you have an order. The Empire will remember your names, I promise you! I will have them all emblazoned in the stars for eternity, heroes of the New Order, who struck the first blows for its future again the evils of—"
Ganl's blaster snapped up. His expression hovered on the edge of certainty, eyes hardening as Best's voice supplanted the woman's again, swinging towards the window Atril was peering through. She dropped, letting her legs go limp and hitting the floor just as fast as gravity could carry her just as the sound of a blaster shot echoed down the narrow corridor. She breathed, waiting for the blaster rifle to poke through the window, intent on trying to take the weapon when the opportunity was offered… but it never came. Instead the door beeped the release sound and slid open. She spun towards it, her leg aching from where she had fallen; found herself staring at Ganl's corpse, laying topped awkwardly on the floor grating.
Major Page offered her an arm, pulled her to her feet. His quartet of commandos took up watch positions, their blasters covering the two entrances to the prison block as they checked the other cells for more prisoners. "Captain Tabanne, are you all right?"
She nodded shakily. "I am. Thank you, Major."
He reached down, plucked Ganl's pistol off the ground next to his body and handed it to her. "Come on, Captain. Let's get your crew."
She took a deep breath, settled both hands around the familiar Imperial sidearm and brought it up in a firing position. Maybe later she'd mourn Ganl, mourn what the Empire had done to him. What it had almost done to her. She gave a ready nod. Even better, maybe they'd find Colonel Best. "Let's go, Major."
"I know the Empire has asked you to do terrible things, things they told you were needful. How many nights have you dreamt of those things, have they haunted you in the privacy of your sleep, where you could admit, deep down that you knew they were wrong?" Mara said into the comlink.
Iella held up her hand and Mara stopped speaking. The former CorSec agent waved her down the hall, and Mara crept, careful that her step was not excessively loud over the metal grating floor characteristic of Imperial prison facilities. They crouched on either side of the entrance to the prison corridor, and Iella counted down with her hand. When her hand clenched into a fist, Mara ignited her lightsaber, the snap-hiss of the blade echoing, and stepped into the corridor.
The fight was quick. Mara easily batted away the blaster fire coming from the guards; Iella shot them. Once, twice. They jogged down the hexagonal corridor, opening cells as they moved quickly through it. The alien prisoners kept in this prison block looked worse for wear, but alive. A few clearly recognized Iella and brightened; the Corellian tossed them the blasters from the fallen guards. "Now what?"
"Back the way we came," Mara said, dismissing her lightsaber. She turned back towards the guard post. The sudden thrumming of her danger sense sent her spinning back around, her holdout blaster popping out of her wrist holster and into her hand. Trusting the Force, letting it guide her hand, she fired. The Imperial officer who appeared at the end of the corridor caught the blaster bolt in the chest, staggered back in surprise. She shot him again and he fell.
Iella's rifle wouldn't have come around fast enough. She offered Mara a wry grin. "Thanks." They crept forward slowly, waving the prisoners to go in the other direction. The fallen officer wore a Colonel's uniform, a blaster in one hand and a comlink in the other. "ISB," said Iella.
Mara scowled. "Fanatics." She stood. "I don't feel any other danger so I think we're clear for now. Let's get out—"
We don't have to be enemies, Luke's voice whispered. An image flashed before her; Luke taking cautious steps towards the bronze armored Force-adept. Please. The memory of Luke on Jomark, standing over C'baoth's prone, unconscious form, stopping her from executing him. He doesn't have to be an enemy, Mara. His irritating earnestness. Even the more irritating because it was genuine.
Even the more irritating because he insisted on putting himself in unnecessary danger. What was he thinking? Why did he have to be… to be…
She'd been quiet for too long. Iella was looking at her with a concerned expression. "Mara?" she asked, not for the first time.
As you wish, Luke's voice was sadly resigned, and she heard the snap-hiss of his lightsaber.
The flash of fear caught her off guard. It took her a moment to realize it was her own. Mara shook her head, looking at Iella and scowling. "Damn Skywalker anyway," she hissed.
She didn't miss the flash of realization in Iella's eyes. To her relief, Iella didn't make a point of it. "We have to get back out of here before the Empire regroups and we get surrounded by stormtroopers," Iella said instead. "Come on, Mara, let's go."
Mara bottled up her fear and nodded. "Right," she agreed.
The Tevas-kaar stood, his hand on his lightsaber, as Tavira finished commandeering the last shuttle in the hangar. Freighters had moved around them, her rank barely registering on the droids or personnel frantically trying to pack into them and evacuate. She finally ordered him to procure her a shuttle, which he had done by holding a lightsaber out to block personnel from boarding it, their gazes wide and fearful before they fled to try for another craft. The pilot had been less than thrilled, but a lightsaber could be persuasive.
But the shuttle was the last in the bay for a reason, its engines under last-minute repair. That was a task in which he had no experience to speak of—his time in the Inquisitorius had not included classes in starship maintenance or engineering—which had left Tavira attempting to intimidate the frantic engineers into working faster, which only had the opposite of the intended effect.
The sense of anticipation was getting stronger. He had no idea what was causing it, the Force declined to provide him with specifics, but it was there, a booming heartbeat, quickening as it came nearer and nearer. The footsteps of heavy boots, marching inexorably, bringing change.
There was blaster fire at the far entrance to the hanger, and the hum of a lightsaber. He turned, his hand on the hilt of his own saber, thumbing it to life with a snap-hiss.
The combat chatter of stormtroopers was interspersed with the sound of blaster bolts deflecting off a lightsaber. Behind the Jedi, two other men—one in an orange New Republic flightsuit—were firing their blasters from behind the protection of the emerald blade.
Tavira was standing behind him, staring. The Jedi turned in their direction, black cloak billowing behind him, black outfit slim-fitting underneath it, the lightsaber casually deflecting away blaster bolts.
His heart wrenched in his chest. Memory clobbered him with furious disregard for his responsibility to Tavira: the black armored man stepping over the corpse of his master, the red lightsaber blade humming as he turned towards the boy the Tevas-kaar had been.
The Jedi gleamed in the Force, his power undeniable, just as Vader's had been. It was oppressive in its sheer, demanding weight. The sensation froze him, leaving him not quite able to breathe.
Tavira's demanding voice brought him out of it. "Skywalker!" she hissed in recognition. "The New Republic sent Skywalker after me!" He could feel her fear, but it was buried, dull, under the mountain of his own ancient pain. She whirled. "How long!"
"Another two minutes!" the put-upon tech gasped, splitting his attention to peer across the hangar—
"Look at the ship not at him!" Tavira hissed angrily. She spun back, staring at the trio now approaching slowly. She lifted her blaster to point it at them; Skywalker raised his lightsaber slightly in response and she lowered it, breathing heavily. "Tevas-kaar, delay them!" she ordered. "You have to delay them long enough for me to escape!"
He knew how this would end. The Jedi felt like the armored man who had slain his master; the Jedi's cloak rippled behind him, the flutter of fabric recalling the swirl of long black cloak in the Neftali snow. It made sense now, the anticipation he had been feeling… turned to dread.
It would be a hopeless battle. But the Tevas-kaar's master had once fought a hopeless battle, too. He bowed his masked head. "Yes, My Lady," he said, and turned to walk towards the approaching Jedi. Behind him, Tavira scrambled up the shuttle ramp as the tech worked frantically. In front of him, the Jedi dismissed his blade and approached with a slow, confident step.
Han held his blaster in a two-handed grip, staring at the bronze-armored figure standing in front of the now empty landing pad. The Lambda-class shuttle across the room was now lifting off the ground, an Imperial technician scrambling up its boarding ramp just before it was out of his reach. Beyond it, through the magnetic seal of the docking bay, the Star Destroyer Invidious was pointed at them, coming closer and filling the space between them with thick waves of turbolaser fire to discourage any starfighter assault. The shuttle hurtled towards the Star Destroyer's hangar, while the big ship started a laborious turn, heading away from the platform and the planet with gathering speed. Its TIEs screamed after it, trying to duck into the hanger alongside the Lambda while a small swarm of New Republic snubfighters pursued, X-wings and Z-95s launching a handful of proton torpedoes which rode tails of blue fire towards their target.
The bronze armored figure lifted his humming lightsaber. Luke hadn't ignited his yet and Han didn't know what he was waiting for. He took a quick glimpse at his brother-in-law and saw Luke's calm, confident expression. "I don't want to fight you," Luke said, taking a step forward and lifting his hand up, empty.
The man's white mask turned towards Luke and Han, peering back at them, eerily still.
"We don't have to be enemies," Luke continued. "I know who you are, some of your story." He took another step forward. "I'd like to hear more, if you would allow it. I think we will have much we can teach one another."
Luke's long black cloak swirled around his feet as he took another step forward. In response the bronze figure shifted his footwork, drawing one foot slightly back and lifting his lightsaber up in a defensive pose.
"Please," Luke said. "I've been looking for someone who can tell me what it meant to be an apprentice before the Empire. An apprentice of the old order. You remember, don't you." Luke's voice faded. "You do," he added softly. "There is a long distance between then and now, but you remember. You never forgot."
The figure shifted from a defensive pose to an aggressive one, and Luke turned and stared at Han, his gaze intense. "Whatever happens, do not interfere. Do not let anyone interfere."
"Kid," Han growled, "don't go and do anything stupid now."
"I will do what I must."
"Great," Han muttered. "Your sister's gonna kill me. And if you get killed here, what do you think Mara's gonna do to me, huh?"
Luke smiled enigmatically. "Hey. Trust me." He turned away and strode towards the bronze armored figure, leaving Han staring after his back, wondering if he'd ever really understand his brother-in-law.
"That is my line," Han muttered. Next to him, Hobbie offered an apologetic, helpless shrug.
Luke's cloak trailed behind him. He stopped two sword lengths away from the bronze armored figure and shifted his shoulders, shedding the cloak and letting it pool behind his feet. "I don't want to fight you," Luke said.
The masked figure's gaze was locked on Luke. "I've been waiting for this day," he said, and Han was surprised by the resonant vibrancy of his voice, echoing slightly from the mask. "As my master waited on Neftali. This meeting was destined."
"It was," Luke agreed softly. "But we can choose a different path, together." He extended an empty hand. "Join me."
Han held his breath, wondering who would kill him first—Mara or Leia. Mara, he decided. She was nearer.
The man in the bronze armor took two quick steps forward and lashed out violently. Luke was completely still even as his foe took his first step, but when he took his second Luke flowed to the side, dodging the blow with circling footwork. "I do not want to fight," Luke repeated, earnest.
"Neither did my master," said the masked figure. "But there are some things that cannot be avoided!"
Luke sighed. "As you wish," he said softly, and ignited his emerald blade.
The Tevas-kaar was twelve-years-old, standing on a snow-swept plain. The Jhunia plains were as desolate as Hoth; thick darkness during winter, searing brightness in summer, permafrost in either case. He and his master had befriended the locals; he could still remember the d'oemir bear sow they had met, so protective of her litter. He and his master had chased away a poacher that first winter, and in hindsight that must have been how the Empire had found them. They had only been there for a little more than a year, entering their second winter in hiding, when the shuttle had settled into the snow outside their sanctuary, the abandoned hunting cabin they had made a home.
The stormtroopers had been fodder and his master had cut them down without effort. "Run!" he'd ordered the Tevas-kaar, but there had been nowhere to run to and he could not, would not, abandon his master. So he'd stayed, and fought as best he could. They were successful until the dark-armored man had finally strode down the ramp of the shuttle, corpses of his men strewn on either side.
The Tevas-kaar could still remember the heaviness of the figure's boot, still hear the echo of inexorability, of fate, the impression of dread and loss.
He couldn't be sure, but he thought that even then his master had known he couldn't win, couldn't run, couldn't flee. The anguished cry, the desperate lunge, the quick, brutal, utterly one-sided fight. The armored man's breathing had never even changed through it all, sheer power overwhelming his master's defenses, battering aside his blade and then driving through him with unceremonious disrespect.
The Tevas-kaar had cried out, fallen in the snow, tried to scramble away, tried to fight, tried to run, tried to do anything he could. He had failed.
There were days, months, years he wished the man had killed him, too. But he'd merely stood above his prone form, his heavy breathing harsh, vapor rising from his masked head. The Tevas-kaar couldn't remember how long he'd lain there, the man's red blade casting him in somber light, an easy swipe away from carving him in two as he shivered in the snow. The blow had never come.
"You are strong," the man had finally said. "My Master may yet have use of you."
Luke Skywalker's boots sounded like Vader's. Inexorable. Heavy. Destined.
He cried out, unleashing grief and rage on the black-clothed figure, his blue lightsaber swinging again and again, wildly. Skywalker fought defensively, not striking back, dodging with deft footwork or deflecting the wild blows away. Again and again the Tevas-kaar lashed out, again and again Skywalker anticipated, always one step ahead. Always faster, always precise. The Tevas-kaar struck and struck and struck and struck, and just as Vader had been against his master, Skywalker was simply faster, and not because of quickness of body. He gleamed in the Force like a beacon, a flaming torch, a deep well of power that he merely sipped from the Tevas-kaar simply could not match.
He didn't know how long they fought, how long his rage and grief and fear fueled his strikes, but Skywalker never tired, never slowed, and the cortosis armor began to feel heavy. With an anguished cry he collapsed to his knees, Skywalker just out of his reach. "Go ahead," he said, exhausted. "Finish it."
Skywalker stepped forward, each step a thunderous footfall on the ramp of a shuttle, an indentation in the snow, heavy with memory. But instead of bringing the final blow, the Jedi pressed the stud on his lightsaber and the hum of the blade vanished. "I know what Tevas-kaar means," he said quietly.
The Tevas-kaar peered up at him, feeling his eyelashes wet with tears. It wasn't Vader's face he saw.
"My father's keeper," Skywalker reached down and removed the Tevas-kaar's mask gently, then knelt down. The Jedi unlatched the second lightsaber from his belt, and pressed it into the Tevas-kaar's hand. "This is yours, Kam."
Kam closed his hand around Ranik Solusar's lightsaber, feeling his tears, unshed for far too long, start to build. He took a gasping breath, clinging to the blade, doubling over and sobbing. He could hear Luke's quiet breathing next to him. So different from Vader's.
"You're not Vader," Kam finally managed.
"No," Skywalker said. "I'm not." He offered Kam a somber smile, wiping his own tears from his cheeks. He reached out and placed a hand over Kam's, squeezing. "Stretch out and feel the Force, Kam," he murmured, "and it will show us the way."
Kam Solusar sobbed and laughed, clutching his father's lightsaber. For the first time he could remember, he felt light.