III.
Orders.
Black. White. An infinitude of space—billions of stars. A totality—totally still.
Eyes see this. Their observer feels. Fear. Terrible, terrible fear. He does not want to see, so he shuts his eyes—to find that they're already shut.
This world can only be seen.
The field of stars begin to ripple, like a pebble was skipped across water. Open eyes blink behind closed eyelids. The stars above, remain still. Those below, still ripple. Those still rippling are a mirror—a reflection of those above.
Some begin to disappear, then reappear again. A shapeless shadow is moving, obscuring the stars behind it, as it moves. With every step, the shadow's booted feet are submerged a centimeter below a shallow sea—a puddle, stretching beyond sight, in every direction.
The booted shadow's movements are creating the ripples in the water. Water, impossibly clear. The ground underneath—completely, perfectly flat.
There is no other sound except for the splashing, sloshing bootsteps…
Then—snap-hiss-hum. A lightsaber ignites. The emitter's red beam and its reflection streak across the cosmic sea, both racing toward the same point. Where the tip of the red blade of light dips into the black pool, it begins to steam, the water bubbling, boiling, and evaporating, sizzling in the light's heat.
Given shape, the shadow now begins to approach.
Not its observer. Standing closer to the shadow, there is a third presence on this mirror world. As the shadow approaches it, the light of its red blade illuminates it, outlining in red—a hooded figure clad in white robes.
There is another snap-hiss. A second lightsaber ignites. Its blade is blue.
"Stay back, devil."
That voice—a man's.
His presence in the Force feels… familial, paternal, but… he cannot be.
The shadow's adversary raises his blue blade in defiance. The red blade of his opposite twirls with a flourish. Its wielder steps into the light of his challenger's. He wears specular, black armour—red and blue spectral highlights. A black mask hides his face. Red-tinted glass hides his eyes.
Vader.
The masked shadow speaks: "When I left you, I was but the learner. Now, I am the master."
His adversary counters: "Only a master of evil, Darth."
The man—his voice—not his father's.
Ben.
"You can't win, Darth.
"If my blade should find its mark, then you will cease to exist. But I must warn you: if you strike me down, I shall become more powerful than you can—"
Without warning, the red beams of light sweep across the starry skies, cutting through the robed figure. There is an anguished, guttural moan. His blue blade flickers, fails. Cleaved in two, his robe's halves fall empty, immolating scraps of fabric plummeting windlessly to the water's surface and extinguishing like meteorites.
"Nooooo!"
The observer's scream reverberates across space and time. It's his scream, but he isn't screaming. He turns. Through a discoid window wreathed in white flame, he sees a city in the clouds. Like an upturned, steel dreidle.
Hears Ben. In his mind's mind. He betrayed and murdered your father.
Hears himself proclaim: "—you killed him!"
The cloud planet's distant gale induces a deep undulation—a groundswell of rage.
He turns back. Having slain his enemy, the armoured shadow now moves towards this second presence.
Run, Luke! Run!
Weaponless, Luke stands and speaks in defiance: "You. You killed my father."
"I have killed many fathers. Children, too." There is no glee in Vader's admission. Instead, his words are… pained. Tortured. "I will permit you a reunion."
A wave of ice-cold hatred burns in Luke's veins. His father's killer raises his ruby, scarlet sword to strike again. Reflexively, Luke's nerves order his muscles to recoil.
But—
Paralyzed, he can't move. Can't breathe. Everything is now still.
Suffocating? Drowning?
Whether the water has risen above his head, or there is no more oxygen in the air, he does not know.
Everything is now rippling. Which world is real, and which is its reflection, he can no longer tell. He's somewhere between. Yet nowhere, all at once. Wherever he is, there, there is only pain—unbearable pain.
Then—everything dissolves.
All is simply… grey.
Here—all is numb.
For a moment, he wonders if this is death.
Until—
Luke awoke, drenched in cold sweat. His eyes opened, and his pupils dilated, compensating for the room's low light. He blinked, because he could see blood in his eyes, and the blotches of colour—the psychological primaries—in his oversaturated field of view, slowly dissipated; the field of stars became the glistening, wet mildew on the room's stone ceiling.
Luke realized he could breathe, and gasped for air. He realized he could move, and sat up; pins and needles pierced his skin.
At first, he couldn't remember where he was. Eventually, lucidity, memory, and his physical constitution returned. He heard moisture dripping from perspiring stone. Insects trilling. The caterwauling of nocturnal fauna. Reoriented, he remembered—his location, and the events of the past few days.
When his heart-rate had returned to resting, Luke threw off the damp, woolen covers he was under; threw his legs off of the cot he'd been sleeping on. He moved to brighten the survival lamp sitting on the makeshift side-table (a blue, plastoid crate) next to him, and scanned the brightened room.
It was empty, apart from (a few) personal effects. R2-D2, the astromech droid his uncle had bought from the Jawa scavengers, stood in the corner. "Asleep." Conserving energy (in short supply). Low-power state. Luke stared into his darkened photoreceptor. When he was "awake," it would flash red and blue.
Like dueling Jedi's swords.
It had felt real—the puddle world. The presence—that he'd thought was his father's. Their connection—what he could only describe as a channel in the Force. Like a glacier-carved tributary flowing into a raging, roiling river.
It had felt as though his father was still alive. But—that was impossible.
It was Vader's presence he'd felt. Connected to. Must have been. It was Ben he'd heard; Ben he'd watched, be cut down by Darth Vader. Flotsam of his subconscious. An impression of the nightmare he'd seen on Death Star. Brought on by the grief of losing a father figure. Nothing more.
And yet—the cloud city. He'd certainly never seen that place before.
It doesn't matter. It was just a dream.
He'd been asleep, and now he was awake.
Luke checked his chrono: 0400. He had an hour until he was scheduled to relieve Wedge.
Standing up, Luke went over to the room's glassless window. He pulled its burlap rain curtain aside, and looked out. His vantage point was the summit of the stone building that housed the Rebel base. The Great Temple of the Massassi—a truncated, conical, terraced ziggurat, constructed by an ancient and extinct, indigenous civilization. Outside, lay a vast, equatorial rainforest.
Day was breaking.
The bluing black of the dawning sky rendered the bright-green leaves of the jungle's trees dark-blue. Like mountain peaks, other stone temples poked out of the thick, jungle canopy—its stone overstory. Their brown faces were rendered dark-red, returning the colour of the omnipresent red orb high overhead—the moon's gas planet, Yavin. Quetzalcoatl lizard-buzzards flew in the fore, their bright-orange plumage rendered colourless by their partial eclipse of Yavin's face. Soon, its eclipsed sun would re-emerge from behind. Tidally locked, the fourth moon awaited its dawn.
Yavin Four—the Rebellion's fortress world.
Spared at the eleventh hour by the destruction of the Empire's dreaded Death Star. Destroyed in a desperate counterattack—a defense made possible by the daring theft and delivery of its complete technical data. Its delivery made possible by the rescue of its custodian—Princess Leia Organa of Alderaan. Her rescue made possible by the conscription of the unlikeliest of rescuers—a jaded spice-runner, and a wide-eyed young moisture-farmer—by a grizzled soldier of the Clone Wars: Ben Kenobi—a surviving Jedi who'd been hiding in plain sight for nineteen years; nineteen years he'd spent protecting the son of Skywalker—preserving for him, an upbringing unmolested by Imperial Inquisitors; providing a childhood of duteous husbandry, spent daydreaming of transient star-pilotage.
And now, for better or worse, Luke was a star-pilot in the Rebel Alliance. Far, far away from his uncle's moisture-farm in the dustbowl of Jundland.
When he was younger, he'd dreamt of life among the stars—aboard a starship, beside an intrepid crew of has-beens and ne'er-do-wells. Ferrying dangerous and exotic cargoes across the Galactic Orient. Making and squandering immense fortunes.
When he'd grown older—too old to be placated by weekend-morning matinée holo-serials—and he'd seen enough of life on Tatooine—enough to develop a political consciousness—and read the Coalition for Progress' promulgations enough to see through the Imperials' doublespeak—he'd fantasized about joining righteous causes and fighting the Empire.
But when the opportunity, the call, to join, had finally come?
It's all such a long way from here,he'd said to Ben.
That's your uncle talking,Ben had said to him.
What he wouldn't trade now, he thought, to be back on Tatooine. Ignorant. And unaware of the war in the stars.
To have awoken in his own room, to his aunt's early morning summons to a homecooked breakfast. Downstairs—her scoldings for raiding the conservator and drinking the bantha milk straight from the carton—his uncle's lectures about the importance of field work and his reproachment of Luke's preferred activities: racing his T-16, shirking his chores, and "wasting time" with his friends at Tosche Station. Competing with them at the Starcade's coin-op pod-racer sims. Spending every second of spare time he was granted or could steal—every peggat of his allowance—on Skyhopper maintenance, more sim-time. Just one more game…
He sighed. Pushing thoughts of home out of his mind, he let go of the window's drape.
That was then. This was now. His old life was over. A new life had begun.
Why dwell?
He sat back down on the corner of his cot to pull his boots onto his feet. Then, standing up again, he lifted his jacket—a yellow flight jacket—from where it hung in the corner of the room, and slipped his arms into it, sleeve by sleeve, leaving the front unzippered.
Next, Luke strapped his holster—which was laying on the side-table beside the lantern—to his right leg. From where it lay, beside its holster, he picked up and holstered his blaster, a Merr-Sonn Model 57—a gift from Han. Beside that, lay a small, stainless-steel cylinder, with a fluted, black grip.
He moved to clip his father's lightsaber to his belt, and then… he thought better of it.
Instead, with his right hand, he tucked the dead Jedi's weapon into his jacket's left interior pocket. With his left, he patted the right interior pocket, confirming that it was still there. The standard-issue Alliance White Book (a white, leatherbound datapad) issued to him at the post-battle debriefing.
Armed and outfitted, Luke exited his quarters. Proceeded down the hallway to the stairwell. Descended the rickety, steel scaffolding the engineers had installed to prevent damage to the crumbling stone steps of the temple. The steel steps rattled noisily with each bootfall. He skipped the last two, vaulting over them and landing with a crash on the grated landing below. At the bottom, he entered a dark, dingy corridor. The temporary string-lighting flickered as he neared the other end.
On the other end, Luke entered a large, viridescent chamber.
The base's command/control room was abuzz with activity. Dozens of controllers sat at their desks, their white cover-alls reflecting the scintillating green glow of their monitoring stations' cathode-ray tubes. The luminescent green contrasted with the phosphorescent cyan glow of the lines on the tactical plotters—realspace and hyperlane traffic monitors—before which, dozens more controllers stood, plotting.
In the far corner, Luke spotted Princess Leia. She was engaged in a private, hushed conversation with two older men. Standing beside her—bathed and polished—was C-3PO, the protocol droid fluent in over six-million forms of communication (including Bocce) that the Jawas had sold together with Artoo.
Luke crossed the room, circling around the (presently blank) orbital tracking table at its center. As he approached Leia's coterie, he caught the tail end of their conversation.
"—Willard's returned to Vanguard along with her."
"Well, let's just hope the Bothans stay true to their word, Commander."
Threepio was the first to notice Luke approaching. His line of sight met with that of the droid's golden eyes.
"Master Luke," the gold-plated droid announced. The two men shuffled, shifted their attention from Leia to Luke; she turned to face him. Gone was the elegant, white ambassador's dress she'd been wearing on Death Star. She now wore a more utilitarian outfit. White jumpsuit—tan vest. Her hair was the same.
"Your Highness."
Luke's greeting was uncharacteristically ceremonious. Though unnecessary, Leia decided not to admonish him for it.
"Luke," she acknowledged, unceremoniously, instead.
She stepped back a step, permitting him to join the circle.
"Gentlemen, allow me to introduce Yavin's Red Five—this is Luke Skywalker. Alongside the party of General Kenobi, this is one of the men responsible for my rescue."
The other men in her company regarded the newcomer with newfound interest.
Leia squeezed, gently, the man on the left's bicep. "Luke, this is Admiral Hudsol—commander of the Fleet."
"What's left of it," the man added bitterly.
"Admiral." Luke greeted him with a courteous nod.
"And this is—"
Before she could finish, the other man extended his hand, and finished for her. "Evram Lajaie," he said.
Hudsol was younger. Mid-60's. Bushy, black eyebrows. Thick, silver moustache. Lajaie was older. Mid-70's. Clean-shaven.
Both men were balding. Both wore brown-green pants. Matching shirts. Long, white overcoats over dress coats. Both men had High Commanders' quincunxes pinned to their chests. Silver boards displaying five coloured dots, arranged diagonally, in the shape of a cross, like the fifth face of a die. Hudsol's—five blue dots. Lajaie's—four red dots, with a blue dot in the middle.
"Starfighter Command," Leia added.
"General," greeted Luke. He shook the man's hand.
"I have to say—that was some tremendous flying out there, son. We're indebted to you. All of us."
Luke felt blood rush to his cheeks. His face flushed.
"Luck, more than anything, sir," he countered, abashed.
"Well, whatever it was, we'll need a lot more of it in the weeks ahead."
Lajaie paused. He glanced sideways at the Admiral. Hudsol did not return his look. Instead, expressionless, he maintained his silent survey of the Red Squadron initiate.
Luke tried to ignore the Admiral's piercing, studious glare.
"I hope you're up to it," said the General.
Luke responded without hesitation. "Absolutely, sir. I've been waiting for this for my entire life."
"Glad to hear it."
Despite the exuberance in Lajaie's voice, there was a melancholic apprehension in his tone. Leia heard it. Luke did not. Something about a young man expressing such eagerness to fight—such willingness to die—she figured. His naïveté—valourous, if tragic. The old man bowed his head, and smiled, somewhat piteously.
There was a brief pause. Leia was the one to interrupt it.
"Gentlemen, if you'll excuse me for just a minute."
Lajaie's thin smile vanished. "Of course, Princess."
As she turned to go, the General offered Luke one final pleasantry. "Welcome to the Rebellion," he said simply.
"Thank you, General. Admiral."
Luke followed Leia's lead. After a few steps, Leia halted, and so, too, did the sound of Threepio's servomotors. Luke took one, two more steps, before realizing that Leia was no longer by his side, and he, too, halted. Turned back.
Leia was staring at the protocol droid. Threepio was staring back at her. Oblivious. His attention shifted, comically, from Luke, to Leia, back to Luke again.
"That includes you, Threepio," Leia said softly.
"Oh," Threepio said awkwardly. "Gentlemen," he muttered to himself and turned to rejoin the two senior officers.
Luke and Leia exchanged bemused looks. Then she tucked her arm under his, and they continued walking.
As they walked, they talked. Small talk, at first.
Leia asked Luke how he had slept. He lied, and said it had been restful and dreamless.
Luke asked Leia how Threepio and Artoo had come to be in her possession.
"They were state property," she explained. In the employ of Alderaan's Royal House. They had been assigned to Tantive IV—the ship that'd ferried her to Tatooine. It was pure happenstance that Artoo-Detoo was also a service-droid in the Republic's Grand Navy. That he'd served alongside Ben Kenobi in the Clone Wars; where See-Threepio had served in the consulate for the Union of Commonwealth Systems—of which Alderaan had been a member. "I suppose now, they belong to no one…"
When they'd arrived where Leia was leading—a utility passage at the opposite side of the control room from the officers' quarters—they stood on the uppermost landing of the last flight of the control room's emergency stairwell, and Leia offered her condolences for the death of Luke's friend.
Biggs.
Luke felt a heartbeat in his stomach. Since stumbling across the Princess' plea, Luke had lost his aunt and uncle—the only family he'd ever known; a momentary mentor and a secret, silent guardian—the only living connection to the memory of his father; and now, he'd lost his closest friend.
"I'm also sorry, Luke."
He furrowed his brow, quizzically, at her.
"For involving you in all this," she clarified.
His glower hardened. "The Empire involved me in this."
She nodded, emphatically. "Of course."
Luke's look softened. He bowed his head in shame. "I'm sorry, too, Leia."
He offered his own condolences. Since being captured, Leia had lost her mother and father; her homeworld of Alderaan had been destroyed, and millions of her compatriots had died in that calamity. In spite of this, she had only thought of Luke, and his grief.
"You've shown me nothing but kindness, Leia. And I've… been thoughtless. Not once, did I stop to consider what you've been going through."
He thanked her for her strength, and she forgave him for his insensitivity.
"I want to thank you, as well," she said. "Not only for your selflessness on Death Star. But for your courage in battle—for risking your life to defend the base. Our Rebellion survives because of what you did."
Luke expressed the guilt of a survivor. He felt undeserving of the recognition. People had died. People who had been fighting for a lot longer than he.
He told her that.
Leia told him that his humility was inappropriate under the circumstances.
The Rebellion was a series of sacrificial actions. None were more important than any other. Most recruits knew that when they enlisted—that they may never see the sunrise they were hoping to make possible. But there was no seniority in death. They were not the Empire, either—their people were not treated like they treated droids.
You could only thank the living.
"Every contribution, no matter how small or how large, deserves to be recognized, Luke."
Gingerly, the Princess of Alderaan placed her hand on his forearm.
"Luke, listen.
"Things are going to change quickly now. You've volunteered. I don't have control over where you'll be deployed. The Emperor isn't going to treat us as a mere political annoyance anymore. And with the Senate disbanded, the dimensions of my role will change rapidly, as well. We may not see each other again for some time.
"And… well… there's always the possibility of—"
Her sentence trailed off, and she withdrew her hand.
Distracted, she'd turned her attention back to where they'd left Hudsol and Lajaie. Luke imitated her.
Three other officers had joined them.
Two were without overcoats. One had long, thin hair, and sported a neatly trimmed moustache. He was middle-aged. The other's hair was short, and neatly cut. He was balding, slightly, but he was the youngest of the five. All three wore red quincunxes.
The third, bearded, was—
"You'd better get going, Luke. It's almost time for pre-flight procedures."
Leia had pulled up her sleeve to reveal her own chrono, its face rotated to the underside of her wrist.
She turned to leave. Walked two, three steps away.
"Leia—"
She stopped. Turned around.
Luke struggled to find the words to describe…
He felt something for her he couldn't explain. He wasn't… attracted to her. It wasn't that. It was something else. Something deeper. Something he didn't fully understand. It felt like what he'd felt in the presence of Vader, but… warm, not cold; a channel had opened between them, but it was not nearly as wide, and its undercurrent was not nearly as baleful. It felt… like dew that had been collecting on leaves in a peaceful grotto, were falling, to be collected by its still, secluded pond. He'd known her for three days. And already she felt like… family.
Was this normal? Was he meant to be allowing the Force to carve out such deep connections? Form such strong attachments to people he'd only just met?
There was no one he could ask about that.
Luke smiled. "It can't wait."
Leia smiled back. "Good luck," she said, and made her way back to the commanders.
Luke watched her go, and remained, alone in the stairwell for a moment, before he descended again.
The base's hangar was cavernous, but bright.
Azure light beamed down from the ceiling. Amber light shone up from the floor. The stone columns which supported the upper levels of the temple were being slowly strangled by vines intertwined with bundles of cables and hoses, transferring water and data—up and down—coolant and fuel from the basement, and power.
Before Death Star, row after row of X- and Y-wing fighter-craft had lined the hangar-bay. Now, their docking-bays sat empty. Save for one.
A group of mechanics were working on Wedge's damaged, grounded starfighter. The only other ship docked in the hangar now, aside from—
"Hey, kid! They make you a General yet?"
The smuggler, Han Solo, stood on the edge of the cockpit-side of his derelict, paintless YT-1300. Grinning mischievously. His oil-stained hands held a dirty, rubber gasket, which he had been cleaning with an oil-soaked rag. His co-pilot, the Wookiee Chewbacca, was kneeling by an open maintenance hatch. In one furry hand, he held a soldering-blaster, soldering. With the other, he held a set of welding-goggles against his furry face.
Without slowing his step, Luke chirped back: "Why don't you spend all that reward money on a ship that stays spaceworthy for more than a day?"
Han chuckled. "Not a chance. After all, this ship made the Kessel Run in—"
"Twelve parsecs—yeah, yeah." Luke passed under the Millennium Falcon.
"Less!"
Chewbacca groaned, then gave a second, distraught howl, pointing at a pile of uncleaned parts at Han's feet.
"Hold your fathiers, Chewie! I know. I'll get to them in a sec."
Han walked across the top of the Falcon, tracing Luke's steps below. Shouted down: "Your shift start soon?"
"In about an hour, yeah," Luke shouted back. He emerged on the other side. Then—abruptly—he stopped. Half-turned. Looked up at Han, who now stood on the other edge of his ship.
"You sticking around for much longer?"
Han shrugged.
"Apparently. I don't really have a choice. They won't clear me for takeoff until all this is finished."
He gestured at the chaos all around them. The floor of the hangar was madness. Everywhere, everyone was preparing for evac—tearing down equipment, packing up gear, and wheeling everything outside.
Luke, caught in the center of the carnage, stared up at the man who'd come back to help them—after swearing that he was just in it for the money.
"They—
"We… could still use you, Han."
With four fingers, Han scratched the stubble on his neck. Ran them through his disheveled hair, front to back, like a comb.
"I got other commitments, kid. Debts I gotta pay. They're important."
Han saw the same disappointment in Luke as last time, but this time, there was understanding and respect, too. Luke simply nodded.
Your destiny lies along a different path from mine.
"See you around, Han."
On the tarmac, four beetle-shaped transports were being loaded for takeoff.
Luke was leaning against the mossy, stone wall of the temple, off to one side of the temple's long, low, rectangular entrance, watching the ground crew push cart after cart of matériel up the transports' ramps and into their cargo holds. Meanwhile, he'd pushed his hands into his jacket's pockets. There, they'd found… a weight. Something inside, that he'd forgotten he'd put there. He wrapped his fingers around the brass, bell-shaped medal he'd been awarded for bravery.
Thirty pilots had flown and fought in the Battle of Yavin. Only three survived: Luke; a Y-wing pilot he hadn't met yet; and Wedge—his wing-man during their attack run.
His second wing.
Twenty-seven pilots had died, including Biggs—his first wing—his only wing, back on Tatooine.
Luke had known Biggs Darklighter since they were both children.
They'd met in town, but their families' farmsteads had been within walking distance. Biggs' father was a freeholder—wealthier than Owen—Luke's uncle had been a sharecropper. But their children's friendship had brought their families together. Biggs' family were high-born, and titled, but Biggs' father was a benevolent man. He'd paid for Luke to attend public school. Owen had accepted—on the condition that it be considered a "loan." (Though both knew, he'd likely never afford to pay it back.)
Astrography class. That's where they'd met Janik Sunber. "Tank." In their tweens, they'd race landspeeders through the streets of Anchorhead. Usually, against each other. Occasionally, from the constabulary. When they were in high school, they graduated to racing airspeeders through Beggar's Canyon. Luke couldn't count how many times he'd been grounded for stealing his uncle's old T-16, before his uncle had finally relented, and let Luke have it.
By then, Luke had had a part-time job at Tosche's Power and Repair Station. In the afternoon, after school, kids were allowed to spend time there—at the diner/Starcade next-door. There, they'd met "Fixer" and Camie, Deacon, and "Windy." They all became inseparable.
Then Tank left. Then Biggs left.
Biggs had been his best friend. The big brother he'd never had. His romanticism. His utopianism. It was infectious. It'd rubbed off—on Luke and Tank both. Together, they'd all pledged to enlist in the academy. Graduate together. Defect to the Rebellion—and defeat the Empire together.
But Biggs had also been the glue holding everyone together. It wasn't long after Biggs left that Luke was forced to spend more and more time farming for his uncle; was forced to quit working at Tosche Station. After that, everyone began drifting apart. Soon, he'd only really visit Tosche to pick up the occasional power converter. And now, Biggs was dead. And who knew where Tank had ended up? Camie, Fixer, Deak, Windy… Luke didn't know if he'd ever see any of them again.
He thought of his uncle. Owen. Their nightly arguments over dinner. His uncle's constant attempt to impede his nephew's "selfish" desire to follow his friends "off the bridge." His insistence that Luke's destiny was to follow in his footsteps. Farm vapour. To that end, his manipulation of Luke's sense of familial duty and obligation with empty promises. After the next harvest. Then the next. Just one more season. Always one more.
He thought of his aunt. Beru. Her nightly encouragement after his uncle had excused himself from one of their dinner arguments in an irate huff. He thought of the model T-16 she'd given to him (without his uncle's knowledge). The Skyhopper toy that'd sparked his interest in flying. It was a gift from Ben, though Luke didn't know it—wouldn't have understood why, or who he was—at the time.
It had been a substitute for what Ben had really wanted to give him.
Your father wanted you to have this, when you were old enough, but your uncle wouldn't allow it.
He thought of Owen's lies about his father. That his father had been a spice-runner—not a Jedi Knight; not even a pilot—a navigator. The lie had been noble, meant to shelter Luke from a dark and dangerous galaxy—to discourage him from following in his father's footsteps. Instead, it had only served to make him more enthusiastic about the stars.
He thought of the father he'd never known. Never would. Betrayed and murdered by Darth Vader—a fallen Jedi—before he was born. His uncle had always avoided answering any of Luke's questions about him. Luke didn't even know his father's first name. "Skywalker," his uncle, one night, had reluctantly shared. Luke had taken to using it in place of his legal surname. Lars.
He thought of Ben Kenobi. Obi-Wan. Jedi Master. His father's teacher. If not for Owen's disregard for his step-brother's wishes: his son's would-be teacher, as well. He thought of his uncle's demand that he stay away from "the crazy, old hermit" whenever Luke brought him up. Then, he didn't understand why. Now, it all made sense.
He thought of Ben's death on Death Star. Cut down. Betrayed and murdered by his father's killer, too.
Or had he been?
There had been no corpse. Vader's sword struck, and Ben simply vanished. He'd died, and yet… he'd spoken to Luke. In his mind. In the trench. During the attack run.
Use the Force, Luke!
And before. And again. In his dream. Run, Luke! Run!
Was Ben truly dead?
Was his father truly dead?
He'd felt his presence on the puddle world. He was sure of it. He'd felt alive. Perhaps he'd survived somehow—unbeknownst to Ben Kenobi? Perhaps he was out there somewhere, right now, searching for his lost son. Perhaps he was reaching out to him, through the Force, and that was what Luke was feeling…
Softly, Luke called out to the darkness.
"Father?"
But there was only silence.
He took a deep breath. Reached out with his feelings, as Ben had instructed, and tried again.
"Ben? … Ben? … … Obi-Wan?"
There—he felt a tug; a pull from the forest. Heard a call. From deep within.
Luke…
Adrenaline flooded his veins. With a jolt, he removed his back from the wall and his hands from his pockets. That was Ben's voice! In his mind, but as real and alive as it had been in the cockpit of his X-wing.
He hesitated. According to his chrono, he was scheduled to relieve Wedge in half an hour. He knew he shouldn't wander off the base, but… the feeling of importance flowing from Yavin's jungle was overwhelming. He'd refused the call once before—the consequences had been devastating.
Though Luke got the sense that his will was not entirely his own, he made up his mind. Zippering the front of his jacket halfway, Luke started across the field of flat, poured duracrete.
At first, he walked; as he walked, he became aware of the stare of unseen eyes—black against the bluing sky, he saw the silhouettes of the base's sentry towers, carrying their spear-carrying sentry guards—and he started to jog.
On the outskirts of the temple grounds, sculpted from stone, he passed by a massive, beheaded stone head. Its metamorphic skin was covered in thick moss, and wrapped in vines that were constricting its facial-features like green snakes.
At the edge of the tarmac, duracrete became macadam; macadam became dirt. He found the path that led into the forest—a hunting trail marked by orange, fluorescent tape—and followed it.
Soon, he was pulled from the beaten path.
Shielding his face with his arms, Luke followed the pull, deeper into the forest, snapping through steadily thickening thickets and crunching over prickly brambles with thin, thorned, flat leaves. He passed by mounds of piled, unburied dirt unearthed between gnarled, crooked tree roots; like miniature volcanoes, they each had deep, craterous holes in their middles—kliknik colonies (according to the base orientation-package's ecological survey reports). Then, just when Luke thought he could go no further…
He tumbled into a large clearing.
It was another, wider trail. But this trail wasn't blazed by Rebel huntsmen. It was older, and quite overgrown. A few dozen yards along this new path, and, completely concealed by the forest's undergrowth, Luke tripped over a lone, limestone brick.
A half-dozen more, and Luke discovered where the brick had come from.
Before him, a low, limestone temple, lying in ruin and half-concealed by trees, marked the end of the ancient trail. Its entryway's two towering, metal doors, were closed, and sealed shut by rust and vines. Fortunately, the adjoining brick wall, eroded by rain, had collapsed, and the collapsed bricks had formed a ramshackle stairway, leading up, and in.
Luke climbed them. Up and in.
Inside, he climbed down.
Yavin's pale rubescence was spilling through the crack in the wall, muddying the temple-interior's tenebrosity. Delicately, Luke removed his father's lightsaber from inside his jacket. Thumbed the blade's activator. The brilliant blue sword snapped-hissed into existence, bathing the temple's antechamber in its brilliance. Blending together with the ambient red—it rendered the temple's tenebres a murky, magenta-black.
The temple's antechamber was inanimate. Inert. Devoid of life.
At its center was a small, shallow pool of water. The water's surface—perfectly, completely still. Beneath the perfectly clear water was a crudely crafted stone mosaic. It depicted a humanoid being—hairless, with ochre eyes. His skin was flaxen. He was clad in robes half-white, half-black. He sat cross-legged. With both hands, he held a sword of dark light.
The warrior-monk was surrounded by two universes—theses containing their own antitheses. Black space surrounded by white suns. Black suns surrounded by white space. Inlaid in the mere's chiseled, stone base, was a bronze plaque, tarnished patina green. Engraved in it were words—a poem, perhaps—written in a language Luke didn't understand.
{George's poem from Journal of the Whills, Part I would go here, in Protobesh, in novelized form.}
Threepio could probably translate this, he thought. Maybe I could bring him here.
Holding the gleaming blue beam of plasma aloft like a torch, Luke moved along the outer walls, exploring. He examined the arched indentations lining them. Each contained a tiny, robed, hooded statue, carved, cleaved from the rock.
As Luke traversed the temple, the floor beneath his feet felt spongelike. At first, he wasn't sure what he was stepping on. When he noticed that split and splintered lightsaber hilts were strewn across the slimy stone, he realized what they were—empty, mouldy robes—and what they had been—Jedi.
This was a Jedi Temple!
Their corpseless detritus shared the floor with rotting, human remains—yellow bones inside high-gloss, enamel-white, and shattered, plastoid armour plates. Scattered shards littered the ground like clay potsherds.
Luke picked up and examined an empty helmet. A black stripe, scratched and scraped, was painted down the middle. Its green, T-shaped eyeshade was cracked. Where the helmet's face was hewn, it was also bent inward, lopsiding its cadaverous scowl.
Stormtroopers?
Here?
Why?
Suddenly, he had a stark realization. With it, he felt the hairs on his neck stand on their ends. The temple's antechamber was a cramped, confined space. Whatever happened here, it had been a bloodbath viscerally intimate.
Luke… Luke…
Startled by Ben's voice, Luke let go of the helmet, which dropped to the floor with a hollow thud.
He called into the tenebrous abyss: "Ben? Ben!"
His own voice echoed back.
Ben… Ben…Ben…
Heart pounding in his throat, Luke followed its pull, deeper into the temple.
The temple's library was filled with books. Real books—bound in leather, and full of paper. Never in his life had Luke set foot in a library, and yet, he was struck by a terrifying, depersonalizing familiarity. He stretched the muscles in his hand, shuffled his feet, craned his neck, squinched his eyes—trying anything to escape the oppressive malaise of his déjà vu.
Most of the library had been destroyed by fire. Rusted curtain rods were fastened to the walls' cornice, but their arrases had burned away. Consumed by flames lit by a stray blaster bolt, or the errant touch of a saber's beam. Cloaks, seared and singed, broken laser swords, and more anæmic, exsanguinous, exoskeletal plastoid—littered the library floor. Many of the library's shelves had collapsed in the fury of the firefight, their wood and their books charred and blackened by smoke and soot.
Their pages would be illegible now. Their stories lost to the ages.
But at least one had been spared this fate…
In the corner of the room, set upon an unswept lectern, a small tome, unscorched, sat the heat of a moted, decrescent ray, pouring, diminute, from a jagged slit in the library's plafond ceiling.
The pull became a push.
Whyever this book was left here, and left unscathed, Luke was meant to find it.
Cautiously, he let himself be drawn to the lectern. He took the tome in its charge into his delicate grasp. Blew, then swept the dust from the book's cover, revealing its title. Stamped into the nerfhide, and written in the same language as the plaque over the pool, were debossed letters that had once been filled with gold paint, but that had long since degraded. Still, they were intelligible, if not legible:
{Again in Protobesh: 'THE MANY MAXIMS OF ONE ODAN-URR, JED'AII MASTER.'}
Luke flipped the book over in his hands, then back—its back cover was blank. Carefully, he opened its face. On its first page was a frontispiece—a hand-drawn depiction of the hand-made tessellation in the pool.
It was then that Luke noticed the book had been hiding something else on the lectern. A small, drawstring pouch had lay beneath. From it, he removed a small, silver puck.
A pale, polished, cerulescent stone was infused in its center. Encompassing it was a series of indecipherable geometric patterns—hexagons inside of pentagons inside of octagons, inside and outside of every shape in between and beyond.
But before Luke could examine the strange, celestial artifact any further, suddenly, unnaturally, the hot and humid forest air froze.
He felt the same overwhelming, undeniable pull as before. But harder than before. More alluring. Desperate. Except this time, it was coming—not from beyond.
But from below.
He returned the silver puck to the drawstring pouch. Sinched its strings taut. Slid both the pouch and the book into his jacket pockets. Then, zippering his jacket all the way, Luke followed the pull.
It led him back to the antechamber.
To the pool of clear, crystalline water, and the subaqueous mosaic of the warrior-monk.
The pull was coming from beneath.
Luke scoured its base and the floor around it for fissures or a crevasse, a push-stone, or a trap-door. For something. Anything. To no avail.
A drip from the ceiling fell, hit, broke the still water's surface. The water rippled. Waves radiated outward, lapping at the "shore" of the mosaic's grey stone border.
Luke became sharply aware of the illusory tense of time. The ambit of his vision smudged. Past, present, and future collapsed like a dying star. Behind the scotoma of his mania, he saw the nameless mirror world—the puddle world—of his "dream."
Nothing else happened, and so—nothing else existed.
Luke blinks.
Once again, he stands in a shallow sea.
Once again, he feels terrible, terriblefear.
Wet, glistening stone has become, once again, a field of stars. Above, they're still. Below, they're rippling. The rippling water laps at Luke's ankles… and those of a second presence.
The masked, armoured shadow.
Vader speaks: "You. Obi-Wan was teaching you."
Luke presents his saber, ignited still, in his hand. "That's right—as a Jedi.
"To destroy you."
Vader ignores his exaggeration. "The Jedi were a plague in the galaxy. I am its inoculation. Obi-Wan is dead. There are no other masters. I have made sure of it. You will never be a Jedi."
Luke, brandishing his father's blade, makes ready to strike. Two rivers rage.
But again, there is another presence. Another vessel. A third, flowing conduit of the Force. Its undercurrent roils just as tempestuously, but… it is counterbalanced with serene, powerful calm—like a waterfall. The rapids of their river are neutralized by their plunge into a still, endorheic basin.
Luke feels a hand on his shoulder. Hears a voice in his ear. Muffled. Distorted. The storm inside subsides.
"Not yet, Luke."
Whoever they are, they are as alive as Luke is. For a moment, he believes it must be his father. Then, a robed, hooded figure—not brown, nor white, but grey—steps forward. She speaks.
"You are its only affliction now, Sith."
His… mother? No. Can't be. His mother died giving birth.
That's what your uncle told you.
Vader, taken aback, addresses this new threat. "You again. I thought you dead, Padawan."
"Quite the opposite, Master."
'Padawan?'
'Sith?'
Before Luke can wonder about their strange words, Vader lunges.
The stranger extends her hand. There is a blinding flash of light and a cyclone of blue fire erupts from her palm. He hears an agonized, computerized cry.
Then everything stills.
Everything ripples.
All is white.
All is black.
And all is grey.
A fathomless, chasmic pit—the yawning, cerulean maw of hyperspace.
An ethereal flash—electromagnetic radiation dissipating. The blinding white divides into lines; black wedges insert themselves in-between. Lines compress into points. Everything trembles.
Boom.
Indefatigable, Cassio Tagge's Imperial-class Star Destroyer, exited hyperspace—about five nautical light-years from the nearest star. Immediately, the retro-repulsors engaged. The navicomputer instructed the etheric rudder to turn—a subatomic adjustment. Its adjustment corrected course by several thousand kilometers, which they crossed, many times over, at a decelerating rate, at many times lightspeed. With the aid of etheric friction, the ship slowed to a dead stop.
All of this occurred in less than a fraction of a second.
Instantaneously, the Rebel moon and its red overlord popped into reality in the command deck's forward viewport.
"Report," Tagge ordered.
From the data pit, a line officer gave his: "Single light fighter, sir. Vector six-five. Descent trajectory."
Facing the forward viewport, Tagge, standing on the command walkway at centerline, had his hands (slipped into tight, black gloves) clasped tightly behind his back.
There it was, dead-ahead, racing towards the surface of Yavin Four: a single, solitary, T-65B.
A second and third Imperial Star Destroyer—Adamant and Unyielding—boomed out of hyperspace abeam, a quarter aft, port and starboard, of Tagge's.
"No other heat or energy signatures detected, sir," continued the sensors officer. "Tractor-beam primed and ready."
Tagge's lips stiffened.
Standing behind him, his executive officer asked: "Shall we engage, General?"
Tagge's eyes narrowed.
"No. No need, Commander. Hold our position. They'll come to us."
"Sir…?"
The controller, seated, turned his head, and looked up at the Admiral. Hudsol was there, standing behind him. His mind, however, was not. He was staring at the screen of the controller's monitoring station, but his eyes were seeing something else.
Through the viewport ternions of the bridge of the Arquitens-class command cruiser, Mediator: he saw the jaundiced desert-plains of Utapau's surface. Hudsol watched as, in Utapau's orbit, three Venator-class Star Destroyers sank a Separatist dreadnought. Below, General Kenobi's clones had engaged Grievous' droid army. The war would soon be over…
"Admiral? Sir? … Sir!"
The Admiral flinched, as if startled from an open-eyed sleep. His mind returned to Yavin, and he locked eyes with the controller, seated before him.
"What?"
The controller repeated: "Red Three is reporting three capital ships emerging from hyperspace, sir. Imperial-class."
The Admiral nodded. He brushed both sides of his moustache with the fingers of his left hand, and unfolded his arms. He gave the most obvious orders he'd ever given.
"Give the evacuation code signal. Inform the General."
A waterspout cascades in reverse, unshowering, unsoaking Luke of its freezing cold.
Luke's eyes blink open.
He was back on Yavin. Knees and palms on the floor. His clothes were as dry as a bone. The temporal mania was gone—and so was the fear. The relativity of time and the stifling humidity of the forest had returned, like the radiation of a sun was no longer trapped by a passing storm cloud. The fearsome shadow—Vader's visage—had vanished.
That was no dream. The grey-clad woman… who was that?
Muffled by their distance, klaxons had begun to blare.
Simultaneously, Luke's comlink began beeping. As he stood, he slapped the dirt from the knees of his pants, dislodging, in the process, the tiny rocks embedded in his palms. He removed the thumb-sized communicator from his jacket pocket. Thumbed the switch.
"Kid. The Imps are here. Time to go. Where'd you go?"
It was Han.
"Uh, not far. I, uh… I took a walk."
"A walk!? Well, walk back! Now. Quickly."
"Be right there."
Sheathing his lightsaber, Luke dashed up the steps of the antechamber's crumbling wall, and scanned the dawn sky. Scintillating like stars, he saw them: three shimmering specks, little more than artefacts to the naked eye, their glare smeared across the aperture of his view like motes of dust on a camera lens. But he knew what they must be: Imperial Star Destroyers.
For the last time for a long time, Luke went where he'd vowed never to return. Distracted from his repair job on one of the homestead's vapour spires, through his macrobinoculars, Luke watched a furious battle rage in the heavens. The Empire in pursuit of their quarry—what he'd later learn had been Princess Leia's consular ship. He'd spent his entire life dreaming of leaving Tatooine and finding adventure. Instead, adventure had found him.
He hesitated, hand held against the ancient, decaying stone of the Jedi temple.
This temple could hold every answer to every question he'd ever need to ask about the Jedi. He was meant to find it. Was he meant to stay here? Desert the Rebels? Plumb its depths? There was something else hidden here. Below. Something of supreme importance. Something that was also meant to be found. Luke reached out again with his feelings, seeking the same guidance that had guided him here.
Nothing. Silence. No pull. No call. The guide—Ben, or whoever, or whatever it was, was gone. This choice would be entirely his.
Vowing to return someday, Luke leapt down the crumbling wall, and retraced his steps back to base.
Transports were already lifting off the tarmac by the time dirt became duracrete. Luke unzipped his jacket as he jogged back across the tarmac to the hanger.
Inside, he ran almost right into Han.
"The transports are almost all in the air," Luke said, breathlessly. "I have to get to the command ship."
Luke was referring to the CR-90 parked on the south tarmac.
Han shook his head. "No. No time. They might be gone before you get there."
Luke turned to the mechanics, who were still desperately, vainly, trying to salvage Wedge's broken starfighter.
"She fixed?"
The lead mechanic was leaning against the X-wing's nosecone; his forehead resting on his forearm.
"She'll fly, but she won't fire," he said despairingly. "But, the hydraulic lines aren't hooked up yet."
"Leave it." Han put his hand on Luke's shoulder. "We'll get out on the Falcon."
"The Falcon? But—we're evacuating. You can leave."
"Yeah, well, what's another couple o' days?"
Han turned to the mechanics. Pointed at them.
"You two—get to your transports." Uncompelled, they glared at Han. They wanted to ignore his command. Han was not an officer. His orders meant nothing. But common-sense prevailed. They looked at each other. Nodded in their shared realization. It was time to go. Abandoning their tools, and the broken X-wing, they left the hangar.
"Come on, kid."
Passively, his corneas shielded by the transparisteel's polarized overlay, Captain Hanz Otto Rühl observed the nameless local system out of his destroyer's starboard-side viewport: a G-type main-sequence star; an incandescent, yellow ball of hot plasma. Its only terrestrial progeny was a paltry, moon-sized planetoid, 3.3 light-minutes from its sun's photosphere. From this distance, it appeared as a minuscule, black dot, blemishing its sun's face like a beauty mark.
Otto Rühl's head was shaved on both sides. The hair on top, grey-white, was about four or five inches long, and slicked back with grease. The transition from hair to skin was instant, cropped with military precision. He wore a moustache, grey-black—long, thin, and curling at the corners. But he had short arms. Small hands. The stitches of his grey-green uniform threatened to tear under the immense pressure of an enormous, obese body.
A black-uniformed attendant crossed his bridge deck, and handed him a steaming, ceramic silver cup atop a matching, ornate, aureate saucer. The captain offered no thanks.
Autonomously, the hyperdrive shifter snapped forward. The captain had given no order to do so—the ship's navicomputer was counting down, executing pre-programmed instructions. The tapestry of stars elongated, their light suddenly stretched across spacetime by the ship's immediate, impossible acceleration. It was a precisely-planned, thoughtfully-timed micro jump.
Boom.
6.6 light-years away, Fortitude entered the Yavin system.
The stars flattened.
The yellow fireball and its lone scion had vanished, and was replaced instantly by a ball of red gas. Seventeen of the gas planet's twenty-six satellites were visible—Fortitude had entered realspace a parallax second from Yavin's fourth—one of three inhabitable. Seven ships were attempting to abscond from the Rebel moon: a Corellian corvette, a Corellian freighter, four Gallofree-class GR-75 transports, and a lone X-wing. They were aiming at open space, firing like bullets, directly opposite from Tagge's flotilla. Now directly towards Fortitude.
The captain delivered his orders impassionately, and without enthusiasm—and with an almost bored, colonial drawl. "Helm: yaw—twenty degrees to port; roll—negative fifteen degrees. All batteries: fire at-will."
Caught completely off-guard, the pitiful gnats scattered, their feeble deflectors suddenly pelted by a storm of blazing, green bolides. Hectically, the Rebel ships returned fire—their pale, red volleys caromed off of the Fortitude's unshielded hull plating. Swatted away like flies from an ox.
The Fortitude's chief flight officer, standing at Rühl's right, announced: "TIE wing standing-by, Captain. At your leisure."
"Hold TIE's," Rühl said. "They're not going anywhere."
Tagge's holographic form materialized at Rühl's left.
"Report, Captain."
Without making eye contact, Rühl gave it. "We've engaged. Settle in, General. Enjoy the show. This won't take long." His dismissiveness was clear, succinct, and adroitly rude.
The captain sipped his tea (a Gatalentan pekoe) and resumed his passive observations.
Rühl's holographic form fizzled and faded from Tagge's bridge.
The General returned his focus to the forward viewport—toward the fracas unfolding on the other side of Yavin Four.
The combatants traded red and green laserfire. For a while, that was all that happened. Then, there was a bright, blue-white flare, and a shower of white sparks, like the ignescent flick of flint on steel had set a candle's wick aflame. Its shields had failed, and one Rebel transport exploded. The flurry of red laser bolts dulled and dimmed.
Then, suddenly—unexpectedly, a single Y-wing, previously undetected—entered the fray. Ion bombs rained down from its fuselage, as it skirted across Fortitude's bow. Tagge didn't require a captain's report to understand what was happening. Its targeting capabilities disrupted, Fortitude's turbolasers began firing at random, before the flurry of green laser bolts ceased altogether.
In a panic, and without thinking, Tagge's executive officer roared: "Helm: full-astern! All engines: accelerate to flank-speed!"
"No." Tagge held up a gloved hand, belaying. "Patience, Commodore."
"But—"
"Patience."
Its engines now infected by the ionic "plague," Fortitude had begun to "fall"—although it would recover long before collision with Yavin's surface; Yavin's gravity was sucking it in.
Undamaged, the remaining Rebel ships entered hyperspace.
Too late to intercept, Fortitude's sister ship, Resolution, entered the system from the exact spot the Rebels had exited.
Tagge pictured spilled tea on the deck of Fortitude's bridge, and shook his head in incredulous disgust. The irony hurt. Men who had never commanded ships in combat were always so assured of their command prowess; so assured were so many that the Empire had already beaten the Rebellion, they failed to consider that overconfidence was the catalyst for failure. Literally, Tagge thought. The Y-wing had been cloaking itself in the wreck of Death Star.
Thankfully, Tagge had foreseen this.
"A hiccough, Commodore. Trust. As I said: they'll come to us."
Attempting to assuage his embarrassment, the Commodore shuffled his feet. Tugged at the bottom of his tunic, straightening it, then returned his hands to the small of his back.
Tagge turned to the helm. "Helm, how soon can we make our next jump?"
"Approximately thirty seconds, General."
"Very well. When ready, Lieutenant."
For approximately thirty seconds, the two flag officers watched the corpse of the Rebel transport convulse and die, and disintegrate, and a kind of rigormortis set in. Slowly, the smoldering rubble began adding itself to the Death Star's debris field.
Then, from the data pit, with seconds to spare, a communications officer called out: "Sir, I'm receiving a distress call."
"Rebel?"
"Unsure, sir. Possibly Imperial."
"Origin?"
"About twelve-thousand klicks out. Stellar east."
"Nature?"
"It's… well, I'm not exactly sure what it is, sir. It's running an Imperial transponder, but the archives don't recognize the ship's class. Some kind of… heavy fighter."
As the man was speaking, Tagge began walking to the data pit's companionway. He descended, and approached the line officer's desk—put his hand on the back of the man's chair, and looked over his shoulder at the readings on his computer screen. Two seconds passed.
"A spoof, maybe?" The man suggested.
"No." Tagge let go of his chair. Straightened himself. "Prepare a recovery team."
"With troopers, sir?"
"That won't be necessary. It's ours."
Tagge turned to go. Stopped to reconsider. Turned back.
"Actually, Lieutenant—yes. Have a platoon awaiting their return in the hangar."
Convex, trapezoidal wings. Two cylinders. One for a pilot—one for passengers.
A sinister, red underglow.
The TIE/br boarding shuttle touched down on the spotless black speculum of the Indefatigable's hangar deck. Its ramp lowered.
As was customary for the reception of Imperial nobility, Tagge, as the ship's senior-most officer, stood before the shuttle—one arm folded in front of him, the other folded in back—flanked by a contingent of stormtroopers, all standing at attention, in rows in line and in parallel with either side of the shuttle's ramp, awaiting the descent of its dignitary.
Out stepped Vader.
Cloak billowing around his knee-high boots, Vader descended.
Tagge felt a tightening around his throat. Whether or not its constriction was imaginary, he didn't know. He resisted the urge to tug at his collar, recalling Vader's cerebral, metaphysical, supernatural strangulation of Antonio Motti.
Behind closed doors, most Imperials spoke (whispered) of Vader as an abomination—a freak. Tagge wasn't sure how to feel about the "man," but he trusted the Emperor's judgement. What Vader's value to him personally was, Tagge didn't know. But Vader had been the only other pragmatist at the conference on Death Star. He'd shared Tagge's belief that Death Star was a strategic error of incalculable cost. Do not be too proud of this technological terror you've constructed, he'd warned Motti. Ideologically, at least, Tagge felt a certain… kinship.
The less said, the better, about the Emperor's Viziers…
Respectfully, Tagge addressed the Emperor's executor with the proper honorific.
"Lord Vader."
Mutually, perhaps, Vader addressed him as "General Tagge." But if the Emperor's masked, armoured enforcer was otherwise pleased or grateful to see him, he offered no indication.
When Vader reached the bottom of the ramp, he breezed past him without slowing, forcing him to march lockstep with Vader's longer, quicker strides.
"The Emperor will surely be relieved to hear that you survived." Tagge said. Then, diplomatically, he added: "And you've arrived just in time to lead the pursuit."
"You may continue with your pursuit, General, after you bring me down to the forest moon."
Tagge prepared to protest. Whatever equipment or gear the Rebels had left in their hurried evacuation—any intel of any strategic value that could be used to identify other Rebel cells—would still be there when they'd caught this current batch.
Tagge opened his mouth… then closed it without uttering a word.
Vader was second only to the Emperor in the military chain of command. Vader outranked Sate Pestage. He outranked Tagge.
Tagge would humour him. For now.
As he'd said to the Commodore, the Rebels were going nowhere.
"As you wish, my Lord."
With a black-gloved hand, Vader swept the jungle understory's wilted, fallen marcescence from the face of a deceased astromech droid, still sheathed in the socket of its Jedi starfighter—a rusting, waterlogged Delta-7 Aethersprite.
The ship's exterior, originally a crimson-white, had oxidized and corroded, was now a copper-brown.
Weeds pushed up, out of cracks in the stained duracrete below, beneath creepers crawling up and around its dilapidated landing gear.
After the landing pad the forest was reclaiming, lay a crumbling Jedi temple—origin point of the pull Vader had felt ever since he was marooned in Yavin's orbit.
Part of the temple's wall had collapsed, forming a stairway up and in; instead, through the Force, Vader ripped its two, towering metal doors, rusted together, apart, with a disquieting sucking screech and a deafening bang.
And followed the pull inside.
The unlit interior was now flooded with outside light.
His mechanical ventilation resounded throughout, as Vader approached the pull's center of gravity. In the middle of the antechamber, there was a small pool of water. Beneath the pool was a crude, calcite mosaic.
Below that, he sensed the source: a dark locus—a vergence in the Force.
This temple, as was often the case with Jedi temples found on Sith colonies, had been built to conceal, to smother, to drown, a darkness.
The Jedi's ultimately futile crusade.
Vader drew his saber. Ignited it. With his saber, from the floor, he carved an "elevator," revealing a secret basement. Held it up, with the Force, and rode it down, into its dark depths…
As if he'd uprooted a rock in a garden, insects and burrowed, nesting rodents refuging themselves from predators scattered, retreating from the black, superterranean invader into shadows retreating from his invading, erubescent light.
The limestone bricks of the Jedi temple had been excavated from, and their excavation had created, the ancient structure's undercroft. At the end of this manually exhumed section, a natural cave began…
It opened like a sarlacc's mouth, stalagmites and stalactites like teeth in its grey gums—a deep, damp, calcareous karst, exhaling its humid fetor—effluvium of the digested plant and animal matter it had devoured.
Deep down, inside of an enormous delve, the cave's stomach, Vader found the source of the pulling force. Long, curtain-like sheaves—flowstone draperies—hung from the cave floor's escarpment, after which was a bottomless chasm. And in the middle of the cave, a precisely cut obsidian pedestal—a miniature pyramid no more than waist-high, had been erected.
From a crack in the cave's ceiling, Yavin's red light was pouring, and in its warmth, a weed—its leaves bi-chromed with red anthocyanin and green chlorophyll like poison ivy—was wrapping itself around the pedestal. Sitting on its frustum, as its capstone, was a smaller (hand-sized), more crassly made pyramid…
The underworld's dark immurement.
Vader took the ominous object into his black-gloved grip, and held it up to his red-tinted view. It glew ruby and emerald—its light sources sealed behind fibrous, translucent panes of glass—cloudy, like their surfaces were mired by soapscum—and encased in an arenaceous, nonfriable resin mold.
From within—or within his mind, perhaps—it was emitting a series of shrill, rhythmic chants: one single, repeated word in a slow, sibilant tongue.
'Hexagon…?'
'… Axial?'
'Exequy…?'
'… Inevitable.'
Then, wordless silence. The Force let go of him.
Vader heard a click.
Robbed of weight, the pedestal depressed itself. Everything shook. Rumbled. Streams of dust flowed like water from deep depressions in the ceiling. Whatever primitive anti-theft mechanism he'd triggered, it was chain reacting fast.
Vader ran—the cave began collapsing, its stalagmites and stalactites snapping together as the ceiling slammed to the floor—back to its mouth, and at its lips, he rolled, narrowly avoiding the closing of its ravenous jaws.
He knelt for a second, then steadfastly stood. The layer of dust that caked his armour was washed away by the motion, like water from a whale breaching an ocean's surface. Mechanical lungs coughed through the computerized distortion of his suit's voicebox. Vader let them restore his depleted blood with oxygen.
Then, depositing the triangular Sith relic into his belt, he stepped back onto the fallen "elevator," and returned himself to the surface.
For the second time in three days, Tagge found himself in a deserted Rebel base—surrounded by the same abandoned weapons and equipment he'd found in the Rebel base on Dantooine.
Most of it was civilian-grade. Most of what was military-grade was surplus. But some of it was brand new.
He recognized Incom's targeting consoles…
Proton warheads stamped by Koensayr…
A rack of DH-17's manufactured by BlasTech…
The difficulties they'd had trying to disrupt Rebel supply lines was infuriating. But more was going on here than that.
Profiteering. Tagge's lip curled at the thought.
A swarm of white-suited, black-gloved, black-booted technicians picked over the rest of the detritus, packing up and photographing samples for cataloguing. A discarded, half-disassembled T-65 "X-wing" lay in the corner. The technicians were prepping it for a tow back to the destroyer.
Although Tagge had his doubts, it was possible the navicomputer could have retrievable intel. Dantooine had been a dead-end, but perhaps this nest of gundarks would lead them to others…
"Sir, the Vizier is requesting an update on the pursuit."
Tagge stifled a sigh, then turned to face his aide. Took the hololink from his outstretched hand, and activated it.
Sate Pestage appeared in his palm.
"Tagge."
"Your Eminence."
"Report."
"We've secured the fortress moon. My flagship and another, recovering from an ion barrage, remain in-system. I sent the rest of the destroyers ahead. Once Vader has completed his search, we will ourselves continue on to the rendezvous point."
"The Rebels cannot be allowed to escape the Reach. Neither to resume their senseless struggle, nor to spread their lies about Alderaan's destruction."
"Yes, Vizier."
He'd read the legal headlines.
Disaster following illegal hyper-weapons test consumes "planet of peace."
On the 'undervine,' however, there'd been… questioning. A lot more of it than there'd been after Jedha. Thus far, there had been no influx in Shadowfeed requests… but Tagge believed that that was only a matter of time.
What was true was that Alderaan, the most infamous of partisan harbours—chief obstructors in the metering out of Imperial justice against Separatist remnants—were also the chief sponsors of Rebel terrorism, supplying insubordinates across the galaxy with weapons, soldiers, and monies under the guise of 'humanitarian' relief. Hypocrites, who professed themselves paragons of peace, were the prime proliferates of chaos and anarchy…
And had been developing, in secret, hyper-matter reactors, in direct violation of Imperial Proclamation 16-37-60—the treaty on the non-proliferation, and ordnance on the planetary possession, of hyper-matter weapons. According to Coalition for Progress Promulgation 10-71-43, anyways.
Tagge had no particular distaste for propagandists. Information was power. Disinformation was a potent weapon in the war on disorder—one that had been just as useful for the agents of chaos who'd controlled half the galaxy in the Clone Wars. And was just as misused by their liberal compradors in the Republic.
But propaganda was not omnipotent. It could be countered. And when the lie was overturned… the bigger problem would be public opinion.
The Imperial Senate had been an effective corral for liberal dissent. As long as most planets believed they had an equal voice in the New Order, they would, by and large, submit. Death Star was supposed to render the bureaucracy obsolete…
… The Regional Governors now have direct control over their territories. Fear will keep the local systems in line. Fear of this battle-station…
But with the Senate disbanded, and Death Star destroyed, there was now nothing to keep the local systems in line.
Tagge understood the stakes. Every single living eye-witness of the Death Star had to be eliminated. Most of them had lived here. On Yavin Four. Up until about an hour ago. Rebels—of little concern, because soon, they would all be dead.
But… what of Imperials?
Millions of Imperials were stationed on Death Star. They had families, homeworlds of their own. True—Death Star was a black operation. And its personnel had been recruited in secret, and from only the most loyal and blooded of dynasties. But people talked. And people whispered. The galaxy was huge.
The Sector Monitors would be busy.
And what of the Imperials like Tagge, who were aware of its existence, and doubted, openly, the political "panacea" of its creation? And—Tagge was instinctively compelled to look over his shoulder as this next thought entered his mind—no one who was involved in the project's proposal had survived to be made the scapegoat.
"The Emperor will not accept a partial success, General. I hope I have weaved the veil sufficiently thin. That you 'did not personally preside' over any part of this operation will not be an acceptable excuse if it is to fail. You have tactical command. The decision to delay your forces from pursuit will be recorded as your decision, not Vader's."
"Yes, Your Eminence."
Almost on cue, Vader appeared behind Tagge. Tagge glanced sideways at the Imperial Lord. He noticed a strange object—a small, pyramid-shaped… thing… in his belt—something he'd obviously recovered from his excursion in the forest. There was no time to wonder about it.
Sate Pestage continued.
"As to you, Lord Vader: you will return to Imperial Center at once.
"You should know that His Excellency is most displeased with you." A wide, wicked smile spread across the Vizier's face. "I suggest you do not take any more detours along the way."
Vader said nothing, but, as before, Tagge felt a constraining around his collar, and as before, he resisted the urge to tug at it.
The Vizier dissolved in Tagge's palm. Tagge let his hand and the device drop to his side. Vader was unmoved.
For what seemed like forever, neither of them spoke.
Tagge risked speaking first. And what he said was risky. But it was a sentiment he felt it necessary to express, particularly to Lord Vader, at this moment.
"I often wonder what game they're playing at…"
Vader's head rotated ever so slightly—an indication that the eyes concealed behind the tint of his eyeglass had connected with Tagge's. But aside from the fact that Vader was not deaf, he offered no indication that he'd heard what Tagge said.
"You will provide me a shuttle and a pilot, and be on your way, General."
"Certainly, my Lord."