Galaxies Apart
Thirteen
The Privateer. State-of-the-art electrochemical stimulatory response laboratory. Fully equipped and pristine gymnasium. Treadmill, on which the latent gravity could be adjusted to make the going tougher, and a viewing lounge-cum combat simulator second to none.
After two days on Dagobah, Luke Skywalker never wanted to see another tree, another rock, another swamp again.
He sat with his back against Yoda's hut, sweat steaming off him in great clouds, his chest rising and falling. They had just been for a…well, who knew how many miles run. He could swear it had been yesterday when they set off. He had climbed trees. He had leapt across rivers, rivers that had huge great beasts within that thought nothing of rearing their heads and taking a leisurely snap at a passing Jedi.
He had done all of this with a three-foot-high Jedi Master attached to his back and shoulders, asking him questions, testing his knowledge, posing him philosophical and ethical dilemmas. Several times Luke had wondered which would give out first – his legs, his lungs, or his temper.
The little sage was currently occupied in rustling Luke up some Dagobah cuisine. Given the odours and the limited ingredients around, Luke was taking every opportunity to delay this task from completion.
"You must have felt it, too," he insisted for the fifth time. "You're a Jedi Master."
Yoda was stirring the soup mixture placidly. "Felt it I have," he admitted after a pause.
"We are being watched. I knew it."
Yoda paused from answering long enough to taste a portion of the 'soup'. He hummed in satisfaction, the verdict obviously positive. The soup struck Luke as the sort of goo out of which his ancestors had probably first evolved.
"She is close," Yoda added quietly.
"It's a woman? You can tell that?"
The Jedi Master continued, still not turning from his cooking. "Of course. Tell us many things, the Force can. About this one, especially…"
Luke closed his eyes, abandoning his weaker senses as Ben had taught him. His Force-presence struggled to establish itself; with an effort he managed it, feeling like a firefly next to a star in the company of Yoda.
The forest was teeming with millions of tiny life-signatures. Luke screened them out as Yoda had taught him, searching for the more complex trace elements only left behind by sentient life.
"Yes," he breathed. "Yes. I see her. She's…" his face registered surprise, "…a Force user. There's-"
"-something else. Yes, quite correct are you," Yoda confirmed before Luke could speak the words. "Heard of her kind, I have."
The woman was approaching. Luke tensed. Her mind was prepared for combat. "Who is she?"
Yoda shuffled toward him, holding three steaming bowls. Luke's mouth opened to ask the obvious question, but something in Yoda's countenance stopped him. A little to his own surprise he retreated from the window. Moving gingerly to avoid yet another bump on the head, he found a soft patch of floor and sat down.
The bowl was placed in his hands. He frowned at Yoda. "What are you going to do?"
Yoda's ears curled. What this involuntary physical reflex meant in terms of his particular species Luke could only guess at.
"Let her in," Yoda replied. He gestured with a hand and the front door to the hut swung open. "Nothing to fear have you," he called to the chirping, burping forest outside. "Open my door is. Please, come."
Luke tensed, ready. Yoda sat and said nothing.
The play of light inside the hut changed. Someone was making their way to the door, someone with a confident stride and a slim yet deceptively powerful frame.
He sent out a greeting through the Force, only to have her mind recoil from it, and leap back snarling. Dumbfounded, he felt himself brushed aside, rejected by her. He realised that she was not remotely interested in him, but in-
"Yoda?"
"Found me you have," Yoda nodded, as she reached the frame of the entrance, still partially shrouded. "Come."
Mara ducked under the door, and entered the tiny living space.
Luke had never seen anyone like her.
Her red-gold hair was wound in a tight, military-style bun sat atop her head perfect except for a single strand, which drooped down her pale cheeks, seemingly her one concession to femininity. Her pert lips were set into a thin line. Almost unconsciously he found himself following the contours of her features, fascinated by the efficiency she displayed everywhere.
She was wearing a one-piece combat jumpsuit whose colours happened to be those most common outside. A holstered blaster lay at her side, compact and deadly.
No lightsaber…
Ignoring Luke, she addressed Yoda directly and succinctly. "My name is Mara Jade. I am the Emper-"
"Work through you he does, hmm?"
She glared at the world, and particularly the squat Jedi Master. "-the Emperor's Hand," she completed in a regal tone, "here with a personal message from Emperor Palpatine himself, to be given to you and you alone."
Luke drew himself for a stinging riposte-
"Deliver your message," Yoda said, calmly but firmly.
Mara appeared to Luke to pause for a moment. "Fine," she said finally. "Emperor Palpatine demands that you-"
She stared down with an intensity of scowl so strong Luke was surprised the bowl didn't shatter. The clay pot remained fixed under her nose, steaming and bubbling.
"Soup?" said Yoda.
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Morning on Sluis Van.
Grand Admiral Thrawn was dressed already, Captain Pellaeon noticed. His hands ran quickly over his own uniform. Gilad Pellaeon was a stickler for neatness; he'd roared many a young scamp of a Lieutenant into wide-eyed submission for an errant collar on deck.
Pellaeon didn't do so to enjoy the power trip. He genuinely cared about the appearance of his ship. Truthfully, it was his way of trying to come to terms with the idea that he had been made second-in-command of an Imperial Star Destroyer, the backbone of the Empire. The symbol of its authority.
And if he found that hard to believe – how long would he need before he came to terms with being executive officer on the most powerful ship in the galaxy…?
The Death Star was so big and so close it didn't quite register properly in the mind. It was staggering. That something so immense could have been constructed and built by men and droids amazed him.
Pellaeon had been born on Corellia, in a quiet part of a noisy world, into a family with a long line of Imperial tradition and a similarly long line in attending military funerals. Pellaeon had been unswaying in his determination to sign up and keep that tradition going – to the extent of lying about his age so he could join as a cadet at the tender of 15. He was desperate to join up, but equally determined to survive. His parents had deserved one less funeral to attend.
They had died just four years ago, in a speeder accident on Coruscant, where his family had relocated whilst he was still a boy. The Empire had given them an honorary military service, as a thank-you for providing so many fine young officers.
Pellaeon's brothers had been there. They had sat together in a modest cantina the night after the funeral, drinking together for the first time in years, and for all they knew with military postings being the way they were, for the last time in years. They had sat, swapping stories and remembering.
That simple act of kindness by the Empire - the funeral had been stunning - had guaranteed six men's total dedication for the remainder of their lives.
Sure, he'd heard the stories. Hadn't everyone? An unexplained body count here, an asteroid field there…the rumours flew of Imperial brutality, a new one every other day.
Pellaeon was no fool. He'd worked under and over people who were capable of such things. He knew some of the stories were true, accepted there were maybe a lot more that had went unreported.
The thing was…Pellaeon wasn't capable of doing such things. He would never tolerate it from his subordinates and he'd refuse to serve under a superior who did it. Vader included.
He firmly believed that if enough good officers stuck through, the Empire could eventually jettison such undesirables. So he worked onwards and upwards, mouth shut and eyes open.
When his reassignment details had arrived, Pellaeon had sifted through the Imperial archives for all references to this Thrawn he was going to be serving under. At first he'd been unable to understand what he was seeing – a non-human wearing the uniform of a Grand Admiral? The Emperor's views on non-human races were well known.
Gradually, though, he'd begun to understand why even a humanist like Palpatine had made an exception. Thrawn was a genius, of the first order. His battle records, his decorations for victories were phenomenal.
Pellaeon had wanted to dig a little deeper. He was sure that Vader's records were similarly overwhelming, and the prospect of being executive officer to someone like the Dark Lord of the Sith had chilled him.
He had made enquiries, accessed some of the things said about Thrawn by his crew and peers, called up his hobbies and personal history. The results had been fascinating. Here was a Grand Admiral who moved among his crew boldly, stopping to talk to the lowliest technician or ensign with impunity.
Thrawn had been recorded handing out commendations on the spot in the face of failure, being able to see past his desire for victory and recognise good work. And then there was the art business – by all accounts, Thrawn based his observations on species almost solely on the basis of intimate study of the species' artwork.
It sounded crazy. And yet he repeatedly invented new battle formations and field tactics in the heat of the moment, who had used the oldest trick in the book and won.
He was looking forward to serving under him on the Palpatine. Especially when he'd read the dossier supplied by the Empire on the Ssi-ruuk, and had realised that for the first time, the Empire hadn't had to create the impression a certain set of aliens were inhuman monsters.
With their horrific 'entechment' technologies, the Ssi-ruuk actually were…
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"Ready?"
Wedge nodded, tapping his headset communicator in a gesture that had as much to do with nerves as it did with procedure. "Ready to go," he confirmed to Winter, starting the X-Wing's engines. "Check?"
His Squadron reported in, one by one. Rogue Squadron. He kinda liked the name, though in truth 'Suicide Squadron' would have been a lot more damned accurate.
The eight ships quivered on the pad. He tasted excitement again. The old sensations were flooding back, as usual. He wondered how spies and Admirals could stand not being here, right in the firing line.
Yeah, Wedge, he thought to himself, I'll bet they cry themselves to sleep every night over it.
He took a deep breath. This was it, then. Months of planning, all bottlenecking in this one little moment right now. The next half an hour would decide whether the Alliance was to re-emerge from the ashes of itself or sink back and remember him as another brave, foolish martyr.
Wonder if my statue will be handsomer than I am. Probably will, even after the birds have been near it…
"Rogue Squadron, you are go for launch. Repeat: go for launch. Good luck, guys."
"Loud and clear," he signed off, pushing the flight stick forward. The X-Wing rose gently into the morning air. To his left and right seven X-Wings pushed themselves off the concealed Rebel launchpad. When all were airborne Wedge took the lead and they began the high-speed approach to the shipyard complex.
"Keep those S-Foils closed until I give the order," he transmitted, though all of them knew it. All seven acknowledged tightly, though they knew he knew they knew. It was what you did, to take your mind off things at times like this. Like the rapidly growing yards, for example.
Like their target.
And like the TIE fighters screaming on an intercept course, dead ahead.
He closed his eyes and sighed. They'd been hoping for a clear run right into the yards. Oh, well…
"Looks like we'll have to do this the hard way," he transmitted. "I count ten TIEs, not even any cute little Interceptors. Nothing we can't handle. Pick your targets. Stay alive."
The acknowledgments came back. Wedge's hands tightened around the controls.
This was it.