Biggs landed before Luke did. He always had, even when Luke won the races through Beggar's Canyon; Luke was too fond of victory laps. He spent as much time in the sky as possible, and while Biggs loved it up there, after fearing for his life so intently he preferred to be on the ground.

It meant he got the first view of all the cheering, the veritable fireworks that the ground crews were already setting off as he brought his X-wing in to land. Pilots who had been grounded swarmed up to him to clap him on the shoulder, sympathise with his hit—was he injured? How was he feeling?—but he waved them away. It didn't take much effort: one minute and forty-three seconds after he landed, Luke's X-wing swooped in as well, as smooth as a swallow with as much joy in its flight, closely followed by the barbaric heap of scrap metal that had saved him.

It meant Biggs was left alone other than by the ground crew who wheeled up the ladder to his X-wing. Even they seemed impatient to go and greet the hero of the hour, though elation and the sheer relief of being alive had made them charitable. They stood there for a few minutes while Biggs sat in his cockpit, the top still firmly closed, twirling his helmet in his hands. He could hear the sounds of jubilation, but they were muffled through the thick transparisteel. His thoughts were louder.

How had this all gone so wrong?

He hadn't been meant to see any of these people again. They were meant to be dead.

At least Luke wasn't dead. The destruction of the Rebel base by the Death Star had seemed a foregone conclusion, so Biggs had worried little about that. He'd worried little about this entire assignment, in fact: when Lord Vader had contacted him to inform him of Princess Leia's escape and how the Death Star would track her to the Rebel base, since Biggs had failed to acquire him those coordinates, he'd viewed it as an easy job. He just had to make sure he was on the roster for pilots who would go up, then during the space battle he'd do everything he could to stop them from succeeding. There wasn't much he could do, but there shouldn't have been much he needed to do: the Empire's victory was assured.

He hadn't counted on Luke's presence.

Stars. He'd always known Luke would worm his way into trouble no matter the situation. That didn't mean he'd anticipated this.

R5-9N, the astromech he flew with for the Rebellion, chirped at him indignantly. She wanted to get out. Biggs nodded and put aside his helmet. "Alright, Arfive, I got it. I got it." He popped open the cockpit.

The ground crew had left; the ladder next to the X-wing was unmanned. Good. He didn't want to talk to anyone right now. He climbed down alone and operated the machine to get R5 out of the astromech socket himself. It was a dull, meditative task that let his mind keep racing.

Luke was supposed to be on Tatooine, helping his uncle with another harvest. He'd just seen him on shore leave, before Vader had shipped him onto the Rand Ecliptic to partake in the orchestrated mutiny there. Biggs had hardly been here long—he wasn't cut out to be a spy, so he'd been so looking forward to going back to just pointing and shooting for the Empire, instead of all this underhanded sneaking around that reminded him too much of home. Then Luke had rocked up here, and Biggs was freaking out about keeping him from getting shot down over the Death Star because Luke had never flown in space before, let alone keeping Luke alive and untainted by Rebel association when the Empire swept in for its final victory. Now, Luke had destroyed the Death Star, Luke's mysterious smuggler friend who'd upset him so much when he left had shot down Lord Vader, and Biggs's only contact in the Empire might be dead.

If Lord Vader was dead, that was it. No one in the Empire would be able to vouch that Biggs was still loyal.

Now what? Did he stay with the Rebels? He'd have to stay for now, of course, he needed to figure out why Luke was here and convince him to leave with him when he left, but after that? He couldn't go back to his father's farms on Tatooine. That, he refused to do.

The suction crane clamped around R5's dome and lifted her out. Biggs wasn't an expert at this, and she got more than a little banged up in the process, but she seemed too relieved to be out again and away from Biggs to complain. Once her wheels hit the ground, she beeped in acknowledgement—not in thanks—at him and zoomed away.

R5 had been assigned to him when he joined the Rebellion. Biggs didn't have a droid of his own and hadn't dared to bring an Imperial one, since Rebels were often wary of even reprogrammed Imperial droids for the first few years of their service, but he did wish he'd been assigned a droid with a smaller personality. Pilots weren't meant to know the location of the base, in case they were captured and revealed it under interrogation. Their droids held the coordinates inside them and programmed all the jumps back to base, and they had self-destruct mechanisms built in so tightly that if someone even tried to access that information without the appropriate codes, it would go up in flames. R5 didn't know her pilot was an Imperial—Biggs didn't think so, anyway—but she'd definitely got shirty with him when he tried to weasel that information out of her.

Over by the ships, Luke was shouting something. The droid he had, it was coming down smoking, and Luke looked distressed. Of course he did. Biggs wondered how long Luke would take to realise that this was war, and it was better that the droids got hit than the people they served.

The crowds were dissipating now, moving away. He strode out of the hangar, out of the temple, and into the hot, humid atmosphere of Yavin IV. This would take some thinking about.

Luke was getting a medal inside. Biggs had gone in to watch the ceremony—it would have been suspicious if he hadn't—and wondered at the uneasy feeling he got watching how Luke and that random smuggler embraced. When had they met? It couldn't have been too long ago, but they seemed so close—why? Was the smuggler after something?

He slipped out the back where he could, in the middle of the thunderous applause. Of course he was proud of his friend for the impossible shot. But he couldn't be proud of a reckless fool for putting a permanent target on his back.

Once the Empire got wind of this, they would kill Luke. If it had been anyone else in their sights, Biggs would have loudly declared that they deserved it.

He marched to the top level of the temple, where the roof opened out onto the sweltering, humid air. Vines curled around his ankles when he slung his legs over the side and looked out over the jungle canopy.

His Imperial-issue comlink was in his hand; he rolled it between his fingers almost unconsciously. If Vader was alive, he would comm Biggs soon. Biggs was his only personal spy in the main Rebel base. After a fiasco like this, he would have to call him. Even if it was only to demote him, or even kill him for his failure to see the Rebels destroyed, it would at least provide an answer.

"Biggs?"

He started and put the comlink away. When he turned, he already knew who it would be—he'd know that voice anywhere—so he forced a smile onto his face. "Shouldn't you still be celebrating? I'd have expected you'd be up all night partying."

"Nah, I'm not in the mood." Luke sat next to him, casually swinging his legs over the edge as well. Biggs panicked—Luke didn't know the roof as well as Biggs did—but Luke's unconscious grace got him through everything, from rooftops to Death Star trenches. He didn't lose his balance.

"Not in the mood?" Biggs tried to tease. "You're a hero."

"And what about you?" Luke asked. "We survived. You're not a stranger to partying either."

"Yeah, well." He didn't have an answer for that. "I just…"

"It's not your fault, you know."

Biggs looked sideways at him. Luke couldn't know what Biggs was upset about, but the words felt too close to be total coincidence.

Luke continued, "You were hit. You had to pull out of that trench."

Oh. Right. "You almost got hit," Biggs said, fury rising in his chest again, "you didn't have to keep flying without cover, if it wasn't for that smuggler—"

"If I hadn't, the Alliance would be dead."

"You just got here! Is that worth your life?"

Luke said nothing. Biggs got a sinking feeling in his gut.

He tried to change the subject. "Is that a new jacket? It looks good on you." The yellow was far too stylish for anything Owen could have bought Luke, but if Luke had managed to convince Beru…

"Oh." Luke reached to feel the fabric of the sleeve. "This isn't mine. Han lent it to me. Well, gave. Chewie said I should keep it."

"Han gave it to you." Biggs fought to keep his tone neutral. "How long have you known Han?"

Luke furrowed his brow. "I don't know—a few days? Space travel's confusing."

"It is." But— "A few days?"

"Yeah. It's been an adventure and a half."

"I bet. You gotta tell me all about it." Luke was staring at his feet, though, frowning, so Biggs tried to cheer him up. "Your aunt and uncle'll be so proud of you. I know Owen's a big stickler for not getting involved, but still, what you did—"

"They're dead, Biggs."

The hot, humid night chilled. "What?"

"Uncle Owen. Aunt Beru. Even Old Ben Kenobi, they're—" He swallowed. "The Empire killed them all."

"You mean the Hutts killed them?" Biggs frowned, mind racing. That was what happened, on Tatooine. The Hutts came in with their thugs and blasters and took what you didn't want to give. You knew that and fought back where you could; you did what you needed to survive.

Where they could, the Empire stopped them. If the local authorities could be bothered, that was. Biggs's goal in life was never to see that dustball again, but he still had plans to appeal to Lord Vader at some point and see if he could get some competent management for the sector, for the sake of everyone he left behind.

In the meantime, Tatooine's residents just had to fend for themselves in a hostile desert. They always had.

"No, I mean the Empire killed them."

"The Empire doesn't kill people." Luke shot him a look, and Biggs hurried forwards. "Not on Tatooine—the Hutts—"

"They were looking for the Death Star plans," Luke said bitterly. "They were being held by two droids—the droids I came here with. Uncle Owen bought them to help with the harvest. While I was out with the droids, the troopers tracked them to the farm and executed Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru on the spot." He wrapped his arms around his torso. "Burned them alive."

For a moment, all Biggs could do was stare. The Empire didn't do that—no, that wasn't true. He knew as well as any other soldier the protocol for how to treat Rebel sympathisers: without mercy. Trials slowed you down when you were trying to get a job done and had irrefutable proof as it was. But Owen Lars, for all his complaining, had never been a threat to the Empire. Sure, he'd been sceptical; Beru had been disapproving. But they were the sensible sceptics: they had never done anything drastic about it.

And now they were dead anyway, because of some trigger-happy stormtroopers who took the whatever it takes protocol to the point of barbarism. And Luke had done something drastic.

How had he got off the planet?

"Old Ben Kenobi?" Biggs asked, remembering what Luke had said and only now processing it, before his tact caught up with him. "Oh, suns, I'm sorry, Luke—I'm so sorry—"

"I'm going to tear the Empire down," Luke whispered. Biggs's heart thundered in his chest. Revenge would cool over time, wouldn't it? Luke's anger was always bright and hot, but it flared and vanished quickly; it didn't persist. He forgave. "I won't let them do this to anyone else."

But his heart didn't forget.

"Well, you're in the right place," Biggs tried. "Where do you wanna start?"

Luke looked down at his knees. His legs kicked below him, in the jungle darkness. "Vader," he said.

This got worse and worse. "You're gonna take on Darth Vader?"

"You've heard of him?"

"Yeah! He's a major military figure! You haven't?" But the Lars farm had never had consistent holonet access or news. And even where Biggs's did, Huff Darklighter had always told his son that Vader was just a myth to scare idiots into mindless submission. Funny, considering what Huff had expected from everyone who worked on his farm.

"Old Ben told me about him. Leia too."

Well, Princess Leia was bound to have a poor opinion, but Kenobi…

Luke reached for his belt and unhooked something. Biggs had noticed it earlier and passively clocked it, but in the way that someone who doesn't recognise an item just notes its existence and moves on. When Luke cradled it in his hands, a sudden familiarity came to Biggs, and he had to keep his eyes from widening.

"He killed my father," Luke said. "As well as Ben and my aunt and uncle."

"Are— are you sure? He's a high-ranking Imperial, it's unlikely that he personally—"

"He was in charge of the operation to recover the Death Star plans. Leia told me. And she told me that he was the one on the Death Star who killed Ben in front of us." Luke's voice was hard.

"But your father?"

Luke wrapped his hands around that item in his hands—metal, cylindrical, with odd knobs on it—and held it up. It was a hilt, Biggs knew with a sinking dread. Lord Vader carried one of those.

When Luke lit it, it buzzed louder than any of the tropical bugs in the night. Those tiny insects flocked around the light, fuzzing its brilliance for a few brief seconds before their corpses rained down, and when Luke realised the death it was causing, he deactivated it.

"He was a Jedi," Luke said.

"He was a navigator on a spice freighter."

"Uncle Owen lied." The words were the key to unlock every door Luke had shut between himself and his grief. Biggs watched him crumple, bending over, cradling the lightsaber to his chest like it was a child. "They both lied. I— I remember Aunt Beru hinting, sometimes, she had more stories about my father than Uncle Owen ever did, but neither of them ever said anything."

"It must have been to protect you," Biggs soothed. That was what his father always told him, anyway, when he lied or was cruel to him. Owen was probably the same.

"Of course it was to protect me! But they never told me. I'm an adult, and they never told me—and now I can't ask them if they were ever going to tell me at all."

Biggs hadn't seen Luke cry in years. He was smart enough to know that tears only ever made things worse in the desert, especially with Fixer, and Biggs wouldn't always be there to save him. His uncle had reinforced that pretty thoroughly as well.

They're a waste of water, Biggs remembered Owen sternly telling Luke one day, when the speeder the two of them were working on had collapsed suddenly, and Luke had shoved Biggs out of harm's way but been hurt in the process. Beru had kissed his broken leg, and Owen, uncomfortable as ever with affection or intimacy, had held his nephew in awkward arms and patted his back. You're tough—get through the danger and the pain and let yourself feel it later. We spend water on the dead, Luke. We don't spend it on the living.

"Did you bury them?" Biggs asked.

Luke's eyes were still swimming. Biggs had done his training on a dozen Imperial worlds with the oxygen needed for blue skies and human habitation—Arkanis, Lothal, Coruscant, Montross—but he'd never seen skies that were that shade, the right shade. He nodded, but then shook his head.

"I tried," he said at last, voice raspy with snot. "I didn't— the homestead was burned."

"No shroud or water."

"No shroud or water." Luke bowed his head again. "No funeral."

Biggs leaned over and crushed Luke against his chest. His tears stained his shirt. Pressed so closely, the lightsaber still in Luke's lap jabbed, cold and metal, into Biggs's side. It was an unwelcome reminder.

"We should go back. Give them that. Now."

"What?"

"You need to give them a funeral, Luke." Biggs's mouth was running without permission. He didn't want to go back to Tatooine. There was too much to confront. And he doubted Luke did, either. But he needed to buy himself time, he needed to get Luke away from the Rebellion before the Empire's crushing judgement came down on all their heads, and— "Eventually, your name will leak to the Empire as the destroyer of the Death Star. You want to get home while you can still travel free."

Luke wiped his face. "Travel free?"

"You'll be a wanted man, Luke," Biggs said, his voice breaking. "All Rebels are—but you especially."

"We'll protect him."

Biggs jumped. Luke didn't look surprised. He just turned, smiling—Biggs thought for a moment that he hadn't managed to make Luke smile at all this entire conversation—at Princess Leia as she came up onto the roof behind them. She seemed to glow like some judgemental angel, still in her ceremonial white dress.

"I know you will, Princess," Biggs said carefully. She and Luke had been acting as closer friends than Biggs had ever seen Luke have, even if they had only known each other for a few days maximum. But Luke was smiling, so he pushed it aside. "I'd like to request leave for both of us. To hold a funeral for Luke's aunt and uncle."

For a moment, he thought he'd have to explain who they were, what had happened. But Princess Leia just nodded. Of course she already knew. She and Luke must have talked a lot while running from Lord Vader, ferrying stolen data tapes through hyperspace, and committing a thousand other counts of high treason.

"I'll talk to High Command and make sure they authorise it. I came to look for you," she addressed Luke, holding out her hand. He took it and stood up. Biggs's arm fell back to his side. "There's still some induction tasks we need to run through with you—including assigning you a bunkroom."

"He can room with me," Biggs said immediately. "My roommate—"

"Yes." She nodded sadly. "I'm sorry to hear about Lieutenant Porkins."

Luke's head snapped to Biggs. "Of course." His eyes widened. "I'm here blubbering about my aunt and uncle, and you just lost so many of your friends—"

"I knew him for a few weeks," Biggs dismissed. "They were your family. I wish I'd had an aunt like yours." He fought to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

Luke nodded, smiled at him weakly in thanks, then turned to follow Princess Leia back down into Rebel halls.

Biggs waited until their footsteps had long since faded out of earshot. He stared out at the jungle, listened to the humming of the night, the raucous partying still going on below.

"Kriff," he said. His hands tightened on the stone until his knuckles went white.

He punched the stone. Again. Harder. His knuckles began to bleed. He stood up, legs shaking, on top of the roof, and shouted to the night.

"KRIFF!"

What the hells was he supposed to do with this?

What was he going to do?

In his pocket, something began to buzz. Biggs took it out and stared at it. It was his Imperial-issue comlink, that he'd put away when Luke came up.

"Kriff," he said again, weakly. Then he accepted the call.

Lord Vader's breathing was raspy, insofar as the comm actually managed to pick it up. "Agent Darklighter."

"Yes, my lord. You're…" Biggs trailed off. He didn't know how to say you're alive? without implying that he'd considered, even for a moment, that Lord Vader could die. "I am honoured to receive correspondence from you." Even that sounded stilted.

Lord Vader was silent for several long seconds. It took Biggs a while to realise it was because he was struggling to speak. Had his vocoder been damaged? "You are still with the Rebellion?"

"Yes, my lord. They don't suspect me at all. They're still busy celebrating the—" He swallowed. Should he say victory? "—battle."

"Tarkin was foolish and overconfident. Let them celebrate. It will only make them overconfident in their turn."

Biggs nodded. "Am I to stay here then, my lord?" This mission was only meant to be a short one. Lord Vader had promised that—he just wanted a pilot loyal to him in the Rebel ranks for this short period, probably because of the Death Star's completion.

"You will remain my spy, yes."

"Can I not serve you more efficiently… elsewhere…?" He shuddered off at the sudden cold that pinched the back of his neck, even across the distance.

"No. I have a more important task for you."

Biggs leaned forwards. At least if it was specific, he'd have a purpose. Something solid around which to plan. "Of course, my lord."

"The pilot who destroyed the Death Star was strong with the Force. Very strong. I need to know their identity."

Biggs's long silence was probably suspicious.

"Agent," Vader warned.

"I don't know his name," Biggs rushed out. "A new guy—a rookie. Red Five, was the callsign." Vader could sense lies, Biggs knew, but he also knew that he himself was a very smooth, experienced liar. He had the experience. "My lord."

"Find his name. Deliver it, and him, to me."

"You want the pilot?" Biggs blurted out. "It was just a lucky shot—I get that you'd want him publicly punished"—and he felt sick thinking about it—"but I can provide you more information than just—"

"That presence was the same presence that accompanied Obi-Wan Kenobi, upon our final encounter. I will have my revenge. Bring this Red Five to me, Agent Darklighter. Those are your orders."

Lord Vader knew—or, more importantly, cared—about Old Kenobi? And he knew that Luke was Force-sensitive?

Biggs hadn't known much about the Jedi, on Tatooine. Clearly, Luke hadn't known anything before Kenobi had told him… whatever he had told him. But Biggs did know that Vader killed them. He didn't rest until he did.

If Biggs delivered Luke to him, he would kill him too.

"Yes, my lord," he said. "Is there anything else you require?"

If Vader noticed his bitterness, he didn't comment on it. That was what Biggs respected about Vader. He could sense anyone's emotions and thoughts, it seemed, but unless they were objectively disrespectful and incompetent, he didn't care. He was above them in every way; he did not have to.

"Relay a message to the Devastator. It will be in a nearby system. My long-range communicator and hyperdrive were damaged, and I require assistance."

Captain Solo had made Lord Vader require assistance. If Biggs hadn't been here to relay his signal, he might have died, lost in the dark nothingness of space.

If Biggs didn't relay his signal, he might still die in space.

Biggs hesitated.

"I am transmitting the message to you now."

He could avoid this whole crisis and save Luke's life now, if he refused. Walk away from the Empire, from Vader, into the Rebellion he was already at the heart of, in order to keep his best friend safe. All he had to do was jam the signal and leave Lord Vader out there to die.

But then who would he be?

Lord Vader had made something of him. His leadership had built Biggs into the man he was. Without the rank and respect the Empire granted, Biggs was once again just a moisture farmer's son, and this time mixed up in a stupid mess worse than any his father could have imagined he would make. Without the Empire, how was Biggs supposed to protect anything—or anyone?

"It will be done, my lord," he said.