Luke stared. Then the words tumbled out of his mouth before he could reconsider – everything he’d been stewing over since Rogue Squadron had returned to the Independence.

“I did break my promise. I’m sorry. I refused to let you or Salm’s Y-wing crews die. I would make the same decision again.” He took another breath. “If that means you want to transfer to the Liberty, I’ll sign the papers. I’m sorry.”

Mara chewed for several moments, letting silence hang until she swallowed. “You’re an idiot.” The words carried no heat. “Can I come in?”

Luke backed away from the door, back across his room to the desk. He sat down in the chair, leaving nothing but open space between Mara and the door.

The door slid shut behind her, and she moved over and flopped down to sit on his bunk, curling her legs underneath her. She took another bite of the ration bar, chewing slowly. “What did you see?”

That was not what Luke had expected. The room tilted a bit, and he felt both exhausted and off-balance. “What did I see?”

“That’s what I asked, Skywalker.” Her voice sounded wrong; there was neither sarcasm nor anger, just an unbroken flatness.

He hesitated for a moment, trying to marshal his thoughts and recollections. “I…you…were a child. Very young. Maybe drugged. It was raining. There were stormtroopers trying to take you in. A Jedi intervened and fought the stormtroopers. She called herself Fulcrum.”

“She wasn’t a Jedi,” Mara said around a mouthful of ration bar.

“What?”

“She wasn’t a Jedi.”

“Oh.”

“What else?” she asked.

Luke shook his head. “Most of it was sensation. Fear. The smell of rain and ozone. Blood. And then we were back in our X-wings.”

Mara took the final bite of ration bar and crumpled the wrapper in her hand, looking around wearily for a trash receptacle. “And in each other’s heads.”

“Yes.” He didn’t try to soften it. “I reached for you in the Force when you stopped responding. When I found you, it felt like you were drowning. All I knew how to do was reach, and I tried to pull you back.”

“And then I grabbed onto you,” she said.

He could only nod.

She rubbed her eyes slowly. “Her name was Ahsoka Tano. She stole me away from the Empire and raised me for eight years while running a resistance network with Senator Bail Organa. Kept me out of sight, away from the Empire’s Jedi hunters.”

Luke listened.

“She kept secrets. Taught me how to keep the Force locked away so the Inquisitors wouldn’t find me.” A small, bitter smile twisted her lips, and for the first time, emotion crept into her voice. “She and Kanan argued about it, after I met him. She started to teach me, right before Vader caught up with us and killed her. She made sure I escaped.”

“The lightsaber,” Luke risked.

Mara nodded, her eyes focused on something Luke couldn’t see. “I should have gotten rid of it. But it’s the last thing I have of her.”

“And Gerrard Five was where you met her?” he asked.

“I think so. I didn’t remember until we were over Harazod, and then I was five years old again. Until you pulled me out.” She looked up, her eyes refocusing on Luke for the first time since she had sat down on the bunk. “Something about the planet bothered me when we briefed. I thought it would be fine.” She laughed, a humorless chuckle. “Until it wasn’t and I almost got myself and those bomber crews killed.”

“So you didn’t know.” Luke’s words were a statement, not a question.

“Not in any useful way. Not until I almost died.” She met his gaze. “I’m sorry. I kriffed up. I put you in that spot. I should have aborted before we got to the city. I knew something was wrong and I thought it would be okay.” The humorless laugh reappeared. “Now you’re stuck with what was in my head, too.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about.”

“No, it’s not,” Mara said, and there was an eerie certainty in it. “You’re worried about me. Even after I almost got seven people killed.” She closed her eyes. “I was in your head, too.”

“I know you were.” He tried a self-deprecating joke. “Wedge would probably tell you there was plenty of extra room in there, because I’m not using most of it.”

She snorted.

“Why are you here, Mara?” he asked, his voice soft.

“Because I don’t know what else to do.” Her voice cracked. “I don’t…I’ve never…I move forward. And today the one place that’s always been good is where I broke.”

Luke tried to find an answer. Mara didn’t wait.

“And I should be running right now. You saw me. I should have already been on a shuttle out of here, to anywhere else. Maybe to the Liberty. Kriff, Skywalker, I’m so tired and everything is broken.”

He remembered, vividly, his impression of the broken moon. “You’re still here,” he said gently. “Rogue Squadron is still here. We survived. You don’t have to leave if you don’t want to, Mara.”

“Like you and Antilles are going to let me back in a cockpit after what happened today.”

“Tomorrow, no. After you’ve actually rested and recovered and we figure out a less catastrophic way to handle an abort? Why not?” Luke waited until Mara met his gaze again. “Nobody died. The person suffering most from the consequences right now is you.”

“And you.”

Luke chose to ignore the truth of her comment. “Yes, we’ll want to make sure you’re safe before we launch another mission. But if you want to stay, you’re staying.”

Mara slumped. “It’s not fair,” she murmured.

“What’s not fair?” he asked.

“Three kilometers of battleship. And this is the only place that feels safe on the whole kriffing ship.”

“Here?”

“With you.” She yawned, and her eyes closed. “My quarters. Tried to rebuild my walls. Felt like a coffin. But here it’s safe.”

---

Mara rolled over and blinked, the dimly lit room slowly coming back into focus. Her chronometer was missing. What time is it? And what happened to my chrono?

It took her a good ten seconds before she realized she wasn’t in her own quarters.

Oh. Oh, kriff. Memories flooded back. These are Skywalker’s quarters. Kriff me. She looked down at herself. She was covered with a light blanket; underneath, she was still wearing the flight suit from the Gerrard Five mission. Kriff me, I fell asleep in Skywalker’s quarters.

She sat bolt upright and looked around. Kriff me, I’ll never live this down.

The door hissed open and Luke Skywalker entered carrying two mugs.

“Good morning,” he said, his voice infuriatingly calm. “I’m glad you’re awake.”

“What time is it?” Mara asked, her voice hoarse.

“Just after twelve hundred,” he told her, handing her one of the mugs. “You slept about nine hours.”

“I thought you said it was morning.”

“Han likes to say any time you wake up it’s morning.”

Mara accepted the mug. Caf. She took a sip. Good caf. She looked at him suspiciously. “Where’d this come from?”

“Officers’ galley,” Luke supplied. “Wedge and I both have access to it, but it’s a bit of a walk. How are you doing?”

She took a moment before answering, turning her own thoughts inward. Physically, she felt sticky and longed for a good hot shower and a change of clothes. Mentally, she still felt raw and exposed, but it wasn’t the overwhelming, all-consuming ache that had driven her out of her quarters during the night. Gerrard Five felt distant, light-years away, and the vivid memories had begun to fade into something more normal.

“Better,” she said at last after another sip of caf. “What happened last night?”

“After we talked? You fell asleep. The way you looked when you came here, I decided to just let you rest.”

Mara’s eyes narrowed. “Where did you sleep?”

“Chair.” He turned his head one way, then the other, his neck cracking. “I’m a bit stiff, but I’m fine.”

“Stupid.”

“It’s better than the floor.”

“How would you…you know what, I’d rather not know.”

Luke smiled at that.

“I should…I should go,” Mara said, rising to her feet with the caf mug still in hand and letting the blanket slip off her.

He stepped away from the door, giving her room to leave. “Get yourself cleaned up,” he said softly. “Go see the med droid to make sure there’s nothing wrong. Eat.”

For the first time, more thoughts began crashing into her from the day before. “Hobbie? Valent?”

“Hobbie’s in a bacta dunk. Kit took some transparisteel shrapnel, but he’ll be okay. We got hammered pretty hard, but no one died.”

Mara hesitated, torn between wanting to say more and fleeing.

Luke offered her a reassuring smile. “Most of the Rogues are eating right now. No one’s going to see you.”

She bit her lip. “Thanks,” she mumbled before fleeing out the door, back to her own quarters.

---

The interrogation room was brightly lit, but the adjoining observation room was much more pleasantly dim.

Wedge folded his arms, glanced over at Tycho Celchu, then returned his attention to the interrogation room.

Kasan Moor was dressed in a simple grey jumpsuit reminiscent of the flight suits used by both Imperial and Rebel pilots, though this particular outfit had both short arm and leg covering, leaving plenty of skin exposed on her limbs. She was seated at the unadorned table in the middle of the room opposite General Rieekan.

The jumpsuit leaves skin exposed so it doesn’t interfere with restraints, Wedge observed. Even if she’s not wearing any.

Rieekan studied his datapad for a moment, then looked up at Kasan. “Let’s start from the top. Where are you from?”

“I’ve told you all of this before,” Kasan reminded him.

“Humor me.”

Ask the same questions to check whether the answers are consistent, Wedge observed. Or whether they’re too consistent, which would mean rehearsed.

Kasan cleared her throat. “I grew up in Crevasse City on Alderaan. I’m Alderaanian both by birthplace and by blood.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-three standard years. I was born during the Clone Wars.”

Rieekan nodded. “Why did you join the Imperial TIE Corps?”

“Foolishness.” Kasan leaned back in her chair. “My parents believed in the dream of galaxy-wide peace. They held very dearly to the classic ideals of Alderaan, including disarmament and political change by peaceful protest and democratic processes. I was sixteen standard years old when I decided I knew better than they did. I studied history in school and could see that peace was by no means assured. Even at the height of the Republic, there were plenty of bad things happening outside Republic jurisdiction. So I enrolled in the Imperial Academy without their permission because I knew better.”

“And after graduation, you entered Imperial service?”

“I tested very well for piloting,” she agreed. “The Empire trained me to fly anything from a fighter to a corvette. Coming from a prestigious Core world, I got sent to Coruscant. I passed through the Coruscanti Pilot Institute and then finished at Carida. From there, I entered straight into the service, yes.”

“What units did you serve with?”

“My first year was with the Two-Oh-Fourth Wing, fifth squadron. We spent the entire year chasing pirates and securing trade lanes. I made ace for the first time by killing Cloakshapes in the Mid Rim.” She shook her head. “It was the sort of campaign that made it easy to be an Imperial loyalist. We were doing good work, very good work, against the sort of scum that preyed on individual traders and freight-haulers. Nobody we hunted down was very competent, so our losses were minimal.”

“And at the end of your first tour?” Rieekan asked.

“I was offered a slot with the One-Twenty-Eighth Group, first squadron. The Two-Oh-Fourth wasn’t happy to lose me, but the One-Twenty-Eighth was a more prestigious posting and there was zero chance of me passing it up.” She pursed her lips. “I did two tours with the One-Twenty-Eighth, handling everything from anti-piracy duty to engaging resistance cells to putting down Imperial dissidents. Toward the end of my third tour as a TIE pilot, I was offered command of the group; I had impressed plenty of the right people. I took command a month before the Emperor dissolved the Senate and destroyed Alderaan.”

Rieekan let silence hang as he made notes on his datapad.

Wedge glanced over at Tycho. “Thoughts?”

“Nothing implausible,” the other man said slowly. “Imperial service wasn’t a popular choice for kids growing up on Alderaan, but some of us chose it anyway. I thought I could help reform the Empire from the inside, and I knew a few others who joined for the same reason. But joining as an act of rebellion against her parents?” Tycho offered a small smile. “I knew a few cadets like that, though none of them were Alderaanian. Adolescents thinking they know better than their parents isn’t a universal constant, but it’s closer than most.”

Rieekan studied her for a moment. “What happened immediately after the destruction of Alderaan?”

“Confusion,” Kasan said. “That’s the best way I can describe it. There were a lot of stories about what happened to Alderaan, and none of them really made sense.”

“What sort of stories?”

“Rumors that the Rebellion had built a superweapon and destroyed Alderaan, for one. That it was meant to be a terror weapon to break the Emperor’s rule.” She snorted. “That one never made sense, because half the TIE Corps thought Alderaan was too friendly with the Rebels. Bail Organa’s reputation wasn’t exactly Imperial loyalist. But there were rumors that it was an accident of some sort, but the details were different depending on who told the story. Mining accident, or ancient weapon from one of the old pre-Republic wars, or some Jedi sorcery plot from survivors of the Clone Wars. Most of us figured out pretty quickly that the Death Star was an Imperial superweapon, though why Tarkin had used it to blow up Alderaan in particular was an open question. No matter what the truth was at that point, I couldn’t stay in Imperial service. Not anymore.”

“After the destruction of Alderaan, you stayed in Imperial service,” Rieekan said. “It’s been half a year. Why defect now? Why not months ago, right after it happened?”

“Because this was the first time I could survive it.”

“Explain.”

Kasan leaned forward in her chair. “After the Death Star destroyed our world, my first thought was getting out of the service, General,” she said slowly. “So I started making plans. Or tried to. It wasn’t until I started looking for the seams that I realized just how tightly built my cage was. The One-Twenty-Eighth was an elite, highly-decorated fighter group: three squadrons of the best, most loyal TIE pilots ever produced by Imperial training. But until I started looking, I thought loyalty was assumed. Then I started trying to plan my exit, and discovered loyalty was enforced.” She offered a small smile. “The Imperial Security Bureau kept a close eye on us, and I’d never noticed because I had never had a reason to notice.” She swallowed. “I tried having quiet conversations with some of the pilots under my command and discovered, rather quickly, that my assumption of Imperial loyalty hadn’t been unwarranted. But the ISB didn’t share my assumptions.”

Rieekan arched an eyebrow and waited.

“The One-Twenty-Eighth was moved to Moff Seerdon’s chain of authority shortly after I took command. He used us to put down several Rebel cells.” She shook her head. “They weren’t battles. They were massacres.”

“So you chose to keep serving.”

“I chose to live. I didn’t want to kill any more Rebels, General. But if I’d defied orders, I’d have been arrested, charged with treason, and executed. And the same Rebels would have died anyway.” She chewed her lip. “I know it’s horrible. I’m not claiming I have clean hands. But it’s how I justified it to myself.”

“What changed?” Rieekan asked.

“Gerrard Five.” She shook her head. “Moff Seerdon didn’t trust Governor Dannal. He transferred two squadrons of the One-Twenty-Eighth to Gerrard Five to oversee the looting and to make sure Dannal didn’t try to disappear with the goods. And then your star cruiser showed up in orbit and dropped that X-wing squadron on us.” She shuddered. “I’ve flown TIEs for over three years. That was the very first time I thought we might lose a battle.”

“So you defected to save your life?”

“I defected because it was the first time I thought I could survive it,” she repeated. “General, if I had tried to walk away from the One-Twenty-Eighth while on shore leave, an ISB agent would probably have shot me. If I had tried doing it mid-battle while tangling with Rebels before that fight, my own wingmen would’ve killed me. Over Gerrard Five I was in the fight of my life with two Rebel X-wings that I didn’t particularly want to kill and watched the rest of their squadron start to take apart my group. If I wanted to defect and survive, I finally had an opportunity. So I took it.”

“According to Captain Antilles’ report, you killed your own wingmen.”

Kasan grimaced. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“Necessity.” She shook her head. “If I left them at my back, they’d have killed me. And I had to do something to show your squadrons that I was serious.”

“Serious enough to kill your own people.”

Kasan looked down. “They weren’t my people. Not anymore. Not after Alderaan.” She looked back up at Rieekan. “General, you have every reason to doubt me. I don’t know if I’ll ever sit in a cockpit again. But I’ll take any job the Alliance will give me if it means I’m not fighting for the Empire anymore.”

Rieekan pushed himself back from the table and stood. “That’s enough for now, Captain Moor. I’ll have someone bring you something to eat, and we’ll resume in an hour.”

Kasan nodded.

Wedge studied her as she slumped in her chair after the door hissed shut. I don’t know if she’s a good actor or genuine. I know which I’d rather believe. He glanced over at Tycho. “Any more thoughts?”

“Vaping her wingmen was cold,” Tycho commented. “I don’t disagree that they would have shot her down, if they knew she was trying to jump the fence.” He bit his lip. “But the Empire would happily sacrifice a couple of TIE pilots to insert a loyalist into the Rebellion. Imperial Intelligence wouldn’t even blink at it.”

“But she’s Alderaanian,” Wedge pointed out.

“Which would make the cover more believable,” Tycho replied dully. “I’m sure there are Alderaanians serving the Empire right now who will stay in Imperial grey until they die or the Empire is dissolved, because they believe they’re serving a just cause.”

“And which one is Kasan? Who is she loyal to?”

“I wish I knew.”

They returned to the Independence, ten battered X-wings sporting damage ranging from carbon scoring to broken s-foils.

Wedge led the Rogues into the Auxiliary Two hangar, Samoc tucked in beside him with the remaining X-wings and a sole TIE Interceptor strung out behind him.

Damage control teams lined the edge of the hangar, equipped with firefighting equipment and medical supplies. Close to the corridor leading into Rogue Territory, General Rieekan stood waiting with two aides. Ringing him were eight Alliance personnel in light combat armor, armed with A280 blaster rifles.

Right. Defector. Not planned the way Celchu was, Wedge thought. A wave of exhaustion crashed over him as his X-wing settled onto the deck. “Acey, start the post-flight,” he said. “I’ll be back to run over the list when we’re secure.” He glanced over and saw Samoc’s X-wing settle in place while Tycho and Puck came through the magcon field, followed by a single TIE Interceptor.

One of the deck crew had gotten a ladder over to his X-wing by the time he popped the canopy and doffed his helmet. Ignoring the weariness dragging at his arms and legs, he descended the ladder to the deck.

The Interceptor settled to the deck, incongruous among the Rebel fighters. Wedge started walking over even as the Rebel security team approached, blasters raised. He glanced over his shoulder in time to see Doc and Janson come through the aperture next, Janson’s X-wing missing two laser cannons and a half-meter of mangled s-foil on its starboard side, while Eirriss’s fighter was only flying on three engines. We’re not pretending this was a clean victory, he thought grimly, pausing to watch Zev and Karie’s fighters slide into the hangar next. Zev’s X-wing looked wrong with its decapitated astromech; Karie’s snubfighter looked surprisingly intact.

He turned back to the Interceptor in time to see the topside hatch open. Empty hands appeared first before the pilot stood. “I’m unarmed,” a female voice called. “But I need to use my hands to pull myself out.”

“Slowly,” one of the security officers said sharply. “Move slowly or we will shoot you.”

Luke and Mara’s X-wings entered the hangar last, moving smoothly toward the painted slips closest the magcon field. Wedge turned his attention toward them for a moment. If we need to scramble again, he thought grimly as he ran the roster against declared damage, we could maybe get six fighters back into space. He almost turned back to the Interceptor pilot, but unexpected movement caught his eye.

Mara’s X-wing had barely settled on its struts, its engines still spooling down, when she popped the canopy. Before any ground crew could reach her fighter, she flung herself out of the cockpit and ran across the hangar and vanished into a corridor.

Without post-flight. Unease gnawed at his stomach. And she was silent all the way back. And Luke didn’t say anything to her. He blew out a breath. One thing at a time. Defector first. Then check on the Rogues.

The TIE Interceptor pilot was now sitting on top of the cockpit with her helmet off. Her hair was short-cropped, black as vacuum, and sweat-matted. She had her hands up again, her flight gloves discarded. “Do you want me to slide down or wait?” she asked.

“Slide down,” one of the security officers said. “Slowly.”

“Slowly,” she said, nudging herself forward until gravity started pulling her down.

Wedge crossed the rest of the distance to the security team. Rieekan raised an eyebrow at him but kept his attention focused on the Imperial pilot.

One of the security officers frisked her briefly, then marched her over to Rieekan.

“I’m Captain Kasan Moor, commander of the Imperial One-Twenty-Eighth Fighter Group,” she said flatly. “Formerly commander. I’m requesting asylum with the Rebel Alliance.”

“General Carlist Rieekan. I’m aware of who you are,” Rieekan said. “Though we’re going to have a lot of questions for you before we adjudicate your asylum request.”

“I expect so, sir.” Her voice carried the same exhaustion Wedge felt.

Rieekan nodded to the security team. “Get her secured and cleaned up. We’ll start interviews in an hour.”

When the security team and their prisoner had vanished into the Independence, Rieekan turned to Wedge. “Your squadron keeps collecting defectors,” he said dryly.

“You sent us for the first two. This one definitely wasn’t part of the mission briefing,” Wedge said.

“The initial report from the surface said you fought her?”

Wedge nodded. “She’s damned good. If she hadn’t decided to break out of the fight and vape her own wingmen, I don’t know who would have won.” He hesitated. “Any word from search and rescue?”

“Yes, your two downed pilots. Both recovered and being brought back to the Independence. The report I saw before coming down here indicated they were both injured, but I don’t know how badly.”

Wedge let out a breath, and tightness in his chest eased. “Thank you, sir.”

Rieekan looked around at the hangar for the first time. “Your squadron took quite a beating,” he commented.

“The One-Twenty-Eighth was good, General. Very good.” Wedge hesitated. “It almost went much worse.”

“I look forward to reading your report, Captain.” Rieekan nodded at the hangar. “You better go patch up your people. And tell Skywalker I want to talk to him once I’ve had time to question our new defector.”

---

Wedge found Luke half an hour later.

Working through the post-flight checklist for Mara’s X-wing.

Luke was so engrossed with what he was doing that Wedge made it all the way to the foot of the ladder leading to the cockpit before the other man looked up. “Wedge!”

Wedge offered a cautious nod in return. “They just took Kit and Hobbie to medical. Hobbie getting dunked in the bacta tank. Kit’s got lacerations on his hands and face from his displays blowing out.”

“On his hands?” Luke asked incredulously. “Through the flight gloves?”

Wedge nodded. “Through the flight gloves. Flak vest took the worst of it, so he didn’t end up with transparisteel embedded in his chest. I’d guess he’ll be out a few days for recovery. Bacta wraps on his hands should take care of it pretty quick.”

“How bad is Hobbie if he’s getting dunked?”

“Three broken ribs and a broken ankle. He’ll be out at least a few weeks until he’s healed up enough to fly, even with bacta.”

Luke shook his head. “That mission was very close to disaster. Not knowing about the One-Twenty-Eighth almost killed us.”

Wedge pursed his lips. “About that.”

“I’m guessing Rieekan wants to talk to us about the defector,” Luke continued. “You went up against her. How good is she?”

“Very good,” Wedge admitted. “Very good. Samoc and I were locked in a fight with her and her wingmen. It was a very close thing. If I’d have made a mistake, I’m pretty sure she would have vaped me. And if she’d made a mistake, I would’ve had her. Instead…”

“Instead she broke off the spiral with you and vaped her own wingmen,” Luke finished. “I wonder if Intelligence knew she was trying to defect.”

Are you trying to avoid the question I’m trying to ask? Wedge wondered. “Unlikely. Celchu got away by going on shore leave. Madine got arrested trying to jump the fence. If Moor was on Intelligence’s radar, I think we would’ve known the One-Twenty-Eighth was on Gerrard Five.”

“Maybe, but the comm blackouts have hurt information exchange. Rieekan said he didn’t know Gerrard Five was in open revolt until Madine told him. I know it’s keeping the Empire from finding us, but we’re operating blind.” Luke hesitated. “How are the rest of the Rogues?”

“I sent all of them to the medbay for a post-flight exam,” Wedge said. “A couple of them were pretty banged up, and I’m sure Zev and Tycho were both suffering from smoke inhalation.” He paused. “All the Rogues I could find, I mean.”

Luke didn’t answer.

“What happened down there?” Wedge asked. “And don’t tell me you have no idea what I’m talking about, because you’re sitting here doing post-flight on Mara’s X-wing. The same woman who Rieekan thought was going to murder a ground crew over the screwup with the T-47s.”

“I’m…not sure.”

“Then give me your best guess, Luke.”

The hesitation stretched several seconds. “It’s going to sound crazy.” Luke’s astromech whistled a confirmation.

Wedge climbed the ladder up to the cockpit and leaned in close enough he could drop his voice so no one else could hear. “Is this some Jedi thing?”

Luke grimaced. “Maybe. I’m not sure.”

“Okay, so start with the not-Jedi part of it.”

“She wasn’t responding right on comms,” Luke said. “I’d ask her for her status, and she didn’t sound right. When we were on our initial approach to the city, she didn’t lock her s-foils open.” He shrugged, looking down at the checklist again and continuing to work through it. “Our first pass, she missed two shots. On a stationary target that hadn’t started to fire back.”

“Exhaustion,” Wedge supplied. “The whole squadron was tired after Corellia and didn’t get enough recovery time.”

“Not exhaustion.”

“Then what?”

“I could tell something was wrong. So I ordered Cesi and Wes to take over the defense suppression I was supposed to do with Mara, and we took over their role covering one of the Y-wing sections.” He chewed on his lip. “Then she stopped responding. Completely.”

“But she was still flying,” Wedge said. “It’s not like she crashed.”

“I think she was flying on reflex. She was holding position on my wing, but she stopped responding on comms. And she was correcting slowly, not at all like Mara. No thought, just reflex.”

“But then you and she started tearing into the Interceptors,” Wedge protested. “I saw you do it. The distraction almost got me killed while I was fighting Moor.”

“That was after.”

“After what?” Wedge’s heart began to sink. This is the part of the story I’m going to hate.

“I reached.”

“You…reached.”

“With the Force. We had six Interceptors dropping on us and the Y-wings, and it was the only thing I could think of to snap her out of it. Because they were going to kill her, or the Y-wings, or both. There were too many for me to take by myself.”

“You reached with the Force.”

Luke nodded slowly. “And I found her. She was drowning.”

Oh, kriff me. I need a Jedi just to translate, Wedge thought ruefully.

“I grabbed her and tried to pull her out. Both of her.” He hesitated. “I don’t know how to make that make sense. Sorry. But when I grabbed her, it was like grabbing a live chilling bar.”

Wedge stared. “A what?”

“A chilling bar. On a vaporator.” Luke looked at Wedge for a moment, and his cheeks reddened in embarrassment. “Sorry. Bad analogy for you. Think about grabbing the dynoric line that feeds an X-wing’s laser cannon when the insulation is cracked.”

Wedge shuddered. “I’ve never done it, but I saw Hobbie do it once, when we were first training on T-65s on Yavin. His hand clamped down on it and he couldn’t let go until his astromech cut power a few seconds later.”

“Exactly.” Luke shuddered. “I couldn’t let go of her. And I think she was holding on to me, too. It got confusing.”

“Confusing is one word for all of this.” Wedge shook his head. “If I hadn’t seen you two down in atmosphere a few hours ago, I’d be dragging you to an Emdee droid with a psych module.”

“We were in each other’s heads, Wedge,” Luke said, voice vehement. “I saw things. Memories. She was a kid here on Gerrard Five.” He pursed his lips. “Something dragged her under. Memories. The Force. Something. And I dragged her back, and then we were in each other’s heads.”

“And then you started ripping apart those TIE Interceptors.”

“Yes. I…” he hesitated again. “I knew exactly where she was. What she was going to do. She could tell the same for me. I think.”

It was Wedge’s turn to hesitate. “I saw what you two did. I couldn’t tell which of you had lead and which was wing, because you were switching so fast. Could you do it again?”

“No.” Luke’s answer was immediate. “We’re not doing that again. Wedge, we were in each other’s heads.”

“That’s why you didn’t ask her to check in after the One-Twenty-Eighth disengaged. You didn’t need to.”

Luke nodded silently.

A thought occurred to Wedge. “Back up. You said you couldn’t let go. Are you still…?”

“No. When we were climbing up toward orbit, the grip started to loosen. And when we landed, Mara completely cut it off. Gone. I’m not sure where she is.”

“I hope you realize this sounds completely insane.”

“It was worse being inside it.” Luke shuddered. “I don’t know how to describe it without sounding even crazier than I already do, Wedge.”

“What about Mara?”

“Artoo said she’s in her quarters. The door’s locked and there’s no power to the lights. Her comlink is shut off, too.” He pursed his lips. “After what I felt down there? It seems reasonable.”

“She should get checked out by medical,” Wedge said quietly.

“Probably. But I doubt an Emdee is going to be able to help with this. And I don’t want her flight certification pulled.”

“Is she safe to fly? Are you safe to fly?”

“If we need to scramble again tonight? Probably not. In a day or two? Maybe. I’ll tell you then.”

Wedge rubbed his face. Force shavit. I hate this. “Get some sleep, Luke. We’ll talk about this in the morning.”

Luke nodded; his own weariness looked bone-deep. “As soon as I’m done with the checklist. Then I’ll hit my quarters.”

---

Luke did not return to his quarters after finishing Mara’s post-flight.

Artoo had insisted he eat something first. Luke visited the mess in Pilot Country just long enough to grab a bowl of stew and gulp it down without tasting it. His stomach rebelled at the intrusion; he ignored it, telling himself he needed the energy. Afterward, he made the rounds to check on his pilots.

Kit had been released from the medbay quickly, both hands wrapped in bacta-infused bandages to accelerate healing. The lower half of his face had been shaved and cleaned, with topical ointment applied to prevent infection. The young man was rattled by his ejection, and Luke made a note to himself to keep a close eye on the rookie over the next week.

Hobbie, on the other hand, was still suspended in a bacta tank. Luke had no way to talk to the man, but he looked vaguely annoyed at his surroundings, which Luke took as his natural state. Puck dozed nearby in a chair; Luke decided not to wake him. Still keeping an eye on his wingman.

He found Samoc, Cesi, and Wes drinking something that smelled vaguely alcoholic while playing cards in the Rogues’ common area. All three looked exhausted but in relatively good spirits.

Zev had already gone to bed by the time Luke went looking for him. The older man had been given an aerosol treatment to help with smoke inhalation and told to rest. He’ll probably be fine. Check in the morning, though.

Luke had to expand his search to find Karie and Tycho. Karie was lifting weights in the Rogues’ makeshift gym, Tycho acting as her spotter. Luke made small talk with them for a few minutes, just enough to get a feel for their state. Karie’s still dealing with the adrenaline crash from that fight, even though she did great keeping Zev alive. And Tycho is numb.

He hated that he couldn’t seem to reach the Alderaanian.

Unwilling to sleep but with all his justifiable work completed, Luke returned to Rogue Territory. He hesitated outside Mara’s door for a long moment, tempted to either knock or try to reach out to her in the Force. No, he firmly told himself. No. The last thing she wants after that disaster is me intruding.

His quarters felt claustrophobically quiet. Luke was tempted, for a moment, to take his lightsaber and a training remote and find an empty room to practice. Then again, after what happened today, the last thing I want to do is touch the Force. He shuddered. Maybe I shouldn’t be using it at all until I’ve found a teacher. I feel like I’m a kid who got handed a blaster and told not to point it at anything valuable.

The analogy almost immediately surfaced the impression of a five-year-old Mara Jade. He grimaced and pushed it back down. Sleep. Try to sleep.

His bunk was too soft, too hard, too cold, too hot. Luke tried sleeping with a light blanket. Without a blanket. Without a sleep shirt. But his mind wouldn’t settle, and rest was elusive; stillness dredged up memories that weren’t his. Memories he didn’t understand.

Paperwork, he decided after his chrono showed 0128. Paperwork. And try not to think about the One-Twenty-Eighth. Thanks, chrono.

Rogue Territory had long gone quiet, but Luke didn’t leave his quarters. Instead, he flipped on his datapad, seated himself at his desk, and began to work through his backlog of paperwork. Anything so I don’t think about Gerrard Five. About what happened. About what I saw. About what I did.

Paperwork. Requisition forms for replacement X-wings for Hobbie and Kit; the second form took half the time of the first. Luke suspected it was unnecessary and Rieekan was already pulling strings, but there was no sense taking chances. Build good habits, he told himself. And learn to do all of these forms yourself instead of always making Wedge do them.

When the requisitions were completed, he started working on his after-action report. Focus on what’s understandable, he decided. The big picture. How we executed the operation. Successes, failures, corrections we need to make.

Luke was still wrestling with the report when a knock sounded from his door. He glanced at his chrono. 0217. Who else is up at this hour?

He rose, shut his datapad off, and crossed the small room to the door. Without hesitation or thought about his appearance, he triggered the release and allowed it to slide open.

Mara Jade stood in the hallway. She still wore her flightsuit from the engagement, though it was unzipped to her navel. She was barefoot; her flak vest and boots were missing. Her red-gold hair was disheveled, matted with dried sweat, completely unkempt. She chewed a ration bar mechanically, and her posture drooped with unmasked exhaustion. Her voice was entirely flat.

“Hi. You broke your promise.”

Wedge registered that something was wrong. Luke released Eirriss and Janson from escort and took it on himself. Why?

Samoc’s guns flashed once, twice, and the last of the garrison’s TIEs exploded.

“Good kill, Six,” he said. “I’ve got lead. We’re forty seconds from the TIE Interceptors.” Luke can handle his problem. “Two Flight, arm torpedoes. Fire the moment you have tone. This one’s gonna be ugly.”

“Three and Eleven, get ready to pounce,” Luke ordered. “Those Interceptors are going to try to punch through and swing for Two Flight’s tails. Don’t make it easy for them.”

Wedge spared a glance at his scopes. Several freighters were trying to lift as most of the Rogues turned to face the TIE Interceptors. Commander Salm’s Y-wings were vectoring on them in three-ship sections, pouring ion cannon fire into anything lifting out of the city. Zev and Karie were riding top cover over one section, Luke and Mara over the other.

He returned his attention forward. The 128th TIE Interceptor group. TIE Corps organization puts three squadrons to a group, but they often don’t deploy all three squadrons together to the same place. Twenty-four on scope, which means one of their squadrons is deployed somewhere. They outnumber us two to one. Deal with what’s in front of us. Wedge switched his targeting over to proton torpedoes. “Acey,” he called to his R2, “designate targets for Two Flight so we don’t waste fire.”

His targeting reticle turned yellow as he dropped it over one of the leading Interceptors. Acey began to beep as he calculated a targeting solution. The gap closed rapidly, and the Interceptors began long-range probing fire on the Rogues before Acey let out the long, solid trill indicating a solid lock.

Proton torpedoes rode pink fire into the Interceptor formation. Three Interceptors winked out; Wedge’s target, however, fired back, inhumanly precise, and his torpedo detonated mid-air before it could reach the Imperial formation.

Damn. They might be as good as their reputation claims. “Switch to lasers if you haven’t already,” Wedge called on the squadron channel, flicking his weapons selection back to cannons. The TIE Interceptor he’d tried to take with a torpedo was already firing on him again, but the moment Wedge started blasting, it juked hard away in a spiral almost impossible to follow.

“Your target wants to stay alive, Five,” Samoc commented, her voice strained.

“Unfortunately,” Wedge agreed. He feathered his rudder, fired past his target, and caught another Interceptor squarely. It exploded, an ugly punctuation of fire and smoke. Wedge’s X-wing shuddered as green laserfire hammered his forward shield – the first Interceptor again – and then the X-wing and TIEs flashed past each other. Wedge rolled and dived into a split-S. Samoc trailed him off his starboard wing the entire way, losing meters but stubbornly holding on.

Cesi and Wes were climbing toward the engagement from the city, firing lasers and torpedoes alike wildly. They couldn’t get locks that quickly. What are they doing? The warheads began to explode in staccato, hammering the TIE sections with overlapping shockwaves and shrapnel, forcing them apart.

Timed detonations, Wedge realized. No lock necessary. Explosions to break the formation so they can pounce. Astromechs probably programming on the fly to get it right with how fast the distances are changing.

He came out the bottom of his split-S when laserfire hammered his forward shield again. Acey squealed, a scolding tone. It’s that same kriffing TIE, Wedge growled internally. He’s good. He’s very good. He pulled the stick hard to the left, sending the X-wing into a tight port turn. “Call it out if someone vectors on our rear, Six,” he said. “I’m focused forward.”

“Kill him, Five.”

“That’s the plan.”

And then a pained voice on the comm.

“I’m hit! Shields down, engines on fire!”

Hobbie.

“Eject!” Puck called.

Wedge couldn’t afford to look or he and Samoc would be next.

---

“Two, talk to me,” Luke said urgently.

No response.

He nudged his stick to the right, a starboard drift. A few moments later, Mara’s X-wing corrected and followed.

Reflexes. She’s flying on reflexes. “Two. Come in, Two.”

Artoo whistled a low warning tone, and Luke looked back at the engagement. Six TIEs were down. Wedge was tied up in a dogfight with the Interceptor that Artoo had tagged as the leader of the 128th, Samoc barely holding on by her fingernails while the Interceptor leader’s wingmen looked similarly stressed. Cesi and Wes were in the middle of the engagement now, along with Tycho and Kit, four Rogues fighting against nine TIE Interceptors.

The last six TIEs were the source of Artoo’s warning. The half squadron of Interceptors had climbed out of the initial engagement, had revectored, and were now diving on Luke, Mara, and their section of Y-wings.

“Mara,” Luke said urgently, abandoning call signs. “Mara, talk to me.“

Artoo splashed an estimate on his monitor. Twelve seconds until the Interceptors reached firing range.

Use the Force, Luke. Ben’s words echoed in his ears.

The small-unit tactical part of his brain, the part he and Wedge had worked so hard to develop since Yavin, laid out the facts with cold, impersonal precision.

I’m responsible for covering those three Y-wings. Mara isn’t responding. Something’s wrong in her cockpit. I have no idea what it is. And in twelve seconds, no, eleven, those TIE Interceptors will open fire.

If I go full thrust on the engines and climb, I can engage the Interceptors. I can disrupt their attack on the Y-wings. There are six lives on those three bombers. I can save them.

And if I do that, I’ll leave Mara behind. And she will die. The Interceptors will pounce on her.

I can stay with Mara. Force the Interceptors to come to me. I can protect her and maybe get her through the engagement.

And the Y-wings will die.

It was an impossible choice. Nine seconds. Choose.

Luke chose to break his promise.

The few times he’d used the Force consciously while flying, it had guided his hand. It gave him insight, a quiet nudge of which way to turn, the right angle to deflect the control stick, the precise moment to squeeze the trigger regardless of the targeting computer’s protests. He’d never tried to reach out while flying.

But he had practiced the meditation.

Mara.

He’d felt her in the Force before – once as a star, during the ambush on the Independence task force. There, she’d consciously reached for the Force to keep her alive after his command mistake almost killed her. Twice in meditation he’d reached for her and found only the faintest traces, an eclipse, the star obstructed by a moon or whatever she did to hide herself.

Luke found neither the burning star nor the nearly-invisible eclipse. He found a shattered moon. Behind it, light leaking through the debris, was the star.

Mara.

He had no technique nor training. All he could do was reach. Reach for the star.

And he found Mara. Mara, ferocious and coldly disciplined and eager for battle and afraid. His wingman. Lost. Drowning.

He reached for her. Reached for Mara, drowning in memory and terror. Luke reached.

And when he finally touched her, she grabbed onto him. Hard. With the desperation of a drowning woman offered a chance to live. But it wasn’t two hands that grabbed his. It was four.

A terrified five-year-old girl, every bit as much Mara as his eighteen-year-old wingman, just as desperate to hold on.

And then he saw what she saw.

Lightning. Rain. The stink of ozone, left by blaster rifles, attacked his nose. The copper smell and taste of blood.

An alien woman, her cloak soaked, towered over him. “Come on, little one,” she urged. Luke could see orange skin and white markings.

The child hesitated.

“Stop!” a stormtrooper barked.

Lightsabers ignited, and Luke felt the terror redouble. The woman stepped in front, lightsabers flaring and hissing in the rain as they intercepted and turned aside blaster bolts. Stormtroopers crumbled, struck by their own fire.

“Come,” the woman repeated.

“Who are you?” the words tumbled out of Luke’s mouth, but the voice wasn’t Luke’s. “Why do they want me?” The child stumbled, weak and dizzy. Drugged? Luke wasn’t sure.

“I’m Fulcrum. Come, little one,” she said yet again. She scooped the child up. “The Emperor will be hunting us. He’ll be angry he lost his prize.”

“Where are we going?”

“To my ship. We’ll figure out the rest after.”

Mara!

Artoo screeched a warning. Four seconds!

Luke’s left hand jammed the throttle forward, his right hand pulled the stick back. Lasers fired, eight streams of reddish plasma splitting the air.

The first Interceptor exploded.

Cold tactical calculations, hard numbers, flicked through his mind.

Her mind.

He nudged the stick, chased the numbers, firing even while his own instincts told him the third Interceptor was going to break high.

Luke’s lasers found the second Interceptor. Mara’s caught the third on the break.

Fear poured into him: a child’s fear, a five-year-old girl outdoors in a thunderstorm on Gerrard V, watching stormtroopers die trying to reclaim her. A combat pilot’s fear, fear that her own weakness had killed friends and allies depending on her. His own fear that his indecision and choices were going to kill his wingman and six good people, first felt as his own, then echoed again and again.

It threatened to drown him. He could barely keep his head in the fight.

We’re in each other’s heads, he realized. The Force. She realized? He wasn’t sure who had the thought first.

He could feel her holding onto him in the Force with the grip of the drowning woman. Or was he holding onto her? He wasn’t sure where the boundary was.

Then they were engaging the other three Interceptors, all fire and light and smoke trails and intention and fear and anger and calculation.

It was the most terrified Luke Skywalker had ever been in his life.

---

Wedge leaned hard into the turn, cheating the climbing spiral, trying to finally end the contest.

Straight across from him, off his port wing, the TIE Interceptor that Acey had tagged the group leader was locked in the same climbing turn.

Both trying to find the edge to win the contest.

It had gone on too long.

Hobbie’s X-wing was down, crashed in the city. Kit ejected. Cesi flying on three engines. Tycho’s X-wing trailing smoke. Wes missing two laser cannons after a glancing collision with an Interceptor. Zev crippled and withdrawing while Karie, one of the rookies, fought with an unexpected ferocity to keep a TIE off her wingman.

I have to finish this. I just need one mistake.

It occurred to him that the opposing squadron commander was thinking the same thing.

The Imperial’s wingmates were in the same spiral, high and low, trying to lose enough ground on the climbing turn that Wedge would pass between them and allow them to fall on his tail. Samoc, by herself, was providing enough threat from her position behind Wedge that they were stuck, still covering their leader but unable to break out of the maneuver or Samoc would pounce.

Samoc was caught in the same trap; if she tried to break out of the spiral, the trailing TIEs would threaten Wedge or the leader would latch onto her.

Five starfighters caught in a fast, tight spiral, jockeying for the position to end the contest. One mistake would be enough.

The remaining Rogues were exchanging hard light with the surviving TIE Interceptors.

And then Wedge saw it.

Luke and Mara, covering the second section of Y-wings, tearing through three TIE Interceptors. Weren’t there six? The fight was too big to track in his mind. His situational awareness was exceptional, but with so much of his focus tied up in his duel with the Interceptor leader, he knew he was missing pieces of the fight.

The two X-wings maneuvering hard, head-to-head with the Interceptors. The TIEs lanced them with fire, and for a moment Wedge couldn’t tell which X-wing was lead and which was wing. They’re leapfrogging, he realized, his jaw dropping. Taking turns taking hits. How the hell are they doing that? And then there was a complicated burst of laserfire, red and green, an unexpected proton torpedo detonation, and all three TIEs were gone.

What?

The distraction should have killed him.

Instead, the TIE commander rolled out of the spiral, breaking off with both wingmen. Wedge cursed and reversed his turn, banking after him. Already lost the shot. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

He brought his targeting reticle up just in time to see the Interceptor commander reduce his forward speed, hard. Both his wingmen overshot their leader.

The leader fired. Once. Twice. The first wingman started a long, uncontrolled descent toward the ocean. The second exploded in the air, vaporized by a precision shot.

The comm crackled with a call on an open frequency, a woman’s voice. “This is Captain Kasan Moor of the 128th TIE Interceptor Group. I request asylum with the Rebel Alliance.”

Wedge slammed his hand down on the comm board. “Say again,” he sputtered.

“Captain Kasan Moor, 128th TIE Interceptor Group, requesting asylum with the Rebel Alliance.” The woman’s voice was taut. “Please do not fire on me, X-wings.”

“Acey, tag that Interceptor as friendly and broadcast it to all Rebel fighters,” Wedge ordered his astromech. “Kasan Moor, power down your weapons and you will not be considered a hostile.” He glanced at his board in time to see Luke and Mara vaporize another Interceptor. “Set course due west at half throttle and do not divert.”

Luke’s voice cut in on the squadron channel. “Four, Seven, form up on that defector and keep anyone interested away from her. Commander Salm, pull your Y-wings back and form up with them, too. I show all freighter targets as down, and the local resistance is in the streets now that we broke the defenses.”

Sweat stung Wedge’s eyes. He slipped a glove off and wiped the offending moisture away, blinking until he could see clearly.

“Rogues, sound off,” Luke continued.

It occurred to Wedge that Luke sounded rough. But even more oddly, he could see distantly that Luke and Mara were tangling with a stray pair of Interceptors. Instead of focusing on the fight in front of him, he’s asking about the squadron. Wedge frowned, watching as the two X-wings bracketed; the Interceptors picked Luke as their target, and Mara started to swing for the kill position. Then suddenly she was reversing, the TIEs were reversing, and Luke was in the kill position. The first Interceptor exploded, the second dove away from the trap, and then both X-wings were together on its tail closing for the kill.

“I want everyone’s status before we extract, in case that missing squadron jumps us,” Luke continued.

Not a single word to Rogue Two. What?

“I’ve got a beacon on Rogue Three. It looks like he’s inside the area the local resistance is already holding. Four?”

“Four, three torpedoes left, a bit banged up but still flying,” Puck said. “No major damage.”

Wedge flicked his eyes over his displays. “Five here, five torpedoes in the rack. Carbon scoring on the nose, but no system failures. Still fit to fight.”

“Six here, no major damage,” Samoc reported, though exhaustion was evident.

“Seven here, long-range sensors are down and the torpedo system is completely unresponsive. I’ve still got torps in the rack, but I can’t fire.” Tycho reported the damage clinically. “I had a fire in the fuselage but my astromech put it out.” He hesitated. “Eight punched out. Rescue beacon shows him on the ground.”

“Nine,” Zev reported in, coughing. “I’ve got all four engines, but barely above half power. Not sure what took a hit. Astromech is gone.”

“Ten,” Karie added. “No major damage. Two torpedoes left. I’ve still got fight in me.”

“Eleven,” Cesi reported. “Flying on three engines. Racks are dry.”

“Twelve,” Wes finished out, “down to two lasers. Torpedoes empty. Shield generator’s offline.”

The remaining TIE Interceptors fled, accelerating away at a prodigious rate the X-wings couldn’t match. “The 128th is done,” Luke said. “Five, Six, take one more pass over the city and make sure we didn’t miss anything critical. Then form up and let’s climb for orbit.”

“We’ve still got people on the ground,” Puck protested.

“Friendlies are holding the ground, Four,” Luke pointed out. “Ten, raise the Independence and tell them we need a SAR shuttle down here.” He was silent for a moment. “Seven, what’s our defector doing?”

“Exactly what she was ordered to do,” Tycho said. “Looks like her guns are offline and she’s holding the exact course Five gave her.”

“Then we take her back to the Independence, too. Ten, tell Flight Control we’re bringing a TIE with us.”

Wedge led Samoc on a pass over the city. There was clearly fighting in the streets below, though at a glance it appeared to mostly be Imperial crews abandoning their disabled ships and retreating toward the city garrison. What goal they still thought they could achieve, he had no idea, but the battle was effectively won.

He couldn’t help but wonder why Mara hadn’t spoken a single word throughout their fight with the last Interceptors, nor when Luke had asked everyone for status reports.

And why Luke hadn’t asked.

---

Kasan felt numb. Surreal. I did it. I survived it. I’m out.

An X-wing had settled on either side of her TIE Interceptor. Her scopes, still complaining, showed a trio of Y-wings trailing her. BTL-S3 model, she noted mechanically. Top-side ion cannon. All three of them are currently locked on me. Prudent.

I survived. I was at the tip of the spear and got away without my own people killing me.

She looked at her tactical readout again. Because this squadron of X-wings broke my people.

Because two X-wings broke my people.

I thought the first pilot I engaged was the best they had. She slid past the implications of their fight, not wanting to dwell on the aborted outcome, because that was the closest she’d come to death in at least a year. And then those two X-wings on escort duty took apart six of my people like they were first-year Academy students. Kordane was almost as good as I am. Holtzer and Rellan were triple aces. Tavier and Melken were transferees, but they came in on merit after the battle of Scarif. And Dresk was the oldest TIE pilot I’ve ever known.

And those two X-wings…

Kasan shivered.

It wasn’t that good, though, was it? You were watching while tied up in the fight of your life with that squadron commander. They’re very good, sure. This whole Rebel squadron is by far the best I’ve ever fought. But don’t start exaggerating this in your head. The Alliance is about to interrogate you about why you defected, and the last thing you want to do is make yourself sound insane.

No one can fly the way you thought you saw them fly. It’s impossible.

You wanted a way out. Desperately, after Alderaan. So you made good flying out to be impossible flying.

Logic, Kasan. These people are good. Very good. You couldn’t have seen that, because that isn’t possible.

The formation began to climb toward orbit.

Your time with the Empire is over. Done. Don’t screw up your entry into the next part of your life by sounding like a madwoman to whoever questions you.

Mara had never been in the large briefing room in Pilot Country.

At least sixty sentients in flightsuits sat in tiered chairs ringing a central holoprojector. Humans were most represented, but there were others: Twi’leks, Zabraks, two Togruta, a single Rodian, and three near-humans that Mara couldn’t properly identify. It was the entirety of the Independence‘s air wing and Rogue Squadron.

The Rogues sat clustered together nearest the door, with only Skywalker near the holoprojector instead of seated. The air wing isn’t exactly avoiding us, but we’re clearly not part of them, either, she noted a bit uneasily.

Down in the middle, Skywalker was engaged in an intense conversation with Colonel S’man and a short, balding man who Mara hadn’t met. General Rieekan was fiddling with something on the big holoprojector alongside a man dressed in a Rebel officer’s uniform with no insignia. I wonder if that’s the defector we pulled off Corellia?

Puck leaned in close. “You ever feel like you’re sitting somewhere you’re not wanted?” he murmured.

Mara spared him a glance. “I’d think you’d be used to that, Naeco.”

The other pilot didn’t smile at the jibe but straightened back up, looking troubled.

Rieekan cleared his throat and the lights began to dim in the briefing room. Conversations began to die down. The general waited a few moments for silence before he began to speak. A hologram shimmered into existence, just a wireframe of a planet.

“This is Gerrard V,” he began. “And the target of our next operation. Local resistance cells are in an open revolt and are attempting to throw off Imperial shackles.”

Gerrard Five. Why do I know that name? Mara began to run through her mental operational files. A mission with the Ghost crew? Maybe? Doesn’t feel right.

Rieekan continued. “The governor is looting his own planet and preparing to make his escape. If he succeeds, he’ll be stealing the wealth the planet is going to need to defend itself against Imperial reprisal. We’re going to intervene.” He turned and nodded at Colonel S’man.

The big man’s baritone was surprisingly calm. Then again, I don’t think I’ve heard him when he’s not angry at something Rogue Squadron has been doing. 

“Our window of opportunity is very short,” S’man said. “The initial intelligence for this operation got to us late, and we’ve used most of our slack time to run reconnaissance and ensure this isn’t a trap. We’re fairly certain there are no Imperial task forces lurking nearby waiting to pounce, so our mission profile will be higher risk than we usually allow.” The hologram animated; a wireframe Mon Calamari cruiser appeared in orbit around the planet. “We’re leaving most of the task force on the edge of the system, but the Independence will be jumping directly into the orbital plane. Our A-wing and X-wing units will deploy and take up defensive positions against any unexpected counterattack.” Icons for the appropriate squadrons appeared next to the Independence. “Half of our bomber squadron will also remain in orbit. The air wing will have two objectives. Primarily, ensure the safety of the Independence. Secondary will be to stop any Imperial freighters, yachts, shuttles, or other ships big enough to carry looted goods from making a run to hyperspace.”

Mara considered that tactical picture. The last time I know of a Mon Cal cruiser committed into a gravity well outside of quick-jump capability was the Profundity at Scarif. And that didn’t end well. This is not a small risk.

S’man’s expression hardened and he nodded at Skywalker.

The hologram changed, the Independence and the planet disappearing to be replaced by a hologram of a city on the edge of an ocean.

Mara’s gut twisted. I know that city. Why do I know that city? She tried to shake off her unease and focused on the briefing.

“This is Harazod,” Skywalker said. “Governor Dannal has been staging his loot here. Rogue Squadron and the other half of Commander Salm’s Sentinel Squadron are going down into atmosphere to disable Dannal’s ships before they can escape. Given the number of small ships he’s likely using, if we try to stop them all in orbit we’ll miss some. The Y-wings will be targeting anything that looks likely to carry stolen goods with their ion cannons; Rogue Squadron provides cover. Our goal is to make sure the people on Gerrard V get their own valuables back. Atmospheric insertion will put us a hundred kilometers west of Harazod, and then we’ll come in over the ocean at low altitude to let the curve of the planet hide our exact approach vector.”

Commander Salm, the balding man, cleared his throat. “There are no orbital defenses to speak of, but Harazod itself has a number of turbolasers, missile batteries, local light armor, and a squadron of TIE fighters. Those defenses are the only reason Dannal’s held his position long enough to loot the planet. They’re substantial, but they should be no danger to our bombers if Rogue Squadron does its job.”

Rieekan stepped to the center again. “The Independence is already on its final approach to Gerrard V. We’re launching in less than two hours. If you have any questions, address them to your squadron leaders. Otherwise, to your fighters.”

The assembled pilots, Rogue and air wing alike, began to rise from their seats.

Mara swallowed down her unease. Why do I know this planet?

---

The Rogues stood opposite the twelve members of Commander Salm’s squadron.

Always an uphill battle, Wedge thought ruefully. After the briefing, he and Luke had quickly put together assignments for the mission: Luke’s One Flight would be the spearhead, cracking the ring of turbolasers and missile batteries to create a safe gap for the bombers. Zev’s Three Flight would split, with each two-ship element escorting a three-ship section of Y-wings. Wedge’s Two Flight would be on high cover, watching for any unexpected interlopers and swinging to support either One Flight or Three Flight, depending on how the mission unfolded. It was a simple plan, one the Rogues could execute without running simulations they simply didn’t have time to fly. Salm’s Y-wings were two-seat bombers, with the gunner providing some defense from the top-side turret; between that capability and the X-wings, it should have been adequate.

Unfortunately, Commander Salm had concerns.

“This really doesn’t look like a sufficient escort, Skywalker,” Salm said. “Four X-wings to cover six of my Y-wings?”

“Two elements of X-wings to cover your two sections of Y-wings,” Luke corrected. “And that’s the close escort. The rest of Rogue Squadron will be nearby and can offer additional support if anything goes wrong.”

Salm pursed his lips. “When I heard about the new combat doctrine your squadron was working on, I was interested. I didn’t think I’d be depending on it firsthand.”

“We’re the most flexible and capable squadron you’ve ever had run escort,” Wedge said, attempting to reassure the other man.

Salm wasn’t reassured. “I saw the after-action report from Barkhesh. But that wasn’t a close escort mission.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Luke agreed, “but we’ve been simming these scenarios and we’re ready to fly it.”

Ready to fly it might be a stretch. Wedge took a surreptitious look around at the Rogues. We really needed more recovery time after Corellia. Six hours of rack time, a bite to eat, then straight to briefing and now cockpits. We’re all tired, even if some of us haven’t realized it.

“As long as you don’t expect us to change our attack patterns,” Salm said, “I’ll trust you to do your part.”

“We’re not asking anyone to change their squadrons on our behalf,” Luke agreed. “You do your part, we’ll do ours, and we accomplish the mission.”

Salm snorted, but he seemed amused. “You Rogues aren’t quite what S’man described. From how he talked, I thought one of you would have pointed a blaster at me by now.”

Mara did not look ashamed.

“I’m willing to give it a try,” Salm continued. “Not that we have much choice. We’ll see you in the air, Commander.”

---

Luke’s breathing steadied as he dropped into the cockpit of his X-wing. “Snugged down, Artoo?” he asked his astromech as he began strapping in.

The droid warbled an affirmative.

He pulled his flight helmet on. “Good. Let’s get through preflight.”

Pilot and droid began running through the pre-flight checklist. It demanded concentration, and Luke put aside his unease about the hasty mission to focus on the task at hand. Get your fighter ready to fly. You’ve prepared your people the best you can. The mission will take care of itself.

“Fully fueled. Six proton torpedoes loaded, configured to fire one at a time. All four cannons show good diagnostics, and we’re firing offset pairs.” He frowned. “What’s our zero range?” he asked, referencing the point where the fire from all four laser cannons would converge on a single point.

Artoo warbled.

“Yes, seven hundred and fifty meters is what I wanted for this. We’re going to be taking longer shots at ground targets.” He checked the comm board. “Comm channels configured for Flight, Squadron, and Fleet.” He clicked on the flight channel. “Rogue Two, comm check,” he called.

There was an eight-second pause before Mara answered. “Comm is five by five, Leader.”

Something struck him as wrong. She looked uneasy in the briefing, too. I thought it was the mission. “Two, are you okay?”

There was another pause before she answered. “Fit to fly, Lead.”

I don’t like that answer from Mara. “Are you sure?”

“Just nerves.”

“Copy.” Luke grimaced. It’s not just nerves. But there’s a mission in front of us and we have almost no time left. He clicked the comm off, leaving him alone with Artoo in the cockpit. “Inertial compensator set at zero point nine. Shield generators are reading green on diagnostic and ready to power up when we’re off the deck. Sensors passed self-test. Auxiliary power cells are charged. Light the engines, Artoo.”

The X-wing’s four Incom 4L4 fusial thrust engines thrummed to life, felt as much as heard at low power.

Luke frowned. “Artoo, did the number two engine show an amber light on the diagnostic panel for a second? I’ve never seen that before.”

The astromech whistled, paused, then warbled a lower tone.

“Shut the engine down and restart it. Let’s see if it does it again.”

The light remained green through the restart procedure.

“Again.”

Solid green light without so much as a flicker.

“Suggestions, Artoo?” Luke asked. The droid whistled a reply, and Luke read the translation. “Yeah, we can’t scrub the mission. Do you think it’s safe to fly?” After another series of chirps in Binary, Luke shook his head. “Engine response curve is normal, power is normal, and it’s checking out fine. Okay. We fly the mission and afterward we tell the maintenance crew to rebuild that engine before we fly this bird again.”

Artoo whistled an agreement, and they returned to the checklist.

Too many worries piling up. Breathe, Luke.

“Rogue Group, we’re under five minutes from reversion,” Wedge’s warning crackled in his ear. “Report readiness to flight leaders.”

“Rogue Three, ready to fly,” Hobbie said immediately.

“Rogue Four, ready,” Puck said, uncharacteristically clipped.

Luke waited for several seconds. “Rogue Two?”

“Four lit and ready,” Mara said.

Luke clicked over to broadcast on the squadron channel. “One Flight, ready to launch.”

“Three Flight, ready,” Zev answered.

“Two Flight, ready,” Wedge echoed.

Outside the magcon field protecting Aux Two from vacuum, the mottled blur of hyperspace collapsed into the dark of stars. “Rogue Leader to Flight Control, requesting clearance to launch.”

“Flight Control, Rogue Leader. Clearance granted. Good hunting, Rogues.”

May the Force be with us, he thought as he fed power to the repulsorlifts.

---

The Independence poured squadrons of starfighters into space.

Mara frowned as she followed Skywalker through a gentle arcing curve over the warship’s hull. She looks strange without her support ships. Exposed.

And then Gerrard V came into view.

A shiver of wrongness ran down her spine. Something’s not right. What am I missing?

Six Y-wings were out ahead of Rogue Squadron, already diving toward atmosphere. Skywalker accelerated and she followed.

“Three Flight, form up on the Y-wings,” he said. “One Flight, on me. Two Flight, be ready to pounce if something goes wrong. Just as we briefed.”

Fire began to lick at the nose of her X-wing as she followed Skywalker’s dive into atmosphere. The fighter shuddered, bounced a bit by turbulence. Mara kept her hand loose on the stick, allowing the fighter to self-correct instead of wrestling its alignment. She drifted further off Skywalker’s wing than she normally allowed herself, waiting for the initial insertion to pass so she could tighten up again.

She spared a glance at her rear scopes. The air wing’s X-wings and A-wings had spread out into a cloud, sections of fighters taking up patrol lanes to protect the warship – and intercept any strays that fled past the strike group heading down into atmosphere.

The fighter steadied as the atmosphere grew thicker, and she tightened her grip on the controls. Focus, she told herself, pushing down the unease that kept creeping up. The mission. Do the mission. There are people counting on me.

Skywalker tore through a bank of clouds as they approached the ocean; Mara glanced back to ensure Hobbie was properly offset before following him in.

Rain. Why do I smell rain? “Miss,” she called, an abbreviation of her astromech’s R4-MS designation, “check environmental controls.”

OPTIMAL. The word flashed on her monitor.

“We’re still sealed? I think we’re getting bleed-through from the atmosphere.”

NO BREACH DETECTED. SEALS INTACT.

Skywalker leveled off, skimming a hundred meters above the ocean. Mara followed, half consciously and half reflexively. “Check again,” she said, fighting down the unease yet again. It threatened to erupt as full-fledged fear. What’s wrong with this picture?

SEALS INTACT, her droid repeated.

She shivered, felt goosebumps rise on her skin under her flight suit. The Force? she dared ask herself.

Don’t reach out. Don’t flare. Don’t listen. Visibility is death, Mara. She touched her own walls. No. I’m not reaching. Not listening. Not the Force.

Mara shivered again. Why am I so cold?

And…afraid?

“One Flight, s-foils to attack position,” Skywalker called calmly. Ahead, she saw his wings split open.

Lightning flashed, and she blinked. The sky was clear. What? What was that?

“Two?” Skywalker asked, and Mara registered the concern in his voice.

“Here, Lead.”

“S-foils?”

Mara blinked and glanced out her cockpit. Her wings were still locked together in transit configuration. She shook her head, reached up, and flicked the s-foil actuator. “Locked, Lead.”

“Are you okay, Two?”

“Flying, Lead.”

“City is coming up, One Flight,” Skywalker said, his voice shifting from concern to professional. “Switch your targeting computers to ground-attack mode. Three and Four, fall back half a kilometer and get ready to spike anything that goes after me and Two.”

Acknowledgements echoed in Mara’s ear. She wasn’t sure if her own voice was among them.

---

Harazod rose on the horizon as the X-wings skimmed the waves. Buildings ranged from three stories to twenty, much taller than almost anything on Tatooine. Luke glanced at his scopes one more time. Two Flight is twenty kilometers back. Three Flight and the Y-wings are another twenty behind them. That’s enough time for us to open the way.

“Artoo, paint me targets,” he said. “Transmit complementary targets to Mara’s droid. Let’s see how much damage we can do while staying in range to cover each other.” He clicked for transmission. “Here we go,” he said. “Three, watch our backs.”

His comm didn’t require an answer from Mara, but her lack of response bothered him.

A tall Taim & Bak XX-10 turbolaser tower was the nearest target. The barrels were upright and the weapon was clearly powered, but the crew manning it was clearly unprepared for the sudden arrival of the X-wings. Luke started firing at eight hundred meters, beyond his weapon convergence point, and kept pumping fire into the tower until it exploded.

Off his port wing, Mara was firing at a tower three hundred meters north of his target. Her lasers were firing in quad-mode, each pull of the trigger loosing a blast from all four cannons together.

Her first two bursts missed. The third and fourth hulled the tower; the fifth set off the tower’s stored Tibanna gas reserves, and a fireball erupted.

She missed an unopposed shot. Luke was already banking on his next target, a ground-to-air concussion missile battery. He held the trigger, pouring fire at the target; it launched a missile back at him but was foiled by a laser blast setting off the warhead long before it could reach the X-wing. Mara missed a shot at a static target before the Empire started shooting back.

Something is wrong.

He left the missile battery burning, saw another XX-10 on fire, oriented his nose on the next target Artoo had already fed his targeting computer. “Two,” he said. “Two, are you okay?”

Mara was maneuvering, her nose coming around on a target. “Flying here, boss,” she said, two heartbeats too slow.

“Boss, heads-up,” Hobbie broke in. “A concealed turbolaser just broke cover. They’re tracking you.”

“Spike it,” Luke ordered. “Two, are you with me?” He jammed his stick forward, losing altitude again to force the Imperial gunners to shoot at him with their own buildings as a backstop.

Except they’re abandoning the planet, Luke reminded himself as a turbolaser blast scorched past close enough to light up his shields and hulled a five-story building, setting it ablaze.

“With you,” Mara finally echoed.

“Garrison TIEs are launching,” Wedge’s voice cut in. “Line fighters, as expected. Moving to intercept.”

“Copy. One Flight, stay on the defenses. Three Flight?”

“We’ll be over the city in another thirty seconds,” Zev said.

The concealed turbolaser that had taken a shot at him exploded, victim of a proton torpedo fired by Hobbie.

“Negative on torpedoes if you’re shooting at anything on the deck,” Luke called, wincing. “We want to minimize collateral damage to civilians.”

Overhead, Two Flight flashed past, engaging the first section of TIEs the Empire had scrambled. Luke pulled back on the stick to climb, looking around at the battlefield.

Multiple fires were already burning around Harazod. Most of them were turbolasers or missile batteries, and even as he watched, Puck threaded laserfire into another ground emplacement and set it ablaze. He’s very good at ground attack, Luke observed distantly. The city’s defenses were compromised but hardly destroyed, and the TIE scramble was uncoordinated. Two of the first five TIEs spiraled back down to the ground and crashed, victims of Rogues who had no interest in letting them get up to combat speed.

And Mara was lagging off his wing.

“Two?” he asked.

Three heartbeats. “On your wing, Leader.”

He fired almost absentmindedly, picking off another turbolaser emplacement with a neat blast, then made a snap decision as the Y-wings approached. “Two, with me. Eleven, Twelve, we’re taking over your escort slot. Switch to ground attack. We’ve got the bombers.”

“Copy, Leader,” Cesi’s voice called, uncertain and confused. “Twelve, on me.”

Luke glanced past his wing at Mara’s X-wing, pacing him but not crisply. “Two, we’ve got the second Y-wing section.”

Four heartbeats. “Copy.”

“Lead,” Wedge’s voice crackled with static and concern. “We’ve got TIE Interceptors inbound. Ninety seconds. They’re coming in even faster than we did and just as low.”

“Interceptors?” Zev asked. “I missed that in the briefing.”

“They weren’t in the briefing,” Wedge said. “They’re broadcasting IFF codes openly. They’re the 128th TIE Interceptor group. Luke, that’s an elite unit, and they weren’t part of the intel package or our plan.”

“Rogues,” Luke said grimly, “finish your targets fast. We’re going to have company real soon.” He flicked the comm channel back to One Flight. “Two? Are you with me?”

Dead air answered his call.

The lack of post-flight maintenance felt wrong to Mara.

Certainly, some part of that feeling was the irritation at her weapons failing over Tyrena. Rieekan had declined to tell her who had handled the T-47 refits. Lacking both the perpetrator and the physical evidence, Mara could only speculate about the cause of failure. Even worse was that she’d never worked on a T-47 herself before, so she was reduced to holographic specification charts and diagrams produced by Skywalker’s R2 to even try guessing what had gone wrong.

Why the commander’s astromech had both stock schematics and details of the Alliance’s combat refit was a mystery of its own, but Mara wasn’t going to push that and risk the cantankerous droid shutting down her access to the information. He’s as bad as Chopper. Worse in some ways, less murderous in others.

“Maybe this power coupling?” Karie hazarded, sticking her finger into the holographic schematic to touch it.

“Maybe.” Mara frowned. “That does link both the main guns and the repeater with the speeder’s on-board power cells. If the bracket wasn’t properly secured, it could have shifted during maneuvers enough to pop the coupler out of position.”

“I was thinking more about the power draw,” Karie said.

Mara squinted at the Aurebesh technical specifications Artoo promptly displayed. “My guns were firing offset,” she said, shaking her head. “If they were linked and firing together, it’d be enough to overload the coupler, but not  while firing one at a time.”

“You weren’t the only one shooting,” Karie pointed out. “I was firing the repeater right up until we went into that last maneuver. We probably overloaded it and when you tried to shoot coming out of that turn, the coupler cooked.”

“That might be it. I wish we had the actual machine to work on so we could tell for sure.”

“I think Rieekan thought you were going to shoot whoever had done the combat refit. There was no way he was going to tell us.”

“I wouldn’t have shot him.”

“And I wouldn’t have guessed that from the look on your face when we were debriefing.”

Mara was saved from responding by the unexpected arrival of the Millennium Falcon into Aux Two.

The battered YT-1300 had already breached the magcon field before the ship-arrival klaxon sounded. “Clear Auxiliary Two,” a harried voice called belatedly. “Light freighter inbound. Clear Auxiliary Two.”

Mara straightened up beside Skywalker’s X-wing and watched the Falcon slide into the hangar like Han Solo owned the Independence. Moving faster than regulation, the Corellian vessel rotated in the air while still sliding over the X-wings, nose coming back around to face the hangar aperture before dropping to its skids in the corner with deceptive gentleness. I know Solo drives Rieekan up a wall, but the man can fly. I wonder what he could do with a starfighter?

The boarding ramp had barely touched the deck before Solo was walking down it. Skywalker appeared simultaneously out of the doorway from Rogue Territory. “Han!” he called, breaking into a trot.

“Luke!” the smuggler said. Even from a distance, Mara could see the genuine smile on Solo’s face.

More of the Rogues entered the hangar, no doubt to meet Solo or see his infamous ship. Mara jerked her head toward the gathering group, received an answering nod from Karie, and the two women walked over as Skywalker gave Solo a very un-officer-like hug.

“…mised me repairs and fuel,” Solo said. “Rieekan also promised me replacement concussion missiles, but apparently there aren’t any Arakyds in the armory. Didn’t realize the Rebellion was using Dymeks.”

“How long are you here?” Skywalker asked.

“A few hours. I was asked to move the Falcon over to your hangar to free up space for the air wing. Chewie and I already patched up the damage from that little skirmish at Corellia, and Her Highness-ness asked me to swing by Mako-Ta. As soon as the crews get the bird fueled, we’ll be on our way again.”

Skywalker’s face was pained for a moment, but then the smile returned. “Then you have enough time to meet the squadron.”

“Sure,” Solo said, turning for the first time to take in the gathering pilots. “This is Rogue Squadron?”

“Yes. You remember Wedge from Yavin. He’s my second-in-command.”

“Antilles,” Solo said. “You’re keeping the kid in line?”

“As much as anyone can,” Wedge said dryly. “If you’ve got some pointers, I’m all ears.”

“You need a Wookiee.” Solo turned and grinned at the towering Chewbacca. “Guaranteed to help.”

The Wookiee chuffed and growled something in Shyriiwook. Mara tried to hide her grimace. I hate not understanding part of a conversation.

Skywalker began to introduce the Rogues to Solo, one by one. Mara watched from the edge of the crowd where she stood with Karie. Skywalker is really bad at formality, she thought. No ranks. No last names. Not even callsigns. Just a first name and a personal bit about each person. Then again, if Solo is half the things I’ve heard about him, he probably likes this approach better.

“And this is Mara,” Skywalker said, at last turning to her. “She’s my wingman.”

Solo turned to her with a cocksure grin and eyed her up and down once. “Mara,” he repeated, likely committing her name to memory. “You certainly didn’t come out of the Imperial Academy,” he added casually. “But you must be pretty good to keep up with Luke.”

“Wedge and Hobbie trained me,” Mara said, crossing her arms and striving to keep her tone even. She had the unsettling feeling that Solo saw more of her in one look than she wanted anyone to see. “So no, I didn’t get drummed out of the Imperial Academy.”

Solo’s grin widened. “Just as well. You didn’t miss much.” He turned back to Skywalker, glanced back at Mara, then at Skywalker again. “You moved on from princesses to redheads?”

“Han,” Skywalker said reproachfully, reddening just a bit.

The smuggler smirked. “Quite a group of reprobates you and Antilles put together. I know half your people by reputation, and if Rieekan keeps putting you out on missions the other half will all be on wanted posters soon.”

“Like you’re one to talk. What’s higher right now, the Imperial bounty or Jabba’s bounty?”

Solo’s posture stiffened just enough for Mara to notice, but his expression never wavered. “Jabba’s. But the Empire’s got a lot more reach, kid.” He looked around at the crowd. “If you ever decide you want to make credits instead of fighting your revolution, you’d have a pretty good crew here.”

Skywalker rolled his eyes. “You never give up, do you, Han?”

“And there are a lot more credits in this if we win the war,” Wes interrupted cheerfully. “Think about the endorsement deals! Hobbie could be a millionaire just off bacta deals.”

Snickers rose from the group, and Mara both chuckled and winced.

“As long as I’m waiting for refueling,” Solo said, “what do you have to drink around here? And do any of you play sabacc?”

---

The interrogation room was stark and white, though the chairs were comfortable enough and Rieekan had brought two battered mugs of caf with him.

Crix Madine sat in the chair away from the door, offering him a dour smile. “Is this really necessary?”

“Yes,” Rieekan said simply, setting one of the mugs down in front of Madine. “I did get this from the officers’ galley. It’s decent. Better than what the alert pilots drink,” he added with a shudder.

Madine picked up the mug. “What do you want to know, Carlist? We both know we have a lot of work to do. The information I brought with me will get stale if we don’t move on it quickly.”

“Then we’ll start with the question we ask every defector: why now?”

“You mean aside from being caught out and scheduled for execution on Orinackra?” Madine grimaced. “The Senate.”

Of all the answers he could have expected, that was not what Rieekan had anticipated. “The Senate?”

“The Senate.” Madine took a long drink of caf, clearly ordering his thoughts. “I’ll try to make this coherent. You’ve been limited on long-range communications, right? Since you evacuated Yavin?”

Rieekan nodded.

“The Emperor dissolving the Imperial Senate changed everything. And given the war you’re fighting and your point of view, I don’t know that you can appreciate what’s changed.” Madine looked down at his mug. “We all know the Senate didn’t have much real power left. Palpatine’s office managed to centralize it, in bits and pieces, during the Clone Wars, but it took almost two decades to finish the job. And you would think, then, that dissolving the Senate doesn’t change much. But it changed almost everything about Imperial governance.”

“How so?” Rieekan asked.

“Palpatine gave regional governors direct control of their territories. And it filters down. Moffs control sectors, governors control systems, planetary governors control individual planets, and so on. It seems like it’d be more efficient and direct, right? Eliminate the bureaucratic controls and let the layers of the dictatorship run things directly.” He took another drink from his mug. “The Death Star was supposed to keep everyone in line – that was Grand Moff Tarkin’s pitch to the Emperor for dissolving the Senate. They needed the Senate to keep all the planetary populations in check; remove the representation, and they may revolt. But the threat of planetary annihilation would make revolt impossible, or at least highly unlikely.”

“And then Skywalker destroyed the Death Star,” Rieekan said.

“And then Skywalker destroyed the Death Star,” Madine repeated. “But the real threat of unrest and revolt hasn’t been the planetary populations. It’s been the Imperial governors.”

Rieekan frowned but listened.

“I suspect Tarkin knew it, too, but we can hardly question him about it. Without the Senate at the center of the galaxy to direct Imperial government, however ineptly or superficially, the governors now have free rein over their territories. And many of them are using that freedom to start consolidating their own power bases.”

“Are you suggesting the Empire is collapsing into inter-governor warfare?” Rieekan asked doubtfully.

“No. Not yet, anyway. None of them seem willing to cross the Emperor himself. But…” Madine hesitated, then stalled with another drink of caf before continuing, “I think the Emperor is encouraging it. He wants the conflict inside the Empire.” He looked up and met Rieekan’s eyes. “I know it sounds crazy. Like I’m suggesting the Emperor wants his own Empire to tear itself apart. I don’t think it goes that far; I think he is allowing the moffs and governors and everyone to wage political warfare against each other, with an eye toward the most effective taking over bigger swathes of territory. It’s no secret that Tarkin was one of the most powerful men in the Empire; maybe this is how Palpatine is finding a replacement.”

“How does this affect the Alliance’s operations, then?”

“I have intelligence on a number of the biggest threats in the Empire. Some of the moffs seem to think the best way to gain power is to focus on governance of their own territory. They’re lower-level threats. Others are actively trying to curtail resistance activity or hunt down Rebel groups. Those are the threats we need to worry about now.” Madine smiled briefly. “Moff Ghorin is a good example. He staged an elaborate deception in an attempt to weaken the Rebellion and specifically expose the Independence task force to attack. Obviously, he failed. But there are plenty more who are willing to step up now and will need to be dealt with.”

“What about the Imperial military? The Navy, the Army, the stormtrooper corps?”

“Politicized to a large degree, but not entirely. A majority of the Empire’s armed forces now fall under control of regional governors. Theoretically, that control is checked by Palpatine’s hand-picked Grand Admirals, who are all loyalists and hold the highest ranks, but twelve officers can’t be everywhere. The only truly independent task force in the entirety of the Empire is the Death Squadron. Admiral Ozzel answers only to Supreme Commander Darth Vader.”

“So how does that lead to your open defection?” Rieekan asked, dragging the conversation back to its starting point.

“The Imperial armed forces are rapidly being politicized, with high-ranking officers happily committing more and more atrocities if they think it’ll secure them power from the governors or from the Emperor himself. General Mohc’s project was horrific; I took risks I shouldn’t have to ensure the Alliance knew what was happening. Risks that led to my exposure.” Madine met Rieekan’s eyes again. “With the Senate gone, Imperial atrocities are going to increase. Massacres are going to become more common. Every governor or admiral with a surplus budget is going to try to turn it into a superweapon or warship or elite operations unit. At least as long as Palpatine’s at the top.”

“That’s the second time you suggested this all hinges on the Emperor,” Rieekan observed.

Madine nodded. “If something were to happen to the Emperor – say one of his Grand Admirals turned traitor and killed him – the Empire would fall apart into a collection of warlords. It’s already a collection of warlords, but right now they all answer to the Emperor.”

Rieekan leaned back in his chair and considered. He’s definitely right about one point; High Command has almost no understanding of how the political picture has changed since the Senate was dissolved. If either Mon Mothma or Princess Leia knows this, they haven’t been talking about it during strategy sessions.

“With Moff Ghorin neutralized,” he said slowly, “what Imperial governor is our most immediate threat, in your estimation?”

Madine waved a hand. “After Gerrard V, Moff Kohl Seerdon will come gunning for you. And he’ll definitely intrude on other governors’ territory to do it.”

“Gerrard V?” Rieekan repeated. “Unless something has happened in the last week, we’ve had no operations on Gerrard V in years.”

“You brought your task force into the Core,” Madine said. “I thought it was here for Gerrard V.”

“I brought the task force into the Core to retrieve you,” Rieekan said. “What’s happening on Gerrard V?”

Madine blinked, apparently recalculating. “Are you familiar with the planet?”

“The name is familiar, but I can’t place it.”

“Gerrard V has been a hotspot of Rebel activity for a decade and a half,” Madine said. “Long before the Corellian Treaty was signed, there were resistance efforts there. Most Core worlds aren’t Rebel-friendly; Gerrard V was an early one, and openly.”

Rieekan paused for a moment, memories clicking into place. “That’s why the name’s familiar. Bail Organa had contact with the local resistance there through the Fulcrum network. The locals went into open revolt a couple years ago and overthrew the Imperial planetary governor.”

“Camon Udeon,” Madine supplied the name. “He successfully overthrew the local governor and crushed the Imperial garrison. It lasted a few weeks before a Star Destroyer task force under Admiral Trynn returned and bombarded the capital city of Harazod. The planet fell back under Imperial control in days.”

“And now?”

“And now the locals are in an open revolt again. Udeon’s son is leading the resistance.” Madine grimaced. “They think they can be the next Lothal. Force the Empire off-world again and this time hold onto their own planet, with or without Alliance backing. You didn’t know about any of this?”

“We’ve been relying on courier ships,” Rieekan said grimly. “The last time we lit up our long-range communications array, we had a Star Destroyer task force breathing down our necks twelve hours later.”

“Imperial Governor Dannal has been preparing an evacuation. Seerdon ordered him to loot everything he can and ship it off-world. Seerdon’s strategy is to ensure that Gerrard V can’t afford to defend itself; either the Alliance would have to commit forces or it’ll fall again in weeks.”

“They haven’t finished the looting?”

Madine shook his head. “Dannal is thorough. If you’re going to stop him, you’ll need to move fast. This deep in the Core, your entire task force is in range to intervene before he finishes. You have a day at best. I’m guessing we’re eight hours away at flank speed?”

Rieekan grimaced. “What sort of orbital defenses does Gerrard V have?”

“Nothing substantial. The local defenses hadn’t been rebuilt after the last revolt.”

Rieekan stood up. “We’ll need to resume this discussion later, Crix.”

“Agreed.” Madine offered a twisted smile. “I have nowhere else to be.”

Even at night, the skies over Coronet glowed well enough for Wedge to clearly see the traffic lanes by naked eye. He checked the T-47’s half-familiar instruments, allowed himself a frustrated sigh, then slid his gaze back up.

“When I heard the plan was armed airspeeders flying in the civilian traffic lanes, I thought, This is a Luke Skywalker plan for sure,” Wes Janson said cheerfully from the gunner seat. “Skyhoppers, sport airspeeders, I just didn’t think the guy actually likes starfighters. Then I find out it’s Rieekan’s plan and I start questioning the sanity of High Command.”

“No, you don’t,” Wedge said absently. “If you were really questioning the sanity of High Command, you’d have to shut up and think about it.”

“I think out loud.”

“You’re loud, anyway. I’m still waiting for evidence on the thinking part.”

Janson tutted at him. “This is why I’m glad Skywalker is the unit commander, not you. His planning leaves a lot to be desired, but he’s not mean.”

“That’s not what you said when he made you polish his boots the second time. And definitely not the third time.”

“His standards are too high. They were definitely good enough after the second round of polish.”

Wedge glanced down again, this time at the datapad on his lap. You shouldn’t do it, he told himself. It’s a security risk.

Yes, it’s a security risk. That’s why you’re not doing it, right? Because you really think the Empire is monitoring an obscure, anonymous Corellian message account that’s been dormant for three years? Four years? Not since the fight with Booster.

He looked ahead at the traffic pattern; the nearest airspeeder was over a hundred meters ahead of him; behind him, another trailed him by nearly a hundred and fifty. Samoc and Cesi were almost two kilometers farther behind, giving no indication they were part of a trained Rebel starfighter squadron on patrol.

Wedge pursed his lips and tapped the connection button on the datapad, allowing it to synchronize with the local comm network to pull messages. This would be easier if I could lie to myself more convincingly.

“Everyone check in,” Luke’s voice crackled on the Rogues’ private encrypted channel. “Lead on Tyrena patrol, all quiet here. Traffic pattern is as expected.”

“Two, three kilometers behind Lead,” Mara reported next. “I think a CorSec speeder was eyeing me a bit ago, but he’s off my scopes again.”

Hobbie was next. “Three in the Bela Vistal pattern. Traffic’s normal, but we caught a bit of chatter on an Imperial channel. It was scrambled, so no idea what they were saying.”

“Four,” Puck said next, “and that traffic looked to me like Viper droid broadcasts. Our comm equipment’s not anything special, but I’d call it north of here, between here and Coronet.”

Wedge cleared his throat. “Five maintaining position in the Coronet pattern,” he said, giving his datapad a covert glance. There were a couple of messages. They’ll wait until later. I don’t need Wes listening to them. “Traffic is light but as expected for the middle of the night.”

“Six maintaining pattern,” Samoc said professionally, “nothing unexpected to report.”

“Lead,” Mara cut in, “do you have sensors on the Imperial garrison north of the city?”

“I will in two minutes,” Luke replied. “Unless I break out of the traffic pattern.”

And the moment we break out of the traffic pattern we’re no longer a covert air patrol, Wedge thought, knowing Luke was running the same calculations.

“Negative,” Mara said. “I think there’s activity on the landing pad, but I’m too far away to get a clean reading. The sensors in these airspeeders are terrible.”

“Bela Vistal group, move through the pattern and hit the lane back to Coronet,” Luke ordered. “Stay with the civilian traffic but make your way back to Five and Six, and see if you can spot those Vipers. Two, stay in the Tyrena traffic while I see if I can get a better look at the garrison.”

Wedge ached to look down at the datapad. Self-control, he told himself. Ice in the veins. It can wait. Especially if this is about to break open.

---

Carlist Rieekan drummed his fingers on the table impatiently. The second-floor conference room in the Coronet Technical Center was empty aside from the Rebel general and one of his aides. “Madine?”

“Just entered the turbolift,” the Twi’lek lieutenant said after a moment. “He’ll be here in twenty seconds.”

“Assuming he doesn’t keep going,” Rieekan muttered. “Corellia was a completely unnecessary risk. After Orinackra, he should have come straight to one of the task forces, not come back here to an Imperial-controlled planet. Even if Corellia isn’t as firmly in the Empire’s pocket as Palpatine thinks.”

The door rotated open smoothly, near-silently, and Crix Madine, formerly of the Empire’s elite Storm Commandos, walked into the conference room like he owned the building, trailed by two men in nondescript local clothing, carrying themselves with the confidence of trained killers.

Rieekan rose from his chair as Madine approached. When they were two meters apart, he extended his hand. “General Madine,” he said. “Your reputation precedes you.”

Madine shook his hand firmly. “General Rieekan. Good to finally meet you in the flesh. Much better than the wanted holos.”

“I would think so,” Carlist said. “Though the war is taking its toll.”

“I imagine so.” Madine slid a chair out and seated himself. “So, let’s talk.”

Rieekan lowered himself back into his chair. “Certainly. And let’s start with why we’re meeting here on Corellia. We both know the Empire’s hunting you. Why risk coming here?”

“Because of Orinackra,” Crix said, settling in, his posture more relaxed than Rieekan expected. “Let’s not pretend we didn’t anticipate a civil war and a rebellion against the Empire. I’ve been making preparations for years, even before I started feeding the Rebel Alliance information. I have contacts and loyalists spread throughout the Imperial Army. But my network is too big for all of it to stay in my head.”

“So you came back here for information,” Rieekan said.

Madine nodded. “I destroyed most of my records when I was arrested, but I had backups here. Without those, I can only provide what I remember.” He held up a datacard. “But this? With this we can inflict real damage on the Empire.”

“Good. Excellent, even,” Rieekan said. “Then let’s get out of here.”

“But here’s where we have a problem,” Madine continued. “As you yourself pointed out, the Empire is actively hunting me. How do I know you can even get me off Corellia and back to your base of operations?” His icy eyes met Rieekan’s. “The Empire planned to execute me once already, and I don’t intend to let them get their hands on me again.”

“Coming with me is your ticket off Corellia. I have a U-wing sitting on the roof ready to extract us and get us off-planet. We can be in the air in three…” His voice trailed off as he caught the flicker of movement out in the dark beyond the transparisteel windows. “Imperial scout walk…”

He didn’t get the observation out before fire rained down from above, hammering the AT-ST until it erupted into a teeth-rattling explosion.

---

Samoc allowed herself a small smile as she glanced back at the burning walker. The heavy repeating blaster chattered, and Cesi made a noise somewhere between angry and delighted. “Second walker down,” the Twi’lek gunner announced.

“That’s a kill for each of us,” Samoc said, failing to keep the pride out of her voice. First time I’ve flown a T-47, but we’ve already got two ground kills.

“Vipers are down.” Puck’s voice was as cheerful as Samoc felt. “We’re back in the traffic pattern, but I doubt our cover will hold much longer.”

“Four, the back window on your canopy looks cloudy,” Hobbie’s voice cut in, concern evident.

“Eight threw up when I pulled out of the attack dive.”

Kit’s voice was hoarse. “I’m usually not facing backwards through these maneuvers.”

“Heads up, Six,” Wedge warned. “We’ve been made. I see CorSec patrol craft on approach.”

“Are we shooting at the locals?” Samoc asked tightly.

“Not if we can help it. CorSec’s not our enemy.” Wedge was silent for a second. “Oh. We’ve got TIE fighters inbound. They’ll be here before CorSec.”

“Lead here,” Luke cut in. “Two and I hit most of the Imps lifting from the Tyrena garrison, but two transports got away. They were loading stormtroopers on our first pass and then disappeared into the civilian traffic.”

Concealment goes both ways, Samoc thought. Great. “Where did the AT-STs come from?” she asked.

“Not sure,” Wedge said. “I didn’t see them in the ground clutter until they started crossing that park toward the tech center. Form up on my wing; we take the TIEs together.”

---

Rieekan risked a glance over the overturned table. E-11 blaster rifles screamed and blaster bolts flashed by so close he could feel the heat as he ducked back down. “Stormtroopers,” he grunted as he raised his blaster pistol.

“The real question is whether they followed me or you,” Madine said conversationally as he leaned out from cover to fire a pair of shots before ducking back to relative safety.

“More likely you,” Rieekan said. “If they were following me, they’d have hit the forces I brought with me first.”

Madine frowned. “You mean your U-wing?”

“No, I mean my starfighter squadron.”

“Starfighter…” Madine’s jaw dropped open. “Wait. Skywalker’s unit? Rogue Squadron?”

Rieekan arched an eyebrow, then winced as a lucky blaster bolt caught the top edge of the table and sent a shower of splinters over him. “You already know about them,” he stated.

“After that stunt Skywalker pulled on Ralltiir, yes, we got briefed. And then there was absolutely no news. Is this the first time you’ve used them since then? That was, what, two months ago?”

“They were off-grid training, and then they raided Barkhesh a week ago.”

“Ah. I was already in Orinackra by then.”

Rieekan leaned out and fired again, this time catching a stormtrooper square in the faceplate and sending the white-armored enemy tumbling to the floor. “They’re holding the door open. Are you coming with me or not?”

---

Wedge coughed on the smoke in the T-47’s cockpit; the last TIE’s final shot had pierced the lightly armored fuselage of his airspeeder, and half a dozen displays were flashing red lights, with warning text scrolling faster than he could read. “Janson?”

“Still with you, boss,” Wes said. The gunner’s usual cheer was now replaced with reptilian coldness. “Last TIE down, but we’ve got six more on approach.”

“Lead? Three?” Wedge asked on the comm. “How far out are you?”

“Too far.” Luke’s voice was tight. “They’ll be on you and Six before we can get there. You’ve got maybe twenty seconds. CorSec pulled back. I don’t think they want to get between us and the Imps. Status?”

Wedge banked the airspeeder and spared a glance off his wing. Samoc’s speeder was in position a hundred and fifty meters away, though it, too, was trailing smoke. He looked the other direction, back at the tech center, and grimaced at the burning U-wing on the landing pad. “Not good. We’re still up but we’ve taken hits. The U-wing’s gone; one of the TIEs got it.”

“TIEs diving on you now,” Luke said. “Hang on, Wedge.”

Wedge reversed his bank, leading Samoc around into a head-to-head pass with the TIEs. Not great with no shields, he concluded grimly, but better than letting them get an angle on us unopposed. “Twelve, Eleven, hold your fire unless you’re certain of your shot,” he warned. “Good chance they don’t know we’ve got gunners in the back. As soon as you start shooting, all bets are off.”

Then a new voice cut in. “Antilles, cut forty degrees north and hold your course,” a Corellian-accented voice ordered.

“Who…?”

“Now,” the man emphasized.

Wedge banked away, Samoc holding formation, presenting their tails to the TIEs. “They’re coming fast,” he said.

“Not for long.”

Dropping like a meteor, far larger than the airspeeders in the now-scattered traffic lanes or the TIEs, a Corellian Engineering Corporation light freighter came rocketing through the blackened sky. Heavy quad guns started pouring out fire on the six TIEs angling on the Rogue airspeeders. Two caught direct hits and exploded; the rest scattered, dropping out of formation. Wedge reversed his turn, bringing his nose around on the TIEs again.

A Wookiee’s roar filled the comm channel.

“Han? Chewie?” Luke sounded baffled. “What are you doing here?”

Wedge finally caught a clear look at the interloper: a battered YT-1300 freighter, disc-shaped with two forward mandibles, an offset cockpit, and unmistakable rust pattern he’d practically memorized the week after the Death Star battle.

“Thought we’d give you a hand, kid,” Han Solo said, calm and cocky as Wedge remembered. “This is my homeworld, after all.”

Rieekan must have had him in reserve, Wedge thought. An extra dejarik piece on the board if everything went sideways. Which it did. Aloud, he said, “Rieekan and Madine are down in the Coronet Technical Center. Rieekan’s U-wing is slag; they’re going to need a ride out.”

“Maybe Rieekan will actually pay his fare,” Solo grumbled. “You Rebels are idealists about everything except the bill.”

The Millennium Falcon dropped like a stone toward the Technical Center, repulsorlifts only kicking in at the last second. The battered smuggler vessel touched down with the force of a falling leaf.

---

Luke glanced over his shoulder. “What’s our tail look like, Zev?”

“CorSec broke off,” the older man said tightly. “Probably ordered out by the local Imperial garrison commander. We’ve got a lone TIE working his way up, maybe two hundred meters over the traffic lane. I think he’s looking for us.”

“Traffic’s too light for us to hide,” Luke said ruefully. “Get ready to take the shot. Don’t wait for him to make us. Two, status?”

“At least the repulsorlifts are still working,” Mara grumbled. “No luck getting either the forward guns or the repeater working. This is why I work on my own fighter, Lead.”

“If you want to lodge a complaint with whoever did these combat refits, I’ll be right behind you.” For the first two minutes of combat, Mara and Karie’s airspeeder had flown well, but during a high-G turn with a TIE fighter, the guns had abruptly failed. Now they were a kilometer ahead of Luke and Zev in the traffic pattern, heading toward Coronet.

Rieekan’s voice crackled on the channel. “Excellent work, Rogue Group. I have the package secured on the Falcon. We’re ready to lift. Rogue Leader, get your people out of there.”

“Working on it, General,” Luke said. “Zev?”

“Ten seconds.”

Use the Force, Luke. Obi-Wan’s words echoed in his ears, and Luke wasn’t sure whether it was a memory or truly audible. He focused and pushed. He could feel the faint tingle of energy, but he was too distracted by the danger, too concerned about his damaged wingman, to sense anything more concrete. If not the Force, then trust my gunner, he told himself.

The heavy repeater thundered. “Got him,” Zev drawled, as calm as if he was reporting on the daily meal in the Independence mess.

Luke blew out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Good shot, Nine.”

“Rogue Group, this is the Hydruga,” a female voice spoke on the encrypted channel. “We’re lifting out of the Coronet spaceport. CorSec and the Imps are going to start looking at us sideways when we open the ramps mid-air, so load up quick.”

“Three’s element first,” Luke ordered. “Then Five’s element. Then mine.”

Y-4 transports were built with six cargo ramps; when the bulk hauler landed, almost the entire the cargo hold could be exposed, allowing a prepared crew to unload it in a fraction of the time a normal cargo ship took. The Hydruga, however, had been refit as a stealth hauler for the T-47s. An airspeeder would mag-clamp to the cargo ramp, which would then raise and secure the T-47 inside the Y-4, out of sight and ready for off-world transport.

By the time Luke could see the lumbering Y-4, three of the cargo ramps had already been closed. Wedge nailed his final approach, compensating for the Hydruga‘s slow but steady climb across his vector, sliding neatly into position before the clamps secured the speeder. The ramp rotated up into position, taking Wedge out of view.

“Lead,” Mara abruptly called, voice tight. “Three TIEs on approach. Aborting my landing pattern.”

“Get on the Hydruga,” Luke ordered. “You have no guns.”

“Lead…”

“That’s an order, Two.”

Ahead, he could see Mara’s airspeeder wobble, but she committed to the docking pattern instead of breaking off. One less thing to worry about.

“Rogue Leader,” the Hydruga‘s comm officer said, “we need you on board now. We’re near max altitude for your repulsorlifts, and the longer we stay down here, the more attention we’re going to attract.”

Luke grimaced as he calculated. “That leaves three TIEs at your back, Hydruga. They’re going to chase us all the way up the climb.”

“Like hell they will,” Han’s voice called. “Just get that crate on the transport, kid, and get out of here.”

Ahead, barely visible, the TIE formation continued on an arrow-straight course for the escaping Rebel transport until a streak of smoke and light angled up from the city below; the lead TIE fighter exploded. Concussion missile, Luke realized. 

“We’re waiting on you, Lead,” Wedge said.

Luke committed to the landing approach. Don’t chase the kills. Finish the mission and get out, he told himself.

---

The Hydruga‘s hold was cramped with six T-47 airspeeders and a dozen Rogues. The atmospheric buffeting had fallen away to the steady vibration of a transport in hyperspace. The T-47s were still clamped to the loading ramps, nose-down and nearly vertical. Wedge managed to find a moment of quiet by climbing up his T-47 and seating himself on the rear radiator, his head brushing the top of the cargo hold.

Once he felt confident he wasn’t in imminent danger of falling, he pulled his datapad out of his pocket and powered up the screen. There’s no guarantee Booster reached out, he told himself. Don’t be disappointed.

The dormant account only had a handful of messages, most of them advertisements. None of the remaining messages had Booster’s code, but one of them bore Mirax’s.

Wedge punched it up. It was text-only, no holo.

Wedge,

I don’t know when or if you’ll see this, but I wanted you to know that my father was arrested by CorSec. Inspector Horn caught him dead to rights with a cargo hold full of blaster rifles. I know the two of you didn’t part ways on the best of terms, but you should still know what happened to him. He’s looking at five years on Kessel.

I still have the Skate – Father was working with a partner on the job and wasn’t using his ship.

Send me a message when you can, if you still want to after joining the Empire.

–Myra

The message was dated three years ago, just weeks after Wedge had left for the Academy.

“Independence Control, this is Rogue Leader. Requesting launch clearance for two X-wings from Auxiliary Two hangar, patrol slot Gamma-Three,” Luke said after glancing at the datapad sitting propped against the side panel in his cockpit.

Several seconds passed before a female voice answered. “Two X-wings, Rogue Leader?”

“Affirmative, Rogue Leader and Rogue Seven,” he answered.

More seconds passed. “Clearance granted, Rogue Leader. Good luck.”

Luke switched over to a private channel with Tycho. “Ready to go, Seven?”

“Four lit and all systems green,” Tycho confirmed, his voice as precise as always. “On your wing.”

The two X-wings slipped through the magcon field and out into the dark vacuum of space. Luke’s scopes came alive with sensor contacts, both near and distant, as he headed out on his designated patrol route with Tycho covering him.

At the center of the patrol zone sat the Independence and its support ships. The task force was noticeably smaller than it had been during the ambush almost two months ago; the medical frigate Redemption and two of the Corellian corvettes were conspicuously absent, dispatched on some mission unrelated to Rogue Squadron’s activities. Probably took a squadron of fighters with them, wherever they went. But it’s not our problem.

“Seven, Lead,” Tycho’s voice crackled over the Rogues’ comm channel. “Control didn’t seem happy with our launch.”

“You noticed that?”

“Hard not to.”

Luke considered for a moment before speaking again. “We took a standard patrol slot,” he said at last. “Control expected us to patrol it the same way the air wing does.”

“Ah.” Tycho went quiet as the two fighters took up the patrol route, thirty kilometers away from the Independence. The patrols lasted four hours, with four elements on patrol at any given time; between the primary air wing and the squadrons off the Battle Dog, it was no small commitment to keep local space secure for the task force.

Tycho seemed content with minimal chatter as Luke led the patrol through its designated route. Occasionally one of them would pick up a distant contact, always a bit of ship wreckage or a stray asteroid, the other would confirm it and tag it as harmless, and the talking would cease again. But as they neared their third hour on patrol, Luke was surprised by an unexpected question.

“Seven, Lead,” Tycho said. “Did you know Biggs Darklighter?”

“Why do you ask?” Luke asked.

“When I was at the academy on Prefsbelt, I knew him.” There was something in Tycho’s voice that Luke hadn’t heard before. “He was from Tatooine.”

“Tatooine isn’t that small,” Luke said, unable to keep the smile entirely out of his voice.

“Darklighter used to talk about his friend back home. Said he’d have been at the top of our class if he could get his uncle to let him off the moisture farm. That was you he was talking about, wasn’t it?” The question wasn’t really a question; Tycho had clearly already drawn the conclusion.

“Biggs was my best friend. We spent a lot of hours flying little Skyhoppers. He came from one of the wealthy families on Tatooine, and I definitely didn’t, but it never mattered to him.” Luke shook his head. “We used to say we were a couple of shooting stars. The best bush pilots in the Outer Rim. We just needed to get off-planet and make something of ourselves.”

“What happened to him?” Tycho asked. “I know he jumped ship, but I never heard about him afterward.”

“He died covering me in the trench, when we attacked the Death Star.” The old familiar grief choked him for a moment. “He and Wedge covered my run. Wedge took a bad hit from the TIEs chasing us and I ordered him out because he couldn’t keep up. Biggs took the next shot and died.”

“And then you made the shot that destroyed the Death Star,” Tycho finished.

“Not quite so clean. Han Solo and Chewbacca came back in the Millennium Falcon and shot the TIEs still chasing me off my back.”

“Solo?” Tycho repeated. “The officer who got drummed out of the Imperial Navy?”

“One and the same,” Luke acknowledged.

“Sounds like the Empire’s trained most of the Rebellion’s best pilots.”

“Are you including yourself in that list?”

There was silence for a moment. “I didn’t mean to…”

Luke laughed. “Don’t worry about it, Tycho.” He sobered. “Most of the Rogues are here because of what the Empire has done. Lost families and friends, mostly.” He considered for a moment. “Not everyone, though. Hobbie still has family on Ralltiir, though he doesn’t talk about it at all. And Wes has family on Taanab. Samoc has a sister somewhere else in the Alliance. But that doesn’t fix everything we’ve lost along the way.”

Tycho was silent at that.

“I’m sorry,” Luke said after a moment. “I was there. After it happened.”

“Alderaan?”

“Yes.”

Tycho was quiet long enough that Luke began to think he had overstepped. When the question came, it seemed like a change of topic. “So why am I flying this patrol with you, rather than your usual wingman?”

“Preparation,” Luke told him. “We’ve built Rogue Squadron around pairs. But General Rieekan already threw a wrench in our plans with the new fighters.”

“The A-wings and Y-wings,” Tycho said.

“Exactly. We built the squadron as an X-wing unit. But when we ran everyone through the simulators, our existing pairings don’t translate well to the new fighters. Let’s say we need to launch an A-wing interception. I should have you in the cockpit for that, right?”

“That’s what the scores suggest.”

“I agree. But your usual wingman, Valent, didn’t score well in the A-wing. So do I put him with you? Or do I put someone else on your wing who shows aptitude for the platform?”

“So we’re rotating wingmen.”

“Not exactly. But even in our X-wings, if something happens and we lose pilots, we need to be able to reform pairs from whoever is left, and do it during the mission. I doubt you’ll ever be my permanent wingman, but I need to be able to fly with you in a pinch.”

Tycho seemed to need time to absorb the answer. “So, your usual wingman…”

“Mara?” Luke asked.

The hesitation was long. “She’s not the talkative type,” he ventured slowly, “so I haven’t asked, but that pendant she wears? I’d swear it’s Alderaanian.”

“Could be. I really don’t know.”

“Do you know where she got it?”

“Like you said,” Luke said dryly, “she’s not the talkative type. So no, I don’t know, and I haven’t asked.” He pondered for a moment. “Why do you ask?”

“Because I keep thinking about home,” Tycho said, his voice wobbling on the last syllable.

Luke opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again. Anything I can offer is too little against the death of a whole planet, he understood. I know Leia mourns it, too, but she keeps herself so busy that she barely lets herself think about it.

They flew the rest of the patrol with a minimum of comm exchanges – only the professional, clipped words necessary, Luke flying with a wingman still mourning the loss of his world.

---

Wedge had been moderately surprised at Rieekan’s suggestion to meet in Rogue Territory. He was far more surprised, however, when Rieekan showed up alone, with no aides accompanying him.

He wasn’t at all surprised when Luke showed up four minutes late, his astromech droid in tow.

“General,” Luke said as he cleared the door into the briefing room. “Sorry I’m late. I was on a patrol with Puck and we had an unscheduled freighter arrival.”

“Problem?” Wedge asked.

Luke shook his head. “Cargo that got diverted because of a stray Imperial patrol.”

Rieekan gestured at the arc of chairs near the room’s big holoprojector.

Wedge took the nearest chair; Luke sat next to him.

The hologram that shimmered into existence was a uniformed Imperial officer. A general, Wedge noted after evaluating the man’s rank plaque.

“This is Crix Madine,” Rieekan said. “Imperial Army general. He specializes in counterinsurgency operations and tactics. He’s personally trained an elite group called the Storm Commandos, hand-picked from the stormtrooper corps.”

“He sounds like a problem,” Wedge commented.

“He’s also been quietly feeding us information for over two years now,” Rieekan continued wryly. “He became disillusioned with the Empire some time before that. We’ve been trying to get him over the fence since before the battle of Yavin, but it’s been complicated for someone as visible and high-ranking as Madine to slip away.”

“Where do we come in?” Luke asked.

“Madine took leave from his post, intending to complete his defection. He got picked up by the Imperial Security Bureau and shipped to Orinackra, but some Alliance-friendly mercenaries broke him out. Now he’s returned to his homeworld, Corellia. We’re going to meet him there and bring him back to the Independence.”

“Does he know that?” Wedge asked.

Rieekan nodded. “He’s aware we’re coming, and we have a rendezvous scheduled. In a public building.”

“How does Rogue Squadron fit in?” Luke was studying the hologram intently. “We’re not exactly Intelligence or special forces.”

Rieekan leaned over and touched a button on the holoprojector. The image of Madine washed out in static and was replaced by a holographic tactical map. Coronet City, Wedge realized, an unexpected lump in his throat. I haven’t been back there since the night Booster and I talked for the last time.

“Corellia is nominally controlled by the Empire. The biggest shipyards there are turning out warships for the Imperial Navy. The local police call themselves the Corellian Security Forces, or CorSec, and they don’t have any love for the Empire or the Rebellion. The Empire maintains scattered garrisons across Corellia as a stopgap measure. If someone raises the alarm over Madine’s defection, or the Imperial Security Bureau catches up again, or something else unexpected happens, the Empire will have forces airborne and on us before we can extract. I need Rogue Squadron flying as a combat air patrol over Coronet City when I meet with Madine until we’ve successfully made it off-world.”

“A dozen X-wings over Coronet will raise some eyebrows,” Wedge said dryly. “Or any starfighters, really. Even if we stuffed the squadron in Z-95 Headhunters, someone will take note if we’re loitering.”

Rieekan tapped another button. “Which is why you won’t be flying your X-wings,” he said as the Coronet image was replaced by a rotating wireframe of an airspeeder. “Incom T-47 sport airspeeders. They’re Incom-standard, two-seat craft used by civilians for all sorts of purposes. Their flight envelope is very similar to an Incom T-16 Skyhopper, which makes Rogue Squadron uniquely suited to fly them after your recent training exercises.” He gestured at the hologram. “They’re fast, light repulsorlift craft. We’ve been refitting a stock of them for patrol and defense work. The airspeeders we have for you are armed with two forward-facing blaster cannons and a rear-facing heavy repeating blaster on a gimbal rig for a gunner. The firepower isn’t even close to what your X-wings carry, but you should be able to blend in with civilian air traffic.”

“So we’re on patrol, but we’re an invisible patrol,” Luke said. “And if the Empire shows up, you have air support.” He frowned. “These are airspeeders, not spacefaring craft. How do we get on and off the planet?”

“We’ve been refitting a captured Imperial Y-4 dropship for ferrying T-47s into combat zones. It’s big enough to carry six airspeeders mag-clamped behind six exterior hatches. You get into atmosphere, they drop the hatches open, and all six of you deploy immediately. Getting out is the same way.” Rieekan turned to look at Wedge. “Captain, I’m assuming you can train your unit to blend into local Coronet air traffic.”

Wedge kept his face carefully blank. “I think we can manage. It’s been a while since I’ve been to Coronet, but I imagine it hasn’t changed much.”

“No, it hasn’t,” Rieekan confirmed.

“How are you getting on and off planet?” Luke asked.

“That’s outside what you need to know for this mission,” Rieekan reproved him mildly.

“What kind of response can we expect if someone raises the wrong alarm?” Wedge rubbed his jaw.

“There’s a local garrison just outside Coronet with squads of stormtroopers, LAAT/le patrol gunships, AT-STs, and a handful of quick-response TIEs. Expected response time is slow; almost anything requiring an official response is handled by CorSec.”

“And you don’t think CorSec will intervene here?” Luke looked doubtful.

“Unlikely. After the jailbreak on Orinackra, the Empire wants to execute Madine, but they don’t want anything public. If CorSec arrests him, it becomes a public record with holograms taken and Imperial officials being asked why a decorated general like Crix Madine is in stun cuffs. Imperial response will be Imperial.” Rieekan tapped a button and the holoprojector powered down. “You’re launching in twelve hours, and I don’t have simulators available for your pilots. We have six of the refit airspeeders ready to go, and each one can take two crew members, a pilot and a gunner. I’ll let you handle your preparations.” He looked between the two men. “Do you have any more questions?”

Luke shook his head.

Half a dozen possible questions flitted through Wedge’s head, but he decided none of them would actually help operational readiness. “No, sir.”

“Good. I’ll see you both back here on the Independence when this is over. Good luck, gentlemen.”

“General,” both Rogues said in unison.

When the hatch had slid shut behind Rieekan, Wedge looked over at Luke. “I told you the Skyhoppers were a bad idea.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I should have told you the Skyhoppers were a bad idea.”

“Yes, you should have.”

---

It may have been the night cycle on the Liberty, but Hera Syndulla was not asleep.

It was easier five years ago, she told herself as she rubbed her eyes, set her datapad down, and reached for the battered durasteel mug of caf. The early days of Phoenix cell. Or before that, when it was just the crew of the Ghost. I didn’t have a star cruiser and squadrons of starfighters and support ships and troops all looking to me for orders.

Back with Kanan.

The caf was hot and burned its way down her throat, masking the ache in her chest. She set the mug down just as her door chimed. It opened a second later without her permission; Sabine Wren wasn’t famous for her patience.

“I finally got Jacen down,” Sabine said, half-yawning. “If I had known you couldn’t sleep either, I’d have brought him here.”

“Then I’d never get through these reports,” Hera muttered. “Though I think they’re starting to reproduce on their own.”

“I don’t think that’s how it works, Hera,” Sabine snorted.

“That’s because you haven’t read the nonsense in some of these reports. I swear, some of my officers bicker worse than…” The words died in her throat. Than you and Ezra did.

If Sabine had picked up the drift of her thought, she chose to ignore it. “I take it you don’t want more reports, then?” she asked innocently, holding up a handful of datacards fanned out like sabacc cards.

Hera groaned. “Are you torturing me because I asked you to watch Jacen?”

“Torture is such a strong word. Besides, these are the latest datacards from the Independence courier.”

Exhaustion vanished, and Hera’s eyes widened as she reached for them. “Give me those.”

Sabine pulled them back. “Next time, you put Zeb in charge of Jacen.”

“Better Zeb than Chopper.” Hera’s fingers finally closed around the cards, and Sabine relented. She riffled through them quickly and selected two with the most promising labels, then slotted them into her datapad.

“Are those reports on…?”

“You know, these are classified above your level,” Hera retorted as she scrolled through the listing of contents in the file. “Yes. Yes, these are squadron evaluation and readiness reports, after-action reports, rosters.”

And there it was.

Unit: Rogue Squadron
Station: Independence
CO: Cmdr Luke Skywalker
XO: Cpt Wedge Antilles
Status: Active

“They’re back on the Independence,” Hera breathed. “And the roster. Mara is flying as Rogue Two now.” She continued to scroll, frowned, then backed up. “This is odd.”

“What is?”

“Wedge is flying as Rogue Five. Shouldn’t he be Rogue Four?” Hera’s frown deepened. “No. The whole squadron isn’t numbered the standard way, or they’d have a flight officer leading the third and fourth elements and lieutenants flying in the wingman positions. This looks like pairs.”

Sabine shrugged. “You were Phoenix Leader, not me,” she said. “Maybe it’s something new.”

“Maybe.” Hera flipped through the attached files. “There’s a preliminary writeup here by Wedge. New experimental combat doctrine.” She flicked back to the roster and stared at it again. Pairs. And Mara is flying with Commander Skywalker. A lekku twitched. “Looks like they’ve already flown a combat mission since they returned. Ever heard of Barkhesh?”

“No, but there are a lot of planets in the galaxy.”

“They engaged the local garrison,” Hera continued as she skimmed the after-action report. “Blew up some TIE fighters and light armor and extracted again with a shuttle full of cargo. No losses.” Next one, she told herself as she ejected the card.

“Correspondence?” Sabine asked as Hera slotted another datacard.

“Yes,” Hera said. “Hoping there’s…yes. Messages for me.”

There were a number of messages, most of them addressed to ranking personnel, not Hera directly, but three were specifically for her.

The first message was from General Rieekan.

Rogue Squadron returned safely to the Independence. All personnel safe. Squadron will be commencing action soon. Don’t show up after every mission.

Hera snorted at the reprimand.

The second was from Colonel S’man. She opened it, read the first sentence, and deleted it.

The third message was the one she’d hoped for.

Hera,

I’m safe with Rogue Squadron. We returned from extended training successfully.

Captain Antilles and Lieutenant Klivian still hold themselves to the terms of your agreement on Yavin. Commander Skywalker is a good man and leader and has treated me fairly. I’m staying here, where I’m useful.

If I need help, I will reach out to you.

-Mara

Her heart twisted in her chest at the words. It was short and clipped and barely a message. That sounds exactly like Mara, she told herself.

Sabine leaned in; Hera angled the datapad so she could read it.

“That’s good, right? That’s what you wanted.”

“What I wanted was Mara on the Liberty,” Hera muttered.

“She’s not a kid anymore, Hera. Any more than I am or Ezra was.” Sabine’s voice was gentle but it carried a core of beskar. “If this is what she wants, it’s not your job to stop it.”

“Isn’t it? I was responsible after…”

“Yes, you were responsible. But that time’s over. It’s been over for a while now.” Sabine laid a hand on her shoulder. “Besides, Wedge and Hobbie will keep her safe.”

“You really think a starfighter cockpit is safe?”

“The whole galaxy is dangerous, especially for her. But they’ll look after her. And if Skywalker earned Mara’s trust, he has to be worth following.”

Hera sighed. “You know it was never easy letting you go off on your own, either. Even worse after we lost Kanan and Ezra both.”

“I know. But you have to trust her, Hera. And Kanan would tell you to trust in the Force.”

Trust in the Force, Hera thought. It’d be easier to do that if Mara trusted the Force, too.

Rieekan was waiting in his office when Luke and Wedge arrived. The two men were ushered through with no fanfare or delay. Rieekan is a busy man, Luke told himself. Odd that he has time for us.

“Commander, Captain,” Rieekan said without rising from his desk. “Sit.”

Luke took the chair on the left, Wedge on the right. “Sir,” Luke offered, a nod of respect.

Rieekan looked from one man to the other. “According to my shuttle crew, all the supplies were successfully recovered. How heavy were Imperial defenses?”

Wedge answered. “We engaged several squadrons of TIE fighters and one squadron of TIE bombers. Ground defenses around the spaceport included turbolaser batteries and AT-ST walkers.”

“Losses?”

“No pilots lost,” Luke offered. “One X-wing badly damaged. Routine wear and tear on everything else.” He considered for a moment before adding, “We did use a number of proton torpedoes.”

“No pilot losses,” Rieekan echoed. He leaned back in his chair as though considering. “And the new two-ship elements? How did they work across the squadron in actual combat?”

“Effectively. There’s more training to do, of course. Valent got target-fixated in a bad way. Klivian and Naeco need clearer calls, at least until they start thinking more alike.” Wedge looked satisfied. “But overall, it worked like we had planned and trained for.”

Rieekan studied Wedge and Luke in turn. “You have managed to assemble a very good unit of pilots,” he said slowly. “Exceptional, even. Have either of you worked on strategic mission planning? Not tactical mission planning.”

“I’m not sure I know the difference, sir,” Luke said.

“Tactical mission planning is typically conducted at the squadron or wing level,” Rieekan explained. “You evaluate the tactical situation – in the case of Barkhesh, the location and number of ground defenses, the size of the local Imperial garrison, response time by TIE squadrons, and so forth, and plan your mission to the best of your ability around those factors. Strategic mission planning happens at a higher level with less tactical detail. In this case, deciding whether to launch a mission to Barkhesh or a mission elsewhere instead. We decide how many pilots we can risk, what resources to allocate, and acceptable casualtie rates for the completion of a mission.”

The acceptable casualty rate is zero, Luke immediately answered in his head, but the words didn’t make it to his voice. But the battle of Yavin puts a lie to that. Ninety percent casualties were hideous but necessary when the target was a planet-killing superweapon.

Rieekan apparently read the internal considerations on Luke’s face. “And yes, that means at the command staff level we had both acceptable and projected casualties for the Barkhesh mission.”

“What was considered acceptable, sir?” Luke couldn’t help but ask.

Rieekan was silent for a long moment. “Given our current shortages, the strategic planners suggested thirty-three percent casualties would be acceptable for a single squadron mission of this importance and risk. Projections were for twenty-five.”

The math wasn’t difficult. Shortages are so bad the planners thought eight of us coming back alive would be acceptable. And their best guess was losing three. Probably two killed, one flying wounded. It was a horrifying thought for Luke to sit with.

“Casualty projections were based on similar operations conducted by X-wing units in the last year,” Rieekan continued. “Following standard fighter doctrine, of course.” For the first time, he offered a small smile. “I’m glad you proved our own experts wrong, Commander.” His gaze slid to Wedge. “I hope you can continue to prove Barkhesh wasn’t a fluke. This is the best news I’ve gotten since a runner told me Jan Dodonna landed on the Independence because someone disobeyed orders and went back to pull him out of Massassi Base. Keep up the good work, and get me your written debriefing within twenty-four hours.”

It was clearly a dismissal, and Wedge rose to his feet a half-second faster than Luke. They began to retreat from Rieekan’s office, but something made Luke stop and turn back. “Is there another mission, sir?”

Rieekan hesitated for a long moment. “Soon. Very soon, Commander, and one that Rogue Squadron will be uniquely suited for. You’ll hear from my office when we’re ready to move.”

---

Wedge shot Luke a disbelieving look. “You’re joking, aren’t you?”

“No, I’m not.”

“Look, Skywalker, you and I have disagreed on plenty since we started this squadron.” Wedge fought to keep his tone even. “And I won’t pretend I’ve always been right or that you’re always wrong. But this? This is a bad idea.”

“You thought adding Mara to the roster back on Yavin was a bad idea, too,” Luke said mildly.

“This is not the same thing.”

“I agree, it’s not.” Luke leaned forward across the desk, raising his mug of caf. “It’s diplomacy.”

“It’s borrowing trouble we don’t need to borrow,” Wedge insisted.

“Think about it, Wedge. Barkhesh showed that the new doctrine worked, but we need more sorties.”

“That’s what the flight simulators are for.”

“Flight simulators aren’t the same thing,” Luke pointed out. “This gives us low-risk hours in real X-wings. And we start working toward patching up hard feelings.”

“You’re proposing putting us under Colonel S’man’s thumb.” Wedge pressed down the irritation that he felt at his very core. “Luke, we took the deal with Rieekan so that we’re not subject to the air wing. We’re pulling our own missions. Direct tasking from High Command. Why would we work with S’man?”

Luke took a long sip of his caf and mostly hid the grimace. “Because we’re all on the same side.”

“Is this about those bomber jocks threatening Wes and Hobbie?”

“I wouldn’t call it a threat,” Luke said mildly, “but it did open my eyes. Let me lay out my thoughts for you, and then we can get back to you telling me I’m wrong. Okay?”

Wedge nodded a grudging assent.

“We showed up on the Independence months ago and commandeered a hangar, quarters, supplies, and a caf machine,” Luke said, unhurried. “You pushed through paperwork to make us untouchable. We stole a number of pilot candidates right out from under Colonel S’man. We flew missions, soaked up maintenance resources, had a squadron member jump ship to the Empire, then disappeared for training. While we were gone, the air wing flew sorties to keep the Independence supplied and lost more ships and pilots. We came waltzing back in and took up residence in our private hangar again.”

“You know that’s not what happened, Luke,” Wedge said, exasperated.

“It’s not what happened, but it’s what it looked like to the air wing. And Wedge, Rogue Squadron isn’t part of the air wing. I don’t want Rogue Squadron to be part of the air wing. But the Independence is our home, at least for now, and while we’re pulling our weight for High Command, we’re relying on the air wing to do all the work of keeping the Independence safe and supplied.” He shrugged. “Barkhesh aside, of course.”

“Barkhesh aside,” Wedge echoed.

“So what I’m proposing isn’t to put Rogue Squadron under S’man’s thumb. What I’m proposing is that we pull our weight for the Independence, too, not just High Command.”

“By taking tasking from S’man,” Wedge said, half-objecting already.

“No. By volunteering.” Luke took another sip of caf. “The patrol schedule isn’t a secret. The air wing has gotten some new pilots and replacement fighters, but its overall strength isn’t any better than it was when we evacuated Yavin. We don’t let S’man assign us patrol slots; we volunteer for slots. Our choice, not his. That gives his people a chance to rest.” He offered a half-smile. “Doesn’t really help the maintenance situation much, since the same crews are working on both the air wing’s fighters and ours, but I suspect rested pilots will thank us anyway.”

“And the benefit to us is…?”

“Like I said, we need more sorties. Hobbie and Puck had that near-collision, yes, but there’s not a single pair in the squadron that wouldn’t benefit from more hours in real cockpits. Especially our greener pilots.”

Wedge snorted. “You know, by most definitions you should be classified as a green pilot.”

“Guess we should’ve named the group Green Squadron, then.” The joke was half-hearted at best. “Even if S’man still doesn’t like us, it’ll buy us goodwill with every pilot who gets a chance to rest and recover. And if we keep it on a volunteer basis, we make sure our pilots get enough rest between whatever missions High Command sends us on.”

When did you learn to play the bureaucratic games, Luke? Wedge wondered. “Standard deployment for most of these patrol missions is a three-ship element,” Wedge warned.

“And the standard element for Rogue Squadron is two-ship. S’man can either let us fly it our way or turn down our help.” Luke shrugged. “He’ll accept it. He won’t like it. He’ll file complaints about it. But he’ll abide by the deal if it takes stress off the air wing.”

“Who decides our assignments, then?”

“You and I pick slots for the Rogues to fly.” Luke eyed him. “And you actually assign pairs to the patrol slots, so it doesn’t interfere with whatever training schedule you’ve devised. And we can rotate pairings outside our normal assignments, too – at least you and I. It gives us a chance to fly with everyone and evaluate everyone individually.”

Wedge considered what Luke had said. He’s right. Karabast, he’s right. This gives us a chance to mend things with S’man, help the air wing, and give the Rogues more cockpit time. He considered further. Am I angry because he’s risking our autonomy, or am I angry because he thought of it and I didn’t?

He decided not to pursue that line of thought any further, because he suspected he wouldn’t like the answer.

“Well?” Luke said.

“Fine,” Wedge conceded. “But only the slots you and I both agree on, and I assign pairs so we maintain training schedules.”

---

Mara knew something was wrong.

Since the squadron had returned from Barkhesh, Mara had noticed anomalies while moving through Auxiliary Two and the attached Rogue Territory. Conversations appeared to be happening while she was out of earshot, several of them quite animated, but when she approached to investigate, the topics were mundane: betting pools on the next round of sim scores, bad jokes about the Tatooine training, and references to Fifty Shades of Ryloth.

She wished she had learned to read lips; she was certain the discussion involved her, but she simply couldn’t catch a conversation on the other side of the hangar while elbows-deep in her X-wing’s engine.

It took most of two days’ worth of observation to narrow down the conspiracy’s members. When she was satisfied she’d identified all of them, she decided to adjust the harmonization on her X-wing’s guns; it was a task that required focus and wouldn’t let her dwell on her observations. Or so she’d thought.

Janson isn’t a big surprise, she told herself as she adjusted the lower starboard cannon’s alignment with a hydrospanner, micrometer by micrometer. I don’t think he’s liked me since that training exercise on Tatooine with Skywalker. Right?

Mara pushed down the ache that thought brought to her chest, ignoring it.

Puck and Janson are tight, so that explains Puck as part of whatever this is. He probably thinks it’s some big joke. Or maybe it all is to him. And Cesi is Wes’s wingman, so of course she’d have his back. 

But that didn’t explain the fourth member. I don’t get Hobbie, though. Did I do something to make him hate me? That thought hurt, more than it should have. Hobbie trained me. Gave me something to do when Hera didn’t have time for me. What changed?

She finished the harmonization adjustment and locked down the panel at the base of the laser cannon again. Whatever. It’ll be fine. This wasn’t distracting enough. She considered her options. Maybe a workout in the gym.

Mara returned to her quarters briefly, washed grease from her hands, changed out of the dirty overalls she usually wore for fighter maintenance and into a simple exercise top and leggings, breathable cloth designed to wick away sweat. The climate control in Rogue Territory had been on the fritz since they’d returned, so she slipped on her pilot jacket as well, a high-collared affair in grey with orange striping as accent and the Rebel starbird emblazoned on each shoulder. No sense getting a chill when I walk there and back.

The makeshift gym the Rogues had cobbled together in an oversized storage room attached to Aux Two had grown more elaborate, with some of the original makeshift gear replaced with purpose-built equipment sourced from who-knew-where. Kit and Zev are the most likely sources, she decided during the walk, even if they won’t admit it. It occurred to her that Rogue Territory was very quiet as she passed through; no one was in sight, the squadron apparently scattered instead of holed up in their common area as was their usual habit.

Hobbie leaned against the door of the gym, arms crossed. “Mara,” he said in greeting as she approached.

“Hobbie,” she returned cautiously. “Can I get past you? I want a workout.”

The man hesitated. “Can’t yet. Janson and Naeco are working on installing some new equipment.”

Mara flushed in irritation. “Just let me past, Klivian,” she said, her tone cooling several degrees. “I just want a workout.”

“No can do.”

“Derek.” The cold grew in her chest. “I don’t care. I just want a workout. Let me past.”

Hobbie shook his head. “Gotta wait.”

Mara stared at him, somewhere between angry and hurt.

Hobbie’s expression shifted; for a moment, his usual dour mask cracked, and she could see something uncomfortable underneath.

“What’s going on here?” Wedge said from behind Mara and to her left.

Hobbie flinched. “Just talking to Mara, Captain,” he said.

“Mind talking away from the door?” Skywalker asked, arriving at Mara’s right elbow. “We’ve been doing reports and schedules and I need to do something physical or I won’t be able to sleep tonight.”

“Uh. Yeah. I guess.” Hobbie grimaced and stepped away from the door.

Mara brushed past him through the door, Luke and Wedge behind her, biting back her annoyance as she stalked into the gym.

And stopped dead in her tracks three strides inside.

At the far wall, Wes and Puck were both standing on stools, hanging a ridiculously large flimsiplast banner. In large, hand-drawn block Aurebesh letters, it read:

HAPPY BIRTHDAY MARA
(MORE OR LESS)

Mara could only stare.

“Ack!” Wes said. “Hobbie! We weren’t ready! I told you to stall!”

Wedge cleared his throat.

Mara spared a glance back at Wedge. His expression practically shouted, What fresh hell have you done now, Janson? A similar look over her other shoulder at Skywalker offered nothing but surprise on his face as well.

That was when she realized there were still more people in the gym. Mara slowly turned, taking stock of the room. Zev and Tycho leaned against the wall in a corner; Karie and Samoc and Kit all stood together with genuine smiles lighting their faces; Cesi stood behind a long table which wasn’t normally part of the gym’s furnishings.

“What’s this?” she asked, her voice distant in her own ears as she tried to calculate.

“A birthday party!” Wes said cheerfully. He pointed over at Cesi. “With cake! And drinks!”

“Jet juice?” Wedge asked dryly.

“Freshly distilled,” Puck added.

“A…birthday party,” Mara repeated the words, turning them over like an alien artifact. What? was the only thought she could manage.

“Don’t worry, I already told Janson there couldn’t be singing. Or gifts.” Hobbie’s calm was reassuring as Mara tried to sort out the entire mess.

“Cake?” she managed.

“It’s traditional,” Cesi said. “We may have bribed some galley staff.”

Luke winced. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”

“We were counting on that, boss,” the Twi’lek deadpanned.

“I…I don’t have a birthday,” Mara protested weakly, still trying to decipher the tableau.

“Incorrect.” Janson’s tone was serious. “Everyone has a birthday. You don’t know what yours is, but you have one. If we’re measuring by Coruscant standard, there’s a one in three-hundred-and-sixty-five chance that today is the day. Same odds as tomorrow and yesterday. So I picked today.”

Mara stared.

“Congratulations. You’re eighteen now.” He considered. “More or less.”

“How do you know…?” she started to ask.

“It’s Wedge’s fault,” Wes answered unhesitatingly. “Blame him.”

“Wait, my fault?” Wedge echoed.

Tycho detached himself from the wall and crossed to the table, then pressed a battered metal mug into her hand. She glanced down. Jet juice. Deciding a drink wasn’t going to make this surreal situation any worse, she took a swallow and let it burn down her throat.

“Yeah. You made me do paperwork.” Wes shrugged. “I don’t trust Alliance recordkeeping. So I asked Mara about it on Tatooine.”

Very quietly, Mara said, “I thought you didn’t like me.”

Janson’s smile cracked. “What?”

“After that stupid bet,” she said, her voice tiny. “I…thought you hated me.”

Wes stared for a long moment. “No. No, Mara. I was angry after that, yes, but that was on me, not you.” He waited until she met his gaze. “I wouldn’t throw a birthday party for someone I don’t like. Ask Hobbie. I’ve never thrown a birthday party for him.”

“It’s true,” Hobbie agreed, voice as dry as Tatooine sand.

Wes escorted the shell-shocked Mara over to the table, just a touch of his hand at her elbow. “As the bearer of the birthday, more or less, you get cake. You get Puck’s finest freshly distilled jet juice. And you get to be embarrassed in front of the entire squadron. Congratulations.”

“I…don’t know what to do,” she said.

“Eat cake,” Wes suggested. “As much as you want. Better that than the jet juice.”

“You told me my jet juice was good,” Puck protested.

“That’s because we were using it to barter with the galley,” Wes answered without missing a beat.

Mara sat down at the table, and the room blurred for a moment. She blinked until it cleared, vaguely registering that her face was wet and a small plate with a dark brown confection had materialized in front of her. She looked up and saw Cesi smiling at her. “Eat. It’s good. If it wasn’t, Wes and Puck would’ve been in the medbay this morning.”

Mara glanced over at the pan the slice of cake had been extracted from.

“This is the second cake,” Cesi clarified.

“We needed to confirm the quality before we risked serving it to the squadron,” Puck said helpfully.

Mara looked around the room as she tried a bite of the cake. It tasted good, sweeter than almost anything she’d ever eaten, with a hint of bitterness that reminded her of caf and a texture more crumbly than any bread she’d had. It reminded her a bit of the best ration bars, but the comparison did it no justice.

Around the room, the Rogues were passing out plates with more of it, along with mugs of jet juice. There were smiles all around, and the ice Mara had felt for the last two days melted cleanly away.

Hobbie came over to her, finally, the small smile on his face a contrast to his usual expression; Mara didn’t think she’d ever seen a smile reach his eyes before. He leaned down beside where she sat. “Happy birthday, Mara.” He considered for a moment. “More or less.”

Kit took a deep, steadying breath as the veil of hyperspace flared incandescently before reverting to black space and white stars. You’ve got this, he told himself, gloved hand on the flight stick with his father’s chain and medallion wrapped around it. Just like training.

Eleven X-wings had emerged from hyperspace with him; below, invisible against the glow of Barkhesh, a formerly-Imperial Sentinel-class shuttle was descending into atmosphere.

“Rogues, listen up,” Commander Skywalker’s voice crackled in his ear. “Just as we planned. One Flight and Three Flight chase our shuttle down to the starport. Two Flight, it looks like there’s a TIE patrol thirty klicks toward the planet’s north pole. Wedge, take care of them first and then come down the gravity well to play high cover.”

“Roger, boss,” Captain Antilles said with a confidence Kit longed to possess. “Two Flight, let’s go. Change your transmit to the Two Flight’s channel.”

Kit settled in on Tycho Celchu’s wing as Antilles led the flight on a course correction to put them nose-to-nose with the TIE patrol. The other eight X-wings nosed down, heading down into atmosphere after the shuttle.

Far ahead on his scopes, Kit could make out a cluster of distant dots, no doubt the TIE patrol. “Late,” he called to his astromech, R5-L8, “confirm targets, type and number.” Numbers ran across his primary combat-multiview display. Six standard TIE line fighters, but they’re not the latest mark. He nodded, trying to reassure himself. Garrison on an Outer Rim world. Makes sense they wouldn’t have the latest and greatest equipment. Probably not the best pilots, either.

“S-foils to attack position,” the captain ordered. “Arm torpedoes. I’m shooting you all a target; try to take it at a distance with a proton torpedo. Let’s thin their numbers before we get to knife-fight range.”

Layered wings split apart and laser cannons came online. Late whistled, and a particular dot lit up brighter on Kit’s scope. The CMD switched over to warhead-lock mode, painting an outline of a TIE. He nudged his target reticule until the TIE was aligned with the boresight, and his R5 promptly started beeping as it calculated the lock.

“Thought we were short on torpedoes, Five,” Tycho commented.

“I’d rather burn torpedoes than pilots or X-wings, Seven.”

At three kilometers, Late’s beeping picked up in intensity, and at just over two kilometers the droid gave the pure, solid tone of a good target lock. “Firing,” he announced, squeezing the trigger.

Three more proton torpedoes joined his own, flashing across space nearly instantly on trails of red-hot fire. The formation of TIEs wavered and broke; two fireballs erupted, clean kills, one of them Kit’s target. He allowed himself a small smile even as his nerves jittered.

“On me, Eight,” Tycho called. “Let’s make this quick.”

“Copy,” he said, focusing on holding position on his element leader’s wing as they accelerated in at the TIE formation.

Tycho’s guns fired in staccato sequence, but his target slipped away, accelerating prodigiously. The TIE broke toward Kit, and Kit started squeezing the trigger when Tycho cut across his flight path, lasers still probing for his target. Kit half-cursed and released the trigger before he could accidentally riddle Tycho’s tail with weapons fire. Stay with your leader, let him shoot, he reprimanded himself as he refocused on holding the cover position.

The TIE dove, then climbed, then barrel-rolled, somehow weaving around Tycho’s shots. Kit cut his throttle back a fraction, allowing Tycho to slip out a bit further in front of him to give himself more time to react to his leader’s maneuvers.

His astromech whistled, a low warning sound. Kit glanced at his monitor, and his heart leapt in his throat. “Seven, we’re being bounced!”

“Break right!” Tycho barked, his own X-wing heeling over hard to the left as he abandoned his pursuit. Kit acted on reflex, the X-wing swerving into a hard starboard turn. Training snapped into place. TIE is orienting on Tycho, he observed mechanically, already reversing his turn back to port. Tycho looped back toward him, X-wing dancing as he poured more power into acceleration, leaping out ahead.

The TIE flashed in and out of Kit’s targeting reticule before he could react. “Kriff,” he muttered as he followed, Tycho dragging the pursuing TIE into a relatively straight line. “Kriff, kriff, kriff…” Tycho continued to evade, the TIE unable to tag him with its laser cannons, but the Imperial fighter was maneuvering too wildly for Kit to take a confident shot. His reticule flicked between grey, yellow partial lock, and green full lock faster than he could react. Ignore the targeting computer, he told himself. Make the shot by eye.

He twitched his flight stick back, just enough to raise his nose a few degrees, anticipating the TIE’s next break. Squeeze the trigger. Fire. The Taim & Bak KX4 cannons fired, a heavy repeating report that Kit could feel as much as hear.

The TIE ran into his fire and shattered.

“Eight, dive!” Samoc Farr’s voice shouted, and Kit was suddenly aware of his astromech squealing a warning.

His rear shields saved his life. Green laserfire splattered across the deflectors, lethal damage reflected away. The shields failed, but they’d done their job; the remaining weapons fire flashed over his canopy.

Then the X-wing rattled with an explosion. “You’re clear, Eight,” Antilles said calmly. “All TIEs down.”

“Late, damage report?” Kit managed, his hands shaking as he shook his head and tried to reorient himself. Text scrolled by on his primary monitor. “Anything critical?” he asked instead, unable to read the data dumped on the display while still trying to fly, finally registering the astromech’s distinct negative tone.

“Form up, Two Flight,” Antilles ordered. “Let’s get down the gravity well and see if the rest of the squadron left anything for us to do.”

---

Hobbie checked his scopes as One Flight screamed down through atmosphere. Ahead, Luke led the group; Mara tucked in just off his port wing, leaving herself mere meters of clearance to fire in an emergency. Puck was following in good position off Hobbie’s starboard s-foils, giving himself more space to maneuver than Mara had allowed herself. Half a kilometer back, Three Flight was descending on the same trail of fire, old-timer Zev in the lead position.

He shook his head and focused forward. Their ersatz target, the Sentinel shuttle, was ahead but losing ground to the pursuit fighters. Hobbie allowed himself a grim smile. Luke and Wedge did their math on this one and got the numbers right. We’ll catch up about the time we’re over the starport. Make it look good, count on their shields to take some punishment, and then we’re hitting ground targets.

“One Flight, heads-up,” Luke’s voice crackled on the comm, a veneer of calm over underlying eagerness. “Imperial garrison is already scrambling alert fighters. We’ve got two sections of TIEs moving to intercept.”

“Does that change our orders, boss?” Hobbie asked.

“TIEs will hit maximum firing range in forty seconds. Two and I are going to break pursuit of the shuttle and engage the first section at the thirty-second mark to keep them tied up. Three and Four, continue pursuit of the shuttle, then hit ground targets of opportunity. Three Flight, bounce the second section of TIEs coming in late.”

“Nine, Leader,” Zev’s voice sounded bored. “You don’t want help with the first section?”

“Negative, Nine, keep those TIEs busy to give Three and Four a clean run.”

Hobbie nodded slowly. Makes sense. If no one engages the first section, they get clean shots on us while we make our run on the shuttle. Skywalker’s clearly been learning. He keyed his comm to a private channel with Puck. “Four, remember that we’re just trying to make this look good, not actually vape our own people.”

“I make everything look good, Three,” Puck said cheerfully.

“Does that include the space tape I’m going to put over your mouth when we’re back on the carrier?”

“Especially the space tape.”

Hobbie shook his head and focused on the Sentinel shuttle, watching his rangefinder tick down. Ahead, Luke and Mara abruptly broke hard to starboard together, their formation tight and the maneuver crisp. Mara’s getting better all the time, he observed distantly, most of his focus on the shuttle and the starport. Definitely not the lost kid we taught to fly anymore. Though I’m glad Puck doesn’t feel the need to fly that tight on my wing, because a mistake would put both of us down.

“I’ve got tone, Three,” Puck announced.

Hobbie drifted his X-wing to port and dropped the throttle a hair. “You’ve got lead, Four.” From his perspective, Puck’s X-wing surged forward, though Hobbie knew it was an illusion as he now settled on Puck’s port wing.

Puck fired, his lasers shooting one at a time in rapid staccato. The hail of laserfire was sloppy, most of it flashing harmlessly past the shuttle; occasional bolts impacted the rear shields, but the few solid hits were far from sufficient to breach its defenses. “Good thing Rieekan doesn’t ration our laser cannons,” he joked.

“Keep wasting shots like that and we’ll get put on a strict Tibanna gas limit,” Hobbie complained.

“I thought a colorful and ineffective light show was the point, Three.”

“It is, but that doesn’t mean your accuracy doesn’t offend me, Four.” His astromech warbled a warning tone. “Break off, Four!”

Puck’s X-wing was already breaking to port, across Hobbie’s flight path. Hobbie cursed and jerked the stick back, barely climbing over Puck’s fighter, then rolled and followed into the port break. Ground emplacement turbolasers fired, but the X-wings were already out of the way, and emerald-green defensive fire hit nothing but open air.

“You kissed my rear shields,” Puck complained, strain in his voice as he maneuvered.

“Why’d you break across my flight path?” Hobbie countered irritably.

“You told me to break.“

“Not across my flight path!”

“Then next time give me a direction to break!”

Hobbie bit back his next retort. Arguing isn’t helping, he told himself, and we are absolutely going to run more sims when we get back to the Independence. Luke and Wedge are going to make us.

“Three, Four, you’re clear,” Cesi Eirriss’s voice called. “We spiked the turbolaser tracking you.”

“And we weren’t even supposed to be on ground suppression,” Wes added unhelpfully.

Hobbie gritted his teeth. “Four, reform on me. Let’s shoot something that we actually get to blow up.” He didn’t have to look hard. AT-STs and stormtroopers were beginning to make appearances around the Barkhesh starport. In the air, Luke and Mara were still tangling with the first section of TIE fighters; nearby, Three Flight was now tied up with the second formation of TIEs, a tangled web of contrails and laserfire occasionally punctuated by an explosion. Where do we make the most difference?

Luke robbed him of the decision. “Three, Four, suppress the walkers,” he called. “Keep the Imperials looking at us so they don’t pay attention to the shuttle.”

“Roger, boss,” Hobbie said, glancing at his scope and then out his canopy. “Four, let’s pluck some chickens.”

Six hundred meters to the north, a pair of AT-STs were firing toward Three Flight, mostly light laser cannon fire but occasionally loosing a missile. The scout walkers were barely more than armed boxes mounted atop bipedal mechanical legs; they were quick on the ground and lethal to Rebel infantry.

But armor designed to handle infantry small arms was hardly sufficient against a starfighter-grade Taim & Bak KX4 laser cannon.

Hobbie set up the run smoothly, double-checking to make sure Puck was off his starboard wing. “Four, take the right one,” he ordered as he began his strafing run.

The stormtroopers on foot escorting the walkers saw the X-wings, of course, and fired their blaster rifles. Bright red bolts pinged off Hobbie’s forward shields, but he ignored them. This would be so much worse if I were in a TIE fighter with no deflectors.

Both pilots opened fire at the same time.

Hobbie’s lasers struck the AT-ST squarely in the back of its boxy cockpit. The armor held against the first four blasts, glowing red with heat. The next four blasts punched straight through and then out through the front of the walker itself. Its pilots dead, the walker took one more uncertain step before beginning an unsteady forward fall to crash into the ground.

Puck’s target was already rotating toward the attackers, apparently warned by stormtroopers. Puck’s shot, aimed with a precision that demonstrated the lie of his earlier inaccurate fire against the shuttle, took it in the hip, severing the AT-ST’s leg and sending it crashing down into the street.

Then they were past, and Hobbie couldn’t see more, though the stormtroopers’ blaster fire now reached out and tapped against his rear shields. “Two scout walkers down,” he reported.

“Bawk, bawk,” Puck replied.

---

“Nice shot, Ten,” Zev complimented his wingman as the TIE detonated.

Karie’s voice was genuinely pleased. “Thanks for the setup, Nine!”

“Three Flight,” Skywalker’s voice cut in, “we’ve got another group of TIEs launching from the garrison. Six fighters, six bombers. I think our shuttle’s been made, but they need another minute or two to button up and lift. One Flight is still suppressing ground defenses. Can you intercept?”

Zev grimaced. “That’s an ugly fight, boss, but we’ve got it.”

“Three Flight, focus on the bombers,” Antilles’ voice cut in. “Two Flight has the escort fighters.”

“Copy that. Three Flight, you heard them. We’ve got six TIE bombers targeting our boys on the ground.” Zev was pleased to see Karie form up well off his port wing, while Cesi and Wes took up position several hundred meters to starboard. “Let Two Flight tangle with the fighters. The bombers are the real threat.”

Overhead, Zev could see a streak of fire falling from orbit, Two Flight coming in fast and hot. Half of the Imperial escort fighters were already beginning to nose up, climbing into a head-to-head confrontation instead of allowing Wedge’s group to bounce them cleanly. The rest were hanging back behind the TIE bombers.

That’s an odd choice. Zev frowned. They should be out in front, trying to break…

His R5 screamed a warning tone.

“Concussion missiles!” Zev barked. “Three Flight, evade!” He shoved his stick forward, sending the X-wing plummeting toward the ground. A concussion missile rocketed past his canopy and detonated, but he was far enough past to only catch a small buffeting from the explosion.

Karie hadn’t been as lucky.

“I’m hit!”

Zev glanced back and saw her X-wing trailing smoke. “Ten, report!”

There was strained silence for a moment. “Pulled in shrapnel from that explosion in my starboard intakes,” Karie managed. “Upper starboard engine is cutting itself to shreds.”

“Shut the engine down,” Zev ordered, mind racing. Still need to deal with the TIE bombers. “Stay on my wing and I’ll get you out of here.”

Wes and Cesi had jumped out ahead and were both firing. The TIE bombers, still out ahead but now much closer, were returning fire, fortunately inaccurately, but voluminous enough to prevent the two Rebels from taking a steady, aimed shot. 

Zev hesitated for a moment, deciding. Shuttle’s on the ground. Cesi and Wes are engaging six TIE bombers and three fighters, just the two of them. Karie’s crippled and if I lead her into that fight, the fighters will chew her to shreds. What do I do?

And then Skywalker’s voice echoed in his ear, a recent memory. No one goes alone.

Right. Stay with your wingman. “Ten, do you still have torpedoes?”

“Yes. Stand-off?”

“Target the TIE bombers,” Zev instructed. “Pick something that Eleven and Twelve aren’t engaging. I’ll keep the fighters off you.” He wished he felt as confident as the words sounded as he pulled back on his stick, gaining altitude to put himself in position to dive on any Imperial deciding to focus on the crippled X-wing.

Karie fired, a proton torpedo flashing through the blue Barkhesh sky for under two seconds before impaling a TIE bomber on the edge of the formation. The explosion set off sympathetic detonations from the bomber’s magazine, creating a far larger fireball than a single proton torpedo should have managed, consuming a second TIE bomber in the process.

One of the TIE fighters turned toward Karie and began to accelerate and fire from long range. Zev shoved his stick forward and began to dive to intercept. By instinct and eyeball, he guessed a point of intercept, dropped his reticule, and squeezed the trigger. The TIE ran into his fire and shattered.

Then Celchu and Valent, still at high velocity from their orbital dive, hit the remaining TIEs like a pair of nexu pouncing on baby banthas.

Zev started in his chair and belatedly realized that, while Wedge and Samoc had broken off their dive to engage the TIEs climbing toward Two Flight, Tycho and Kit hadn’t slowed at all. Gutsy, Zev admired for a moment.

“Shuttle is lifting,” Skywalker’s voice called. “Break off and form up. If you’re still engaged, call it out so we can provide fire support.”

“Eleven, Twelve, you heard the man,” he called. “Ten, status?”

“I’m running on three engines, Nine,” Karie said. “My astromech says the deflectors are damaged, too – they’re not running at full capacity.”

“Do you have enough power to climb to orbit?” Zev asked. “And what about your hyperdrive?”

“I can make orbit,” she confirmed, “and hyperdrive is reading as undamaged. I can get home.”

“Then follow me, and let’s get out of here.” In pairs, the Rogues were breaking off. Skywalker and Jade were already ahead of the shuttle, riding point as the bulky Sentinel climbed for orbit; Klivian and Naeco were finally breaking away from the starport, and the sheer number of fires burning on the ground looked suspicious to Zev’s eye. Surviving TIE fighters were breaking off and fleeing back to the garrison, the survivors apparently content to let the Rogues withdraw instead of continuing to the death. Cesi finished off one more TIE bomber before breaking off, Wes loosely holding proper position to cover her.

Not bad, Rogue Squadron, Zev thought with satisfaction. Not bad at all.

The next morning, Luke and Wedge ran all the Rogues through six simulator missions, three in the A-wing, three in the Y-wing. They debated using the stock simulations but ultimately chose to modify a single critical parameter: two-ship elements instead of standard three-ship doctrine.

Now, the two of them sat in the squadron briefing room, chosen because it boasted the best holoprojector in Rogue Territory.

Wedge looked over. “No bang-corn?”

“Not this time,” Luke said, a smile on his face as he opened the file. Two lists shimmered to life over the projector: the results of the sims, each of the Rogues ranked in order by overall score in each hull.

Wedge grimaced. “Let’s start with the Y-wings,” he said.

Luke nodded. “Top of the charts, by a good margin: Wes Janson.”

“Tierfon Yellow Aces,” Wedge grunted. “He’s the best gunner I’ve ever seen, but he’s a damn fine bomber pilot, too. There’s a reason that Colonel S’man wanted him in the air wing’s bomber squadron.”

“How insufferable is he going to be?”

“Very, but he’ll crack jokes about it more than rub it in.”

“Can he teach it?” Luke wanted to know.

Wedge paused to consider that. “I don’t know,” he answered honestly. “I’ve never seen anyone put Wes in a role like that. Maybe?”

“We’ll need to consider it.” Luke nodded at the list again. “Number two: Mara Jade.”

“That one was a surprise,” Wedge admitted. “I don’t know that she’s ever flown anything that slow. We trained her on the Spearheads and then the X-wing.”

“Did she ever fly Syndulla’s freighter?”

“I wouldn’t think so. Mara didn’t know her way around a cockpit before Hobbie and I started teaching her, and by that point the Phoenix Cell was pretty much gone. Other than the strike on Lothal and the weeks afterward when she was stranded there before the local resistance overthrew the Imperial occupation, I can’t think of there being time for her to have done it.”

Luke nodded, apparently content to move on. “Number three: Kit Valent.”

“That one’s less a surprise,” Wedge pointed out. “Valent spent years on tramp freighters, including flying them. Y-wing’s probably the closest thing to a freighter he’s flown since he joined the Alliance.”

“Y-wing’s still a lot more agile than a freighter. And his marksmanship scores, both with guns and proton bombs, were impressive for a man who’d never flown one before. Natural talent.”

“If we needed to launch the bombers tomorrow, he’d be in one of them,” Wedge agreed.

“And number four,” Luke said, “is Puck Naeco.”

“For a guy who likes punch lines, he’s got nerves of steel. That third sim, the run against a hardened Imperial garrison? He let his Y-wing soak flak to get a better shot.” Wedge shuddered. “Everyone else went high and took the shot from further away. Wes nailed it. Puck went in low, took the hits, and got the target up close, and still got out.”

Luke ran down the rest of the list more quickly. “You’re number five, I’m number six, though our scores fall into the average range. Upper end of average, but average. I wouldn’t hesitate to put either of us in a Y-wing for a mission if we were needed. Then Hobbie and Zev about as average as you can get. Karie, Doc, and Samoc could all probably be trained to do it, but they’re going to require a lot of sim time. And Tycho…”

“Tycho was a disaster,” Wedge agreed. “That was brutal to watch. How does a man who flies that precise fly that poorly?“

“Wrong sort of training. Tycho was a TIE pilot. He’s used to fast and nimble and fragile. The Y-wing is none of those and can’t be treated like it is.”

Wedge sighed. “Alright, Skywalker, let’s get it over with. The A-wing scores.”

“At the top, by a wide margin, is Tycho Celchu,” Luke said evenly.

“The A-wing doesn’t fly like a TIE fighter,” Wedge objected.

“You’re right, it doesn’t, but it requires the same skills. Precision, aggression, and commitment. It punishes hesitation. TIE pilots don’t hesitate.”

“There’s probably something to that.”

Luke nodded at the next name on the list. “Cesi came in number two.”

“That lady has guts to spare,” Wedge murmured. “Doc flew that A-wing sim like the galaxy depended on it. Threw herself into the interceptor scenario without a speck of hesitation.”

“Aggression and commitment,” Luke reminded him. “Cesi was relying on the A-wing’s speed to pull her through, and it did, at least in the sim.”

“The score doesn’t show it, but I think I’d trust her instincts over Tycho’s, at least right now. She flies like she wants to survive, too.”

“Number three is Samoc,” Luke noted.

“That one probably shouldn’t have surprised me,” Wedge admitted. “There’s a reason I like her on my wing. She’s got the instincts for an interceptor.”

“And number four is me.”

“I’m not going to stroke your ego, Luke.”

“Not expecting you to, though I’ll be happy to point out Samoc and I both scored high-average, not in the upper range where Tycho and Cesi are.”

Wedge’s lips compressed into a line. “The A-wing is a demanding platform,” he said grudgingly.

Luke took the hint. “Rest of the roster, running down,” he said casually. “Karie and Wes scored average. Zev and Kit both scored low-average. I think we could train Kit up on the A-wing, but I wouldn’t count on Zev becoming proficient.” Luke stole a glance at Wedge before continuing. “And scoring below-average, in order, Hobbie, Puck, Mara, and you.”

“Yeah. Me.” Wedge glared at the list as though it personally offended him. “The bottom. By a wide margin.”

Luke tried to hide the chuckle but failed.

Wedge’s glare moved to Luke.

Luke tried harder to hide the grin and failed worse.

“Must be nice to fly everything at least decent,” Wedge groused.

Luke finally relented. “Come on, Wedge, don’t you see it?”

“I see the worst training score I’ve ever posted in my career. Ever.”

Luke shook his head. “Stop focusing on yourself. Look at the pattern. Who did poorly?”

“Hobbie, Puck, Mara, and me,” Wedge repeated. “Why?”

“Wedge, all four of you trained on and flew R-22 Spearheads.”

Kriffing hell, Wedge thought. There it is.

The Kuat-built R-22 Spearhead was nearly two decades old, created at the end of the Clone Wars, with early batches produced under the assumption the newly formed Galactic Empire would adopt Kuat’s new fighter to replace the Clone Wars V-wing as its fleet interceptor. The Empire had instead chosen Sienar’s TIE starfighter line for adoption. A number of Rebel cells had managed to get their hands on old Spearheads and put them to use, including the Phoenix cell where Wedge and Hobbie had first served. It was only in the last year that famed Kuat starfighter engineer Walex Blissex had standardized a refit package, stripped the R-22 to the barest chassis he could manage, replaced the old KSE engines with massive, overpowered Novaldex J-77 sublight drives, and reshaped a last-generation superiority fighter into the fastest interceptor in the galaxy.

And apparently the muscle memory from flying an R-22 Spearhead doesn’t translate into flying an RZ-1 A-wing. The cockpit’s the same, the controls are the same, but the demands are different. Wedge closed his eyes. Stupid. I should have seen it.

Luke was still trying to hide his smile when Wedge opened his eyes. “You figured this would happen, didn’t you?”

“After I saw the look on your face when you climbed out of your A-wing sim run, absolutely,” Luke agreed. “If you’re going to fly the A-wing, you’re going to have a nasty adjustment period.”

“But for now, we have a roster of capable pilots,” Wedge said.

“We do,” Luke agreed. “We start cross-training with the pilots who did best, so we have the ability to deploy these soon. But we keep training everyone, so we can always fill a cockpit when we need it.”

Wedge nodded, hearing the unspoken implication. By the time we use the A-wings or Y-wings, the pilots who are currently our best in those fighters could be gone.

---

The two Rogues waited patiently outside the galley.

“What exactly are we doing here?”

“Acquiring critical morale supplies,” Wes said firmly.

“And why am I here?” Hobbie asked.

“I look less suspicious when I’m supervised. And no, Puck doesn’t count.”

“Oh, and these critical morale supplies wouldn’t happen to be another escalation between you and Naeco, would it?”

Wes snorted. “No need to escalate. Naeco already can’t keep up.”

“Speaking of, I have to ask. How’d you do the glowing pee trick?”

“Learned that one in the Tierfon Yellow Aces. Big ships like the Independence need ways to mark areas for examination or repair. One of the less popular ones, but still common enough, is a dye that usually only glows under ultraviolet light…but it has a fun chemical reaction with phosphorus. It also happens to be harmless to most sentients and tastes vaguely alcoholic. Drop it in something that’s already got an appropriate tang and you can’t taste it at all.” Wes grinned. “I keep a bottle of the stuff around for when it’s necessary.”

“Alcohol?” Hobbie frowned. “Puck wouldn’t have been drinking right before that.”

Wes snorted. “Hobbie, just because our commanding officer puts on a good face and our executive officer is Mister By The Book himself, doesn’t mean some of us don’t need a little help relaxing to sleep at night. And some require more than others.”

“And what critical morale supply are we after today?”

“Sugar,” Wes said.

“Sugar?”

“Sugar.”

“So does this have something to do with that jet juice distillery you and Puck are operating out of that supply closet off the hangar?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Wes said. “And no, it doesn’t.”

“Uh-huh.” Hobbie was unconvinced but dropped it for the moment. “What do you mean, Naeco can’t keep up?”

“I’ve been waiting over a week for a good prank. A week, Hobbie. There’s no challenge here. I feel like I’m clubbing a baby nerf,” Wes complained.

Hobbie glanced down, then back up. “Maybe you need to pay a bit more attention, Wes.”

“What?”

“Pull your pant leg up.”

Wes did as Hobbie asked and blinked. “Kriff.”

“I’d guess powdered dye in the boot,” Hobbie said helpfully. “Then you sweat. Now your foot matches your flightsuit.”

“Kriff,” Wes repeated.

“You Rogue Squadron pilots sure live down to your reputation,” a new voice said. “But that’s what I’d expect from a squadron that apparently can’t count to three. That’s why you delinquents can’t manage standard flight elements, isn’t it?”

Wes and Hobbie both turned. Three pilots were approaching, all dressed in standard orange flight suits with unit patches showing them as members of the air wing’s Y-wing bomber squadron. The leader, and the man who spoke, was a few years older than Hobbie, blond with cold green eyes, his face scarred with ugly slashes.

“We fly in pairs to keep it fair for the rest of you,” Wes said smoothly, attention refocused on the interlopers. “Skywalker is all about keeping the peace around here. Colonel S’man is already insufferable.”

“You’re a real wise guy,” the scarred man said, his voice getting darker. “You and your dilettantes flit around here and there and go tan for weeks off-ship while we’re here bleeding and dying.”

Wes went very still. “Plenty of us have already bled. We’re doing things different so we don’t all die to fossilized decision-making. Like S’man.”

The Y-wing pilot pushed closer to Wes, chest-to-chest. “You think you’re better than us? Better than the air wing pilots?”

“Only the ones we’re better than.” Wes considered for a moment. “So, I guess the answer is yes.”

Silence stretched for long seconds – long enough that Hobbie had visions of filling out incident reports.

“You Rogues are dangerous,” the scarred man said at last. “Don’t get good people killed when you kriff up.”

---

The Rogues’ briefing room had been rearranged, with a dozen chairs now arranged in two rows forming an arc around the holoprojector. Mara had arrived early with her datapad and sat in the back row, on one end. The rest of the Rogues filtered in shortly after, filling ten of the chairs. Skywalker, Wedge, and General Rieekan came in last, accompanied by Skywalker’s blue and white astromech.

The droid promptly rolled over to the holoprojector and plugged in.

“Welcome back to the fight, Rogue Squadron,” Rieekan said without preamble. “The Independence has been busy while you were gone, and the air wing doesn’t have the operational capacity I need for this mission. Congratulations on your first mission as a unit.”

No one spoke at that, and Mara found herself annoyed. I guess it’s true, she admitted to herself reluctantly. We’ve already been through so much, but all of it has been scrambles and emergencies and a half-built fighter group. This time we’re actually on a mission that we’ve planned for with our training done. Well, at least some training done, anyway.

“Strategically, we’re still in a poor posture after the loss of Massassi Base,” Rieekan continued. “We’re still relying on couriers for moving information between task forces, and we do not have the exact locations of the Defiance and Liberty task forces, for the sake of security. Alliance Intelligence has confirmed that the Empire has figured out how to track us when we use long-range communications, so courier ships will remain in place for now.”

“Is this a courier mission, sir?” Kit Valent asked.

Rieekan stared at the rookie pilot, a bit of exasperation on his face. Kit shut up. “Our most immediate problem is logistical,” the general continued as though he hadn’t been interrupted. “Supplies are tight since Yavin, and without long-range comms it has been difficult to arrange for necessary supplies. Imperial pressure on our own supply lines has been relentless. In the past month, the air wing conducted a number of operations involving Moff Ghorin’s holdings, which brought in food and fuel. We can keep ships in the air and stomachs full, but waging a war requires more than that.”

He nodded to the astromech. The holoprojector hummed to life; static resolved into a glowing green sphere. “This is Barkhesh,” Rieekan said. “It’s an Imperial-controlled agriworld. Not as productive as, say, Taanab or Ukio, but important enough the Empire has a permanent garrison there. The locals aren’t supporters of the regime and have been supplying us for years.”

Mara’s eyes narrowed. It’s an agriworld, but the food issue was apparently solved when we were gone. Wasn’t it?

“The local resistance spends about a year siphoning off Imperial supplies from local operations,” Rieekan continued, “and then arranges a rendezvous to turn over everything they can to us. One of their local operatives sent us a manifest – this year’s haul includes bacta, Tibanna gas, and baradium cores. They’re very proud of the baradium in particular; the Empire has an entire storehouse full of empty thermal detonator shells.”

Someone let out a low whistle, and Mara couldn’t help but agree. Gutsy. Even if the local garrison’s asleep on the job, that’s dangerous work.

“After the battle of Yavin, the Empire’s tightened their grip on the planet. The local resistance has the supplies, but they don’t have a way to get them off-planet to us.” He turned to Skywalker.

Skywalker picked up the briefing as though waiting for it. “The Barkhesh resistance can’t get the supplies to us, so we’re going to go retrieve them ourselves. Artoo?”

The droid warbled, and the holographic image shifted; the planet was replaced by a sprawling starport complex. “This is the primary spaceport on Barkhesh,” Skywalker continued. “Ground-based turbolaser defenses. Ground-to-air concussion missile batteries. TIE hangars. Light armor patrolling the perimeter, mostly AT-STs.” As he spoke, appropriate areas and images were highlighted in red by Skywalker’s astromech. “Defenses are substantial. The TIE squadrons are all local garrisons; intelligence says they’re sloppy.”

“That’s still more firepower than one squadron should tackle,” Hobbie said aloud.

“We’re not planning on occupying the place,” Wedge said dryly.

“The resistance cell moved the entire supply cache into one of the landing bays,” Skywalker continued. “General Rieekan is supplying us with an Imperial shuttle. We don’t have proper landing codes, or it’d be easy to retrieve the cache. Instead, Rogue Squadron is going to chase the shuttle down to the starport. The shuttle and its crew will put down and load the cache while we tangle with the local defenses. Once they’re loaded, we withdraw with the shuttle, escape to orbit, and jump out.”

“It’s brazen, I’ll give you that,” Mara said aloud before she could stop herself.

Skywalker grinned.

“We’re not committing to an occupation,” Wedge said, a firm reminder. “The goal is to tie up the defenses and keep them looking at us. We knock down TIE fighters and shoot up turbolasers, but we don’t let ourselves get drawn in far enough that someone gets shot down or killed. We need these supplies, but we also need Rogue Squadron pilots to come back alive.”

This isn’t a mission worth dying for, Mara interpreted, though the Empire gets a vote on that, too.

“Do we have individual assignments?” Cesi asked.

“By flight,” Skywalker said. “One Flight will chase the shuttle down and knock down the most threatening anti-air at the spaceport. Turbolasers and missile batteries first – they’re the most dangerous for our operation. Three Flight will focus on engaging any fighters the Empire puts in the air. Two Flight will remain at higher altitude on overwatch and assist One and Three Flights as necessary.” He looked around. “Any more questions?”

“What happens if someone goes down?” was Hobbie’s question.

“That would be your concern, yes,” Puck rejoined.

General Rieekan spoke up. “The local resistance has people working at the spaceport. If one of you goes down and survives, they’ll do their best to pick you up and get you clear of Imperial security.”

“We’re not using the new fighters?” Samoc asked.

Skywalker shook his head. “Rogue Squadron is primarily an X-wing unit. We’re only going to use the other fighters if our X-wings can’t do the mission. For this operation, our X-wings are the best tool for the job.”

Mara studied the hologram and found no point to disagree with Skywalker’s assessment. Suppress defenses, draw the Empire’s eyes, and then run away. This will be an interesting mission.

“Mission launch is oh-six-hundred,” Wedge said. “Eat decent and hit the racks early. We want everyone well-rested for Rogue Squadron’s debut mission.”