Wedge ducked into the prefab mess hall an hour later to check on breakfast preparations.
Luke was clearly exhausted, quietly chopping tubers with a knife, his movements efficient but far from brisk. Wes was frying rehydrated protein several meters away. Dehydrate the protein, rehydrate it, then fry it to take moisture back out. I think I prefer straightforward starfighter combat.
And Puck, rather unhelpfully, was trying to pull Luke into his latest nonsense.
“Wes and I have been debating it for weeks,” Puck said. “Come on. You could settle the bet. I’ll even give you ten percent of my winnings if I was right.”
“Puck, I’m pretty sure a Jedi wouldn’t use his lightsaber to dice tubers,” Luke said mildly. “Any more than I’d use my X-wing’s laser cannon to fry a bantha steak.”
“I’m pretty sure Jedi ate like normal people. That means they would’ve had to cook, too. It’d be far more efficient, boss.”
“Cooking that bantha steak with a laser cannon would be fast, too.”
“Come on. Just once?”
Wedge cleared his throat.
Puck looked up, a cheerful smile plastered on his face. “Oh, hey Captain. I was trying to persuade the commander to settle a debate Wes and I have been having.”
“A bet, not a debate,” Wedge said. “And I’m betting on continued kitchen duty in your future.”
“Captain, we’re men of science.”
Wedge shook his head. “Luke? A moment?”
The other man nodded, laid down his knife, and came around to join Wedge at a table near the door.
“What were you thinking?” Wedge asked quietly, striving to keep his tone even.
“That the people who raised me deserved to be remembered,” Luke said bluntly, but there was weariness, not heat in his voice. “Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru died because of the Rebellion. The Empire came looking for the droids, and killed them for the crime of having bought them from Jawas.”
Wedge nodded, recalibrating. “I get it, Luke, I do. But that was a really stupid way to do it.”
“You mean alone, at night, on foot across the desert?” Luke’s expression was difficult to read, but Wedge thought it was a mix of pain and amusement.
“Exactly that. And Mara deciding to go after you doesn’t mean you weren’t breaking your own rule about going anywhere alone.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Luke agreed. “I just…I had to, Wedge. They sacrificed a lot to raise me. They tried to keep me out of the war. And the stormtroopers killed them for it.”
“There’s a lot of that going around.” Wedge’s lips compressed into a line. “That sounded flippant. Sorry.”
“No. You’re right. A lot of the Rogues have lost people. Family, friends.” Luke rubbed his eyes. “If you’re asking whether I’m planning on doing it again, the answer is no. I paid my respects.” He offered the smallest of smiles. “I’ll take the consequences for it, too.”
Wedge leaned back in his chair, considering. Yes, it was reckless. Going off alone in the desert like that was stupid and reckless. But… “Have I ever told you what happened to my parents, Luke?”
“Pirates,” Luke said after a moment. “On a space station? I don’t think you’ve ever told me the whole story.”
“My parents owned the refueling depot on the Gus Treta station in the Corellia system,” Wedge said. “Pirates had come in and were refueling. Corellian Security came poking around and identified them. The pirates took off and started a fire to delay CorSec and cover their escape. My parents died saving the station.”
Luke nodded, listening.
“Booster Terrik, a smuggler who was friends with my parents, helped me track the pirate crew down and handed me the clearance codes to a Z-95 Headhunter. My first combat flight in a starfighter was burning down a pirate gang.” He shook his head. “I was Mara’s age and hadn’t trained as a fighter pilot. It was stupid and reckless. I have a lot of regrets, both before and after my parents died, but that mission? I don’t regret that.” He offered Luke a look. “So, for the record, I understand.”
“So now what? We pretend everything’s okay?”
Wedge winced. “No, don’t pretend everything’s okay, but we work to make it okay.”
Luke stared. “So what happened after that? Because you’re not telling me something.”
He hesitated for a few moments. “I used the insurance payout from Gus Treta to buy a small freighter and started hauling cargo. On one of my runs, I ended up talking to an Imperial recruiter. He sold me on the necessity of Imperial safety and security for the galaxy, and how anything less meant more Corellian kids ended up orphaned because of scum-sucking pirates.”
“That was when you enlisted?” Luke asked. “And got sent to Skystrike?”
“Not before I had one hell of an argument with Booster. I said a lot of things I wish I hadn’t. He told me my parents would’ve hated my decision to join the Empire; I told him he wasn’t much different than the pirates who killed my parents. I haven’t spoken to him or his daughter since.” He closed his eyes for a moment, then forced them open again and met Luke’s gaze. “I’d rather you and I figure this out than I lose another friend because we’re both too bull-headed.”
Luke nodded. “First, though, I finish kitchen duty.”
Wedge waved a hand. “I think you’ve done enough.”
“No,” the other disagreed. “It’s good for discipline and morale both if the Rogues see I get the same punishments for making terrible decisions.” He offered a smile. “But we’ll figure this out, Wedge.”
Neither Luke nor Mara flew that day, both too tired to safely take to the sky, but by the following day they were back in the thick of drills. The Rogues continued to push the Skyhoppers to their limits, and Luke saw the pairs begin to truly work together. In controlled skirmishes, he saw Kit anticipate Tycho’s break across his nose, slowing just enough to ensure he didn’t obstruct his element leader’s maneuver. He saw Cesi and Wes, locked in a simulated dogfight with Zev and Karie, pass the lead slot back and forth seamlessly three times in thirty seconds when the other called for it with an advantageous angle. He watched Puck maneuver, smooth as shimmersilk, around steady-as-a-rock Hobbie to force an error against Wedge and Samoc, splitting them apart at a critical moment, allowing Hobbie the kill on Wedge.
It’s working, he decided. Rogue Squadron might actually work.
And then there were the X-wings. Luke and Wedge had agreed to minimize the number of sorties they flew in the starfighters; compared to the Skyhoppers, the maintenance requirements to keep them flying were astronomical. But after so much work in the airspeeders, getting back in their combat fighters wasn’t just an improvement; it was a delight. They flew the X-wings sporadically, usually in the afternoon when the Tatooine heat was at its most oppressive, when the glare from the desert would wash out the sensor traces of the squadron for any long-range or orbital observers. With Mara on his wing, he felt like he’d been born to fly the fighter. But the sand was their enemy, even more persistent than the Empire; every flight required the Rogues to scrape clean intake filters. I never thought I’d miss a star cruiser’s hangar. It’s not pristine, but it’s a lot cleaner than a Tatooine dust storm.
But after another four days of drilling, Luke called for a rest day again; maneuvers were becoming sloppy, unforced errors were beginning to creep up in drills, and Luke would gladly trade a day of drills for rest if it meant no pilots crashed in a training accident. Wedge didn’t bother arguing with him.
Luke felt entirely justified when Wes and Puck both headed into the barracks and promptly fell asleep without the sort of impromptu party they’d used to unwind the last time he had called for a rest day. Exhaustion winning out over alcohol and nonsense was a good marker of just how hard the Rogues had been pushed.
He had tried to keep up lightsaber practice during the weeks on Tatooine, but the days had been demanding between flying, teaching, analyzing, and maintenance. Luke’s little training area – not much more than a 10-meter-diameter circle drawn in the sand – was inside the camp’s perimeter, but only just. The idea of forcing himself through half an hour of drills seemed insurmountable, so Luke instead decided to try the meditation exercise he’d repeated during the security lockdown on the Independence.
Luke sat down, cross-legged, in the center of his drilling area. He started by calming his breathing, counting seconds as he inhaled, held, and finally released again. The worries and stresses bled out of him, and profound exhaustion followed. He was sorely tempted to walk back to the barracks he shared with Wedge and sleep. Instead, when he finally felt centered, he reached out to the Force.
It felt at first like faint tingles across his skin, stray discharges from an inadequately shielded power coupler. It grew in strength as he sat motionless, turning into a warm trickle. It reminded him, for a moment, of everything good he could remember: Uncle Owen’s gruff approval of a job well done, Aunt Beru’s ever-present care, the celebration on Yavin IV after he destroyed the Death Star. The exhaustion fell away, not gone, but no longer important when the Force itself offered strength and comfort.
Stretch out with your feelings, Obi-Wan’s voice echoed in his ear. And Luke did, focusing on the Rogues.
One by one, he became aware of each of them with the Force in turn as he focused, and was surprised by the clarity of the connection. Is it because I know them better? Because we’ve spent all this time training together?
He concentrated, one at a time, on each of the Rogues, though the impressions he felt largely reflected exhausted sleep. Zev, Tycho, Wes, Puck, Hobbie, all fast asleep with the experience of veterans catching precious rest when possible. Cesi, tired but focused on something. Probably reading, Luke decided. Wedge was awake, his thoughts in a disciplined pattern that Luke couldn’t quite make out. Is he running drills in his head? I guess that wouldn’t surprise me. Samoc and Karie, awake and in the mess hall instead of barracks; their thought patterns were similar enough Luke guessed they were talking to each other over a cup of caf. Kit was focused on something – writing a letter, Luke guessed.
Luke hesitated. I promised Mara. But this isn’t forcing anything on her. This isn’t requiring anything from her. I think it’s okay. He focused, reluctantly, on his wingman. As he had aboard the Independence, he at first got the impression of nothing at all; but as he sat longer with the sensation, he glimpsed her as an eclipsed star, a moon hiding her glow in the Force. Like I felt before on the Independence. He pondered that, then remembered his impression of her in the Force during the ambush where she should have died. I felt her clearly then. But she was actively using the Force then to survive. Does she feel like this because she’s blocking it out?
He let the Force ebb away, and exhaustion quickly replaced it. Somehow, he thought with a small smile on his lips, I don’t think she’s going to want to experiment on this. Let it go, Luke. Deciding again that he hadn’t broken the boundary she’d drawn, he yawned and headed for the barracks to sleep.
The twin suns were barely over the horizon, but the Tatooine sand was already beginning to reflect heat as Wedge stumbled out of the barracks. Sleep had not come easily, and in his half-awake state he still wasn’t sure what had woken him. Caf will help it all make sense, he decided muzzily as he headed toward the mess.
He was met just inside the mess hall door by Luke, who was holding two steaming mugs of black bliss. Wedge blinked at him a few times. Farmer, he decided. Of course he’s up with the suns. He accepted a mug from Luke.
“Good morning, Wedge,” he said with altogether too much cheer. “Most of the Rogues are still asleep, but I thought we could take an early-morning run in the X-wings.”
Wedge drank, deeper than he normally would, ignoring the burn of the too-hot drink. “We?”
“You, me, Mara, and Samoc.” He turned a bit, and Wedge realized that the two women were both sitting in the mess with their own mugs. “Up for a flight? Not a drill, just a flight.”
Wedge rubbed his eyes, blinking as the caf helped clear his thoughts. “Been a while since we just flew. Yeah, that sounds good.”
Four X-wings lifted from the training camp. Luke smiled, feeling the best he had in weeks. The ghosts of Tatooine had receded from the forefront of his thoughts, and the starfighter felt like an extension of his body. With Mara on his wing and Wedge flying the other pair beside him, he felt content. Almost feels like flying with Biggs, he reflected, though the usual gloom that accompanied any memories of his lost friend failed to penetrate this morning.
He led the group toward Beggar’s Canyon, far to the northwest. They stayed low and relatively slow, doing nothing to draw attention to the existence of four Rebel starfighters in good repair.
The good feeling began to fade and Luke had time to wonder. Why did I want to fly the X-wings this morning and not the Skyhoppers?
“Rogue Leader,” Samoc’s voice cut in on the channel suddenly. “I’ve got some odd contacts, seventy degrees to port.”
“Odd? How so?”
“They’re small, boss. Airborne, moving slow, and small. Smaller than the Skyhoppers.”
There was nothing left of Luke’s good feeling now. “Vectoring,” he called, banking to port. “Be ready for anything, Rogues.”
They cruised at low throttle over a high dune, and in a depression they saw them: small, cylindrical targets floating on repulsorlifts, five in all. Two of them immediately turned toward the X-wings and fired, a pair of blaster bolts flashing into Luke’s forward shields.
“Viper droids!” he barked in surprise, even as the other three droids fired downward toward a homestead. “They’re attacking the locals. Break, break!”
He rolled his X-wing up on its starboard s-foil and banked away, hard, sparing only the smallest glance to ensure Mara was with him. Wedge and Samoc were already breaking to port, splitting the droids’ fire. Luke jammed the throttle forward, acceleration pressing him back in his seat. In seconds, they were out of range.
Luke had no intention of letting the droids complete their mission. Whatever it is.
“Five, I’m coming in from the south,” he said. “I’ll draw their fire. You and Six take them. One pass.”
“You got it, boss.”
“Two, you with me?”
“On you, Leader,” Mara’s voice sounded as though she was about to drink a mug of burnt caf from the Independence‘s galley late at night.
“Negative,” Luke said. “Drop back half a klick. I’ll take the first pass to draw their fire, and you sweep in behind me to pick up anything Five and Six miss.”
“Roger.”
Luke watched the blips on his scopes align, nodded once to himself, and accelerated for his pass. “Going, Five. Don’t be late.”
All five of the Viper droids were rotating to focus fire on Luke’s X-wing as he cleared the ridge at high speed. Deflectors aren’t great in atmosphere, but they can take a couple hits. Don’t want to take concentrated fire, though, he winced. He pushed the stick forward, sending the X-wing even lower; the Vipers’ first salvo of fire sailed harmlessly past his canopy, not even touching the deflectors. Sand billowed up behind him as he skimmed over the surface. Worry about the intake filters later. Survive now.
Then he was screaming past the Vipers. They rotated to track him, firing repeatedly. Most of the bolts sizzled past the fast-moving X-wing harmlessly, but a handful impacted the rear shield, drawing a protesting squeal from Artoo.
Then Wedge and Samoc arrived from the north, descending on the droids like a pair of Tatooine mastiffs.
Luke could barely see anything aft through the haze of dust and sand, but three explosions were clearly visible through the cloud. The blasterfire aimed at him ceased as the surviving Vipers pivoted to instead focus on the rapidly-retreating Wedge and Samoc. Luke banked to port, setting up for another pass.
Then Mara came over the ridge, following the same line Luke had taken; her lasers, quad-linked, fired twice, and both remaining Vipers evaporated in a cloud of gas and fire.
“Nice work, Rogues,” Luke called. “Form up.”
“Lead,” Wedge’s voice cut in, “we’ve got more problems.”
Luke glanced over, saw Mara settle in on his wing again. “Five?”
“Distress call on civilian traffic frequencies,” Wedge said grimly. “Imperial TIE bombers are approaching Mos Eisley.”