by Renee Ahdieh
The impact rocked the ship so hard it slammed Raymus against the cockpit bulkhead. Like a passing breeze, his reverie vanished as quickly as it had come, and a shrill cockpit alarm sounded.
“Star Destroyer!” the pilot exclaimed in response to the new sensor reading that had just appeared directly behind them. “They’re firing on us!”
“Man the turbolasers and return fire,” Raymus ordered. “Put everything we’ve got into the aft deflector shield, and get us to that planet!”
—
He assembled his security forces and gave them their orders, sending every man he could arm to the forward docking hatch to set up a defensive bulwark. He knew their chances of repelling an Imperial boarding party with the meager forces at his command were slim, but they might at least buy him time to get the civilians away to safety.
As his troops departed, the ship was rocked hard again, and a loud explosion sounded somewhere far behind Raymus. His comlink crackled to life, and he raised it to hear the sounds of chaos and panicked voices from the cockpit.
“Sir, that last hit overloaded our shield projector; we had to shut down the main reactor before it blew. We can’t maintain distance on that Destroyer—it’s closing fast.”
“Distance to Tatooine?”
“Point two seven” came the reply. They would not get away, Raymus knew, but the escape pods still could.
Raymus heard a muffled metallic echo all around him, the sound of the ship’s hull groaning under outward pressure, and knew what that meant. The destroyer had locked on to them with its tractor beam and was pulling them in.
“Sir, they just—”
“I know. Get to your escape pods!” And he ran, searching desperately for the princess. The ship was lost, he knew. But he could still save her.
—
He could find her nowhere. He rushed through the hallways searching as all around him his crew helped the princess’s senatorial staff pile hurriedly into escape pods. There weren’t enough for everyone, he knew. As it had always been with the Rebellion, they had to make the best of what little they had. And good people would have to die.
He heard the distant explosion, knew that it had come from the forward air lock. Then the sound of a furious exchange of blasterfire. Imperial troops were now coming aboard his ship. Not much time. Have to find her. He had not dedicated so much of his life to protecting her only to fail now, in her most critical hour of need.
Finally he spotted her as he rounded a corner. She was at the far end of the white-walled hallway. Alone save for an R2 unit, warbling affirmatively as she spoke to it.
“Your Highness!”
When Leia turned to see him, she quickly ushered the droid away. Puzzled, Raymus raced to follow her, catching up to her as she slipped through a bulkhead doorway into a shadowy side corridor.
“You must come with me, I have to get you to a pod,” he implored.
“I’m not leaving,” she said. “Get as many as you can to safety.” Raymus knew by the defiant tenor of her voice that there would be no arguing with her.
“The transmission from Scarif…”
“Leave that to me,” she said, a purposeful glint in her eye. Behind her, the R2 unit bleeped at her urgently.
The sounds of blasterfire were getting closer now, and less frequent, as the Imperial boarders depleted the Tantive IV’s meager defensive force. Mere moments remained.
“Your Highness—”
“You have your orders, Captain. And my gratitude. For everything.” Leia raised her hand and touched it to Raymus’s cheek, giving him a warm, bittersweet smile both of affection and of sorrow. Both of them knew that this was the last time they would ever see each other. And then she was gone, the little droid trundling away into the shadows after her.
There was little left for him to do, his ship captured and swarming with Imperial stormtroopers, all but a few escape pods already away. All that remained was to end his life the way that he had always lived it, fighting. He rushed away down the hall, ducking behind a bulkhead as he saw the first stormtrooper round the corner up ahead, firing. Raymus took aim and returned fire, dropping that stormtrooper and then another. Then the number of troopers who were arriving, taking positions, firing at him, quickly became too many, and his only recourse was to run. He sprinted away, knowing that he was quickly running out of ship but determined nonetheless to make the Empire expend every possible resource, every ounce of sweat, every precious second, before they would inevitably take him. Maybe just enough to buy his princess time to execute whatever last-ditch plan she might have.
He was almost at the hallway junction leading back to his quarters when he was tackled and brought to the ground, three Imperial troopers forcing him into submission. He struggled, resisting them to the last, until a rifle stock to the side of his head dazed him, took his strength.
“This one’s the captain!” He heard the trooper’s modulated voice behind his right ear as his arms were pulled behind his back. “We need him alive!” And then he was up again, his vision a hazy blur as he felt himself being hauled forward, his boots dragging along the floor behind him.
“My lord.” He heard the trooper’s voice behind him again. “The captain.”
Raymus felt a shadow looming over him a moment before something cold and metallic, like the jaws of a vise, clamped hard around his throat. As his eyes widened, he realized the black shape that now towered over him, though little more than a dark blur, was Darth Vader, and that the mechanical grip around his throat was a hand. The stormtroopers moved to surround them both, as though a Sith Lord needed any assistance whatsoever.
“The Death Star plans are not in the main computer,” an arriving trooper reported.
So that’s what they sent us. Even in his disoriented state, Raymus now understood why the rebel fleet had gambled everything to steal that data, and why the Empire had dispatched its most fearsome, unstoppable asset in its attempt to recover it. That hideous spherical leviathan that he had seen lay waste to the surface of Scarif, unimaginable in size, unthinkable in purpose. The Emperor’s monstrous attempt to secure ultimate dominion over a galaxy slowly finding the will to oppose him. The secrets to destroying it were in the hands of his princess. And he would gladly die to protect them.
“Where are those transmissions you intercepted?” Vader demanded. “What have you done with those plans?”
Raymus fought uselessly to pry the fingers from around his neck, felt his feet leave the floor as Vader lifted him effortlessly, all the while tightening his grip, choking the life from him.
“We intercepted no transmissions,” he spluttered, fighting for breath. “This is a consular ship. We’re on a diplomatic mission.”
“If this is a consular ship,” Raymus only vaguely heard as he began to lose consciousness, his vision dimming around its edges, “where is the ambassador?”
Even as Raymus felt the last of his life ebbing away, he found himself strangely hopeful once more. He knew of course that his story had reached its end, that he would never again see his beloved wife and children on Alderaan, and yet still he had hope. He hoped that somehow Leia knew of a way out even from this; hoped that the glimmer in her eye he had seen in that hallway was the germ of an idea that might yet see the stolen data returned safely to the Rebellion. He hoped that it would empower them to destroy that hateful weapon, to turn the tide of war, to rally more systems to their cause, to allow a galaxy, once again, to breathe free.
In his final moment, he hoped.
TK-4601 was disproportionally grateful for the stormtrooper helmet. For one thing, it smashed down the unruly tuft of blond hair that would never obey a comb or brush—the one that made him look like he was thirteen. His fair skin reddened and paled easily, too, which meant that no matter how diligent he was in schooling his expressions, his coloring always betrayed him. With the helmet on, though, and with the device that rendered the voices of stormtroopers almost completely identical, his reactions—good or bad—were m
uch harder for others to determine.
He was particularly appreciative of it today, as he was grinning like an idiot. He couldn’t believe his first assignment straight out of the Academy had been aboard an Imperial Star Destroyer. And not just any Star Destroyer, either. TK-4601, also known as Tarvyn Lareka, served on the Devastator, the flagship of Lord Vader himself. He was now part of Vader’s personal legion—“Vader’s Fist.” A junior member, to be sure, but he was still an official member.
Today a thrill of excitement laced the activity of the finely tuned military instrument that was Vader’s Fist. If Lord Vader himself, he of the black, gleaming armor, the ominous breaths, the deep, resonant voice, and the unfathomable command over objects and people—if he wanted to give chase to this vessel as it sped away from the Battle of Scarif, then as far as TK-4601 was concerned, the rumors had more of truth than fiction about them.
Behind “the bucket,” as the helm was sometimes called, no one could see his brow furrowed in concentration, his blue eyes narrowed. No one could see the joy he took in a successful mission with no casualties, either, nor when he was reluctant to follow orders that sometimes seemed to border on senseless cruelty.
He was getting better at pushing that part down, though.
Earlier, TK-4601 had stood rigidly at attention while Vader, standing a mere meter away, at the most, had grasped Captain Antilles of the Tantive IV by the throat, lifted him off the ground, and interrogated him.
Where are those transmissions you intercepted? Vader had boomed, in that sonorous yet dreadful voice that Death itself might use. What have you done with those plans?
We intercepted no transmissions. This is a consular ship. We’re on a diplomatic mission. The Tantive IV belonged to the House of Organa of Alderaan. TK-4601 knew that both father and daughter of that House were members of the Imperial Senate.
If this is a consular ship, where is the ambassador?
As seemed to be a not uncommon progression with Lord Vader, he’d grown so furious that his fingers crushed the man’s windpipe before the unfortunate captain could even manage an answer.
TK-4601 could hear the vertebrae snapping like dried twigs.
He swallowed hard. The bucket concealed all.
Vader had ordered Commander TK-9091 to search the ship—tear it apart were his exact words—until the plans were found. As for passengers, unlike the late Captain Antilles, they were to be taken alive.
And so the four stormtroopers had been sent to search for the ill-fated ship’s passengers. They were now poking around in various corridors, closets, and other out-of-the-way places in a life-and-death game of hide-and-seek.
TK-4601’s heart was still racing and he could feel the heat in his cheeks and the smile on his face. He’d deliberately pushed the casual murder of the captain out of his mind, and now he was beyond excited. He felt exultant. They were not just conducting random raids on sullen populations of distant worlds. They were in search of the real thing. Real rebels, with real cunning, who’d managed to steal plans from a major Imperial base that ought to have been impregnable.
Clever creatures, the rebels, he thought. He would never admit it, but there was much to be admired about them.
Rumor—that sweet, swirling, shape-shifting creature—had it that the missing ambassador was senatorial royalty: Princess Leia Organa of Alderaan, to be specific. It was a logical conclusion, considering the Tantive IV was owned by her father. Both she and Bail Organa had publicly expressed sympathy for the rebels’ cause. That didn’t mean they were themselves rebels, of course. But what if they were? TK-4601 badly wanted to talk to TK-3338, who was following immediately behind him in their sweep, and ask if he thought it was true. What was she like, this senatorial princess? She couldn’t really be just nineteen, could she?
Younger than he was, and already a senator. Astonishing. It wouldn’t be surprising if she had indeed been seduced by the siren song of the Rebellion. Its “championing of the innocent,” its defiance of the order offered by the Empire. He’d been nineteen once, too, and remembered the appeal such ideals could have. But he’d been smart and resisted that call. He was a staunch Imperial.
An Emperor outranked a princess, and the Senate’s days were numbered.
“Think we’ll find any of them?” asked TK-4247, who was bringing up the rear. He was even newer and more naïve than TK-4601 had been when he’d joined Vader’s legion.
“Lord Vader will be pleased with us if we do,” TK-9091 answered. He didn’t say the opposite—that Lord Vader would be displeased if they did not. TK-4601 didn’t even want to think about that.
I want them alive, Vader had said. Their blasters were set on kill. They were in a battlefield, even now. Too many of the crew were loose and armed, wandering about and opening fire, for the stormtroopers to take chances. TK-9091, taking point as was his right, had ordered them to kill the crew, but switch to stun upon sighting anyone who might be a passenger.
“What if we find the senator?” chimed in TK-3338.
“Same thing. Stun. But we don’t know for certain that she’s here,” the commander answered. “Don’t let down your guard. If this really is a rebel ship, they’re cornered animals now, and they’re going to fight dirty.”
Of course they would. Lying through their teeth about their illegal activities. Hiding in shadows. Dirty fighters.
But after the quick flush of excitement and anticipation, the routine of checking corridor after corridor faded before the mundanity of the task.
And then all at once mundanity was shattered. “There’s one,” TK-9091 said, turning to TK-4601. “Set for stun.”
TK-4601 instantly adjusted his blaster’s setting and turned to look.
The instant lasted less than a heartbeat, but TK-4601 felt it was frozen, locked in time.
Her clothing was so white as to almost glow, her skin smooth and pale as cream. As pale as his own, though her long, glossy hair, gathered up in elaborate but efficient twin buns on either side of her face, was a rich warm brown, not the bright, sunny yellow of his.
And she was so…little.
TK-4601 had imagined that rebel women would be strong and muscular. Tall, powerful warriors. This one stood barely a meter and a half, and looked like she might break if held too tightly.
But her eyes—
They were not cold, those brown orbs. They were steady, however, and they were calm, and they told him as clearly as if she had shouted the words: I will never yield.
She gripped a small, handheld blaster, the barrel pointing up.
And suddenly TK-4601 understood how it was that this nineteen-year-old girl was more of a woman than most twice her age. He understood how she had become a popular senator, why she had sympathy for the Rebellion. Why people followed her.
And in that instant that lasted for an eternity, he also knew that they, elite members of Vader’s Fist, were going to be too slow, that their commander had, very wrongly, judged this woman harmless, had reacted far too casually, and was about to pay the price before any of them could react.
The white sleeves fell away from her slender arms as she lifted the blaster.
TK-9091 fell, his armor scorched and smoking.
The movement shocked TK-4601 out of his reverie. Time, which had slowed to a crawl, sped up again, rushed to meet him, and he fired his own blaster directly at the woman who could only be Princess Leia Organa.
She collapsed instantly, striking the cold, gray surface hard with no chance to break her fall. She lay sprawled, her tiny, delicate fingers still clutching the blaster.
TK-4601 rushed toward her, suddenly seized with worry that she had hit too hard, that she was dead. He felt a strong—and, he knew, treasonous—wave of relief when he realized this was not the case.
“She’ll be all right,” he said. He realized that his words were heavy with unexpected, unwanted emotion. But thanks to “the bucket,” they came out sounding as clipped and precise as they always did.
He took a
breath. “Inform Lord Vader we have a prisoner.”
It presaged dark things, if Vader specifically wanted to interrogate this one. He himself had encountered his commander only a few times, and that was enough. What he would do to her…
No. He would not be swayed by a pretty face and a mien filled with resolve. The princess would have been delighted if her shot had dispatched TK-9091, or himself, or the other two in the patrol group.
“Sir,” TK-4247 said to him, “the commander’s dead.”
Dead? It wasn’t possible. The white plastoid suits protected the soldiers encased inside them, diffusing blasts so that most shots weren’t lethal.
But the princess had aimed true, and from only three meters away. TK-4247 was bent over him, and now he turned his helmeted face to his new commander. “Orders, sir?”
Sir. With the death of TK-9091, the role of commanding officer fell to TK-4601. He’d wanted to climb high in the ranks, but not like this.
For a moment, he didn’t reply. He knew the orders. Stormtroopers lay where they fell until after the battle, and TK-9091 could be no exception to that rule. TK-4601 could still hear the screams out in the corridors—both the high-pitched sounds of blasters firing and the cries of agony from their victims.
He strode to where their captive lay. Her body was limp and her face slack. Its fire was quelled, but its beauty still lingered. She would wake in a few minutes, perhaps feeling slightly hungover from the effects of the stun bolt but, as he had told the group, “fine.”
Unlike TK-9091. His commanding officer. His friend. The one who cracked the stupidest jokes in the world in his off hours, but who was all business when he donned the uniform. Except this time, he’d underestimated the enemy. A stupid, stupid mistake.