Star Wars - Rebel Force 02 - Renegade

by Alex Wheeler

  By morning, Luke would be dead.

  And everyone would believe it was due to injuries sustained in the explosion.

  Making Han Solo a murderer.

  It had been frustrating to watch Luke survive the explosion, but maybe it was for the best, X‑7 decided. Toxins were his preferred method of killing. Simple, direct—almost elegant. And no chance of error or escape.

  X‑7 prepared a suitably genial smile, in case Luke was awake. He opened the door.

  A wave of rage crested over him, nearly knocking him off his feet. He was unused to such strong emotions. He was supposed to be beyond them. But it was impossible to remain calm.

  The bed was empty.

  The target—the weak, young, naïve, pathetic target—was gone.

  Which meant X‑7 had failed again.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Luke landed the shuttle on a desolate stretch of sand, several kilometers from the nearest outpost of civilization. Of course, on Tatooine, "civilization" was a relative term.

  "Are you quite certain that this is the best hiding spot for us, Master Luke?" The protocol droid C‑3PO tottered out of the ship, followed by his astromech counterpart, R2‑D2. He stood with his hands on his hips, glaring at the bleak desert landscape. They had landed at the edge of the Dune Sea, a sandy, windswept plain that stretched to the horizon. Bleached nearly white by the harsh Tatooine suns, the ocean of sand melded seamlessly into the pale, hazy sky. "This climate is dreadfully bad for my joints!"

  R2‑D2 beeped gleefully, wheeling circles around his golden friend, as Leia stretched.

  "Easy for you to say," C‑3PO snapped. "You don't have to worry about your language circuits getting sandclogged. I still don't understand why we couldn't hide in a nice civilized place, like Coruscant or Kuat. As it happens, I actually speak all six dialects of Kuat, including the rare—"

  "We're not going to Kuat," Luke said irritably. "And we're not hiding." He brushed a hand through his hair, already dusted with sand. Away from his home planet, he had forgotten the way the sand coated everything, inside and out. Luke squinted against the brutal twin suns and wiped the sweat off his forehead, smearing his face with sandy grit. Hard to believe he'd spent his whole life here. And yet, now that he was back, it was just as hard to believe he'd ever left. "We're here for Biggs."

  True, no one in the Rebellion knew where they'd gone. And Leia was adamant that they not return to Yavin 4 until the Rebels had completed their investigation and discovered who wanted Luke dead. But Luke hadn't run away to Tatooine. He'd gotten a message the week before from his old friend Windy. The old gang was getting together, to mourn the death and celebrate the life of Biggs Darklighter. To remember the good old days.

  The days before a TIE fighter blew Biggs out of the sky.

  Luke had been there, seen it happen. One moment Biggs was there, the same confident flyboy he'd been back home, covering Luke as they attacked the Death Star.

  Then, the next moment, nothing left but a cloud of debris, drifting into space.

  Luke had promised Leia he wouldn't tell any of his old friends where he'd been these last few months, which meant he couldn't tell them of Biggs's last moments or his last act of heroism. But Luke was determined to give his old friend the sendoff he deserved.

  He just had one stop to make first.

  "This is where you lived?" Leia asked, trying to see past the ruined remnants of the moisture farm and imagine what the place must have looked like before it was destroyed. It would have been hard under any circumstances—the Empire had burned most of it, and looting Jawas had taken care of the rest. But it wasn't just that. Leia would never have admitted it, but to her, the whole planet looked like a pile of ruins. Broken buildings, broken people. She couldn't imagine anyone growing up here, much less Luke.

  He nodded, pointing at the pile of crumbled pourstone. It was already half-covered by sand and Leia suspected that within a few years, the desert would have reclaimed all remnants of the Lars moisture farm. "My bedroom was over there," Luke said. "Some of the vaporators were spread out, all along there. They were always breaking down, but it's like Uncle Owen always says, 'You want to be a moisture farmer, you have to—'"

  He snapped his mouth shut.

  "What?" Leia asked, when he didn't continue.

  Luke shook his head.

  He didn't have to explain any further. Leia had her own memories, her own ruined past. Sometimes it was hard to remember that the people you'd lost were gone forever. Sometimes it was impossible to forget.

  They stood quietly for several long moments, the wind spraying a fine mist of sand in their faces. Even the droids knew better than to speak.

  "Do you want to get closer?" Leia finally asked. "See if…there's anything left to salvage?"

  Luke hesitated for a moment, scanning the ruins, as if weighing the odds that anything could have survived the Imperial destruction. Then he gave himself a shake, and turned his back on his old home. Leia hurried after him as he headed toward the landspeeder. When she reached him, he offered her a smile—the first real smile she'd seen since they landed. "I think I have a better idea."

  X‑7 stood in the middle of Luke's quarters, an odd sensation churning in his gut: uncertainty.

  He had volunteered his help with the investigation of the explosion. And, as an official part of that investigation, he'd ransacked Luke's room. He'd scavenged through piles of Luke's clothing; he'd torn apart Luke's mattress. Searched everywhere for some record, some clue to where Luke and Leia might have gone.

  And he'd come up empty.

  He'd begun slicing Luke's encrypted computer files, but it would take some time. Meanwhile, he'd find a way to search Leia's room next. This would be harder to do without raising suspicion, but he'd get it done. That wasn't his concern.

  His concern was that he wouldn't find anything there, either.

  His concern was that Luke had slipped through his fingers, and X‑7 wouldn't be able to hunt him down.

  X‑7 wouldn't be able to complete the mission he'd been given by his master.

  And that meant X‑7 would be punished.

  As he had been punished before.

  "You've failed me," the Commander says.

  X‑7 squints into the blinding light. His master is a dark shadow, looming over him. X‑7 is immobilized, pinned to the wall by durasteel binders. There is no escape from the Commander's wrath. But the binders are unnecessary. X‑7 will bear his punishment. He belongs to the Commander. If the Commander wishes to destroy him, that is his right.

  "The bounty hunter had been stalking the target for weeks," he reports. "He killed the target before I even arrived. There was nothing I could have done."

  A sharp crack, as the Commander backhands him across the jaw. "No excuses!" he shouts. "You let someone else find the target first. You let someone kill him before he could be interrogated. There is no excuse for failure!"

  But X‑7 is explaining, not excusing. Only frightened men make excuses, and X‑7 has no fear. The Commander took that from him, along with every other emotion, long ago. For X‑7, there are only facts. Events. And results. Except that the only acceptable result is success.

  And he has failed.

  He waits for death.

  "I've put too much time and money into training you," the Commander mutters. "But obviously it wasn't enough. Your training will continue."

  X‑7 knows what this means. Back in the dark cell that has been home for as long as he can remember. Back to the battles with carnivorous danchafs and ravenous reeks. Back to the neural shock treatments, frying his system again and again, until there was nothing left but the urge to follow orders. Back to the possibility of death lurking around every corner, behind every door.

  "But first, you will be punished for your failure," the Commander says.

  The Commander draws out his tools. The Neuronic whip. The Fire blade. The force pike. The nerve disrupter. And the Treppus-2 vibroblade.

  A droid could have
accomplished this task with ease, but the Commander prefers to administer punishments himself.

  X‑7 is unafraid. The Commander's displeasure worms inside of him, acid that eats him from within. His failure is a physical fact, a physical pain. There is nothing to life but pleasing the Commander; failing him is worse than death. Worse than anything imaginable. The Commander lifts the vibroblade. His favorite. X‑7 closes his eyes, believing he has nothing more to fear.

  He is wrong.

  "This is your better idea?" Leia asked, stepping over a pile of womp rat dung as they wound their way through a desolate assemblage of decrepit pourstone dwellings. Luke had called Anchorhead a small settlement, but as far as Leia could tell, it was barely more than a power station and a couple of cantinas. All looked deserted.

  "Come on!" Luke said happily, hurrying to the power station. "I bet the guys are already inside."

  Leia looked dubiously at the low-slung building. The rickety walls and decaying roof seemed to be on the verge of collapse; anyone inside might well be risking their life. "You sure your friends will be here?" Leia asked, glancing at the heap of spare parts and prototype droids rusting by the door. On the other side of the entrance, a gaunt, sickly dewback tugged weakly at the fraying rope tying him to the tether post.

  "Where else would they be?" Luke asked, grinning. "Aw, Tosche Station's great, you'll see."

  There was a dull metallic roar as a massive sandcrawler rolled past the station. C‑3PO cast a fearful look at the machine. R2‑D2 issued an alarmed series of beeps.

  "What are you two so worried about?" Luke asked. "It's just a bunch of Jawas."

  "Precisely what I'm afraid of," C‑3PO replied. "I knew coming to this planet was a bad idea. Why, we're surrounded by potential dangers! If we had only—"

  "You know, there's a machine shop around back," Luke said quickly. "Why don't you and Artoo go see if they can buff up your platings and outfit you with some fresh recharge couplings?"

  C‑3PO straightened up. "Now that you mention it, it has been far too long since my last tune-up. And all this sand is not helping matters." He brushed an imaginary fleck of dust off his shoulder. "Did you hear that?" C‑3PO boasted to his counterpart as they hurried around the back. "Master Luke is always looking out for our best interests."

  R2‑D2 trilled and beeped.

  "He is most certainly not trying to get rid of us!" C‑3PO said indignantly.

  Leia suppressed a smile. It dropped away as soon as she stepped into Tosche Station. The inside was even more cluttered and dirty than she would have expected. Dimly lit, with low ceilings and peeling walls, the station was packed full of overstuffed shelves and bins. Every spare surface was covered with grease and spare parts. There was a long counter toward the front, presumably for customers, when there were any. But the station was mostly empty, save for a few figures in the back, lounging around an old holopool table. They all looked up as the door opened.

  "Skywalker!" one of them roared, jumping up from the table and throwing his arms around his old friend.

  "Miss me, Windy?" Luke asked, grinning.

  "Missed beating you at holopool," a burly young man said, chuckling as he drove a knuckle into Luke's shoulder. He dragged Luke over to the table, pounding him on the back. "Skywalker's back!" he announced. "All hail the conquering Wormie!" The group burst into a mocking cheer.

  "You never mentioned your nickname was Wormie," Leia whispered, trying not to laugh.

  Luke flushed red and shrugged. As he introduced her to his friends, Leia struggled to keep the jumble of names and faces straight. The burly man was Fixer, a mechanic who ran Tosche Station, when there was any business to do, which was rarely. Next came Camie, who was gazing at Fixer and tossing sweet dweezels into his gaping mouth. Windy and Deak, who Leia couldn't tell apart—but since they kept repeating each other, she supposed it didn't matter. And, silent in the corner, Jaxson, his flat head, squarish jaw, and dead stare giving him the look of a droid.

  Leia noticed Luke give him an odd look, but Luke replaced it with a smile before anyone else could notice. "And this is Leia," Luke said, when the introductions were complete. "My, uh, copilot." They had agreed that no one needed to know that Leia was Leia Organa, Princess of Alderaan and founding member of the Rebel Alliance.

  "So, tell us about it, Luke!" Windy urged him.

  "About what?"

  "Everything," Windy said. "What it's like up there!" He pointed to the ceiling.

  "Same as down here," Jaxson said, scowling. "Whole galaxy's the same, from one end to the other."

  "Like you'd know," Fixer teased. "You've never been farther from home than Mos Espa—and you only ended up there because you got lost on your way home from Beggar's Canyon."

  Jaxson didn't laugh.

  "I thought you were shipping out to the Academy," Luke said. "What happened?"

  Jaxson shrugged. "Changed my mind. This is my home. Not ashamed of where I come from, unlike some people."

  "Changed his tune, he means," Fixer said, still chuckling. "Right after he failed his entrance exams."

  A sudden, awkward silence descended over the table; broken only by Camie's tinkling giggle.

  Deak cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable. "So, tell us about it, Skywalker. What have you been doing all this time?"

  "Yeah, Wormie, wow us," Jaxson added. "You find yourself a good job cleaning out the dianoga dung on a garbage scow?"

  "More like smuggling spice through the Outer Rim and swindling Hutts from here to Barabi," Luke boasted.

  Leia shot him a sharp glance. They'd agreed on a cover story—that Luke had found a job as a mechanic at a distant shipping outpost. What was Luke doing?

  Fixer snorted. "Yeah, right, Wormie. And I'm an Imperial admiral, shipping out next week to command my own Star Destroyer."

  "It's true!" Luke said hotly. "You should see my ship. Fastest in the sector. We've done the Kessel Run in less than twelve—I mean, eleven parsecs!"

  Leia tried not to roll her eyes. Boasts like this were one thing coming from a laserbrained spacer like Han—but coming from Luke, they sounded downright ridiculous. His friends looked like they felt the same way.

  All except Camie. "Really?" she asked, looking intrigued.

  "How'd you get your hands on a ship?" Deak asked.

  Jaxson rolled his eyes. "As if Skywalker could really go up against a Hutt," he scoffed. "Wormie probably hasn't even been offworld—he's probably been hiding out in Mos Espa, cleaning 'freshers."

  "Not many 'fresher-cleaners with a hundred thousand credit bounty on their heads," Leia snapped.

  Luke looked at her in surprise.

  "Why don't you tell them about the time you rescued us from the Imperials on Bimmisaari, Luke," she suggested, giving Luke a quick wink. "Or how you nabbed that shipment of glitterstim from the gang of Rodians on Kubindi."

  Windy and Deak's eyes widened in amazement. Camie turned the full blast of her adoring gaze onto Luke. Even Fixer seemed impressed. "You really managed to score yourself a freighter?" he asked Luke. "Running with the spice smugglers and everything? How'd you manage that?"

  Luke grinned—not his familiar earnest smile, but a cocky curl of the lips in perfect imitation of Han Solo. He lowered his voice. "Okay, boys, you want the real story? If you promise not to spread it around…?"

  They nodded eagerly, and Luke began spinning a tale Leia had heard many times from Han, about a death-defying run-in with some rival smugglers on the Bubble Cliffs of Nezmi. She smiled to herself. Luke's friends were looking at him like he was a hero. Sure, everything out of Luke's mouth was a lie, but the hero part was absolutely true.

  "You stole a blaster shipment from the Empire?" Jaxson interrupted Luke angrily. "That's treason!"

  "Aw, go crink yourself, Jaxson," Fixer said. "Like the kriffing Empire doesn't have enough blasters. Let him finish the story."

  "Tell the truth, Luke," Windy said. "Did you steal those weapons for the Rebellion? You can tell us."
<
br />   "Yeah, you can tell us," Deak seconded.

  Luke offered them only a mysterious shrug. "Can't say who hired me for the job. Smuggler's code."

  "Think the Alliance could use another smuggler?" Windy asked. "I'm not a bad pilot myself."

  Deak shoved him. "Then how come you just crashed your third skyhopper this year?"

  Jaxson smacked his hand down on the table. "You're all going to sit here and joke about joining up with that bunch of cowardly traitors?" he growled. "Today, of all days? We're here for Biggs, aren't we? He'd be ashamed of you all."

  "Biggs gave his life for the Rebellion!" Luke blurted.

  "Luke," Leia said quietly, hoping to remind him that he wasn't supposed to know how Biggs had died. He certainly couldn't admit to seeing it for himself. If anyone suspected Luke had been present for the Death Star explosion, he'd be in even more danger.

  "Biggs was an officer in the Imperial Navy," Jaxson shot back. "He gave his life for the Empire, not your band of kriffing traitors."

  "You don't know what you're talking about," Luke said, teeth gritted and face pale.

  "If you're right," Jaxson said, "then he died a traitor. And the galaxy's better off without him." Camie gasped. Fixer glared, as Windy and Deak looked like they wanted to crawl under the table.

  Luke balled his left hand into a fist. His right hand reached for his lightsaber. Leia grabbed his arm. "Luke, let it go," she urged him in a whisper.

  He shook her off. "Say that again," he ordered Jaxson, in a low, dangerous voice. "I dare you."

  CHAPTER FIVE

  "Griggs Pe'et?" Han said, approaching a booth in the cantina's back corner inhabited by a grizzled Balosar. The creature wiggled its retractable antennapalps. Han had met a few Balosars in his day—it was a duplicitous, cowardly, greedy species, and he expected Griggs would be no exception. "Han Solo," he introduced himself, sliding into a seat. Chewbacca stayed on his feet, standing guard. "You said you wanted the best? You got him."