Chapter Text
Luke Skywalker flexed his prosthetic hand as he entered the briefing room. The joints responded smoothly, but the phantom sensation remained—his missing fingers curling into a fist that wasn't there anymore.
Four months since Bespin. Four months, and he still wasn't used to it.
The Rebellion had managed to acquire a high-quality prosthetic despite everything. Medical resources were scarce. People were dying from lack of bacta. And here he was, complaining about phantom sensations.
He clenched the mechanical hand into a fist, felt the servos respond. He should be grateful.
But gratitude didn't make his missing fingers stop aching.
"Commander Skywalker." Mon Mothma's smile was faint, worn at the edges. "Thank you for coming. I trust your journey from the Fourth Division was uneventful?"
The phrasing was careful. Diplomatic. Journey instead of flight. Uneventful instead of safe. Because even routine travel meant exposure now—probe droids, Imperial patrols, Vader's hunters.
"One probe droid near the jump point," Luke said, keeping his tone matter-of-fact. Probe droids were routine now. The Empire was everywhere. "R2 sliced it before it could transmit. We're clear."
Mon Mothma's relief was subtle but visible. A slight relaxation in her shoulders.
"Leia sends her regards," Luke continued, and his expression shifted. "After Commander Zahra's ambush, the Fourth Division is scattered. They've lost three ships. Regrouping, but..." He didn't finish. They all knew what scattered meant. What regrouping cost.
"We are aware."
The voice was flat, cutting across the moment with clinical precision. Lieutenant Kleya Marki stood near the holo-projector, datapad in hand, posture rigid. She hadn't been there when Luke entered—or he hadn't noticed her. Intelligence officers had that skill.
"Chief Mothma, if I may?"
Mon Mothma gestured her forward.
Marki was young—supposedly one of the newest Yavin survivors—but something about her felt older. Worn. Luke had met lifelong soldiers who carried less weight in their eyes. Whatever she'd done before joining the Rebellion, it hadn't been easy.
She never tolerated idleness. Never wasted time. Never showed emotion that wasn't strategically useful.
Luke couldn't read her through the Force. She was all sharp edges and controlled surfaces. Either exceptional discipline or—he suspected—exceptional damage.
Kleya activated the holo-projector without a preamble. A star map materialized above the table—the Southern Outer Rim. Hundreds of systems glowed in varying colors: blue for Rebellion-friendly, red for heavy Imperial presence, grey for contested or unknown.
Red dominated the display.
Luke leaned forward. The map showed a region he knew since his Tatooine childhood—the Corallian Run, the Hydian Way, the minor trade routes smugglers used. But now it looked like an Imperial stranglehold. Red systems in every direction, tightening like a noose around the few blue pinpricks that remained.
Kleya's stylus tapped one system, and it enlarged.
"Eriadu."
The planet rotated slowly in the hologram's glow. Brown atmosphere, heavy industrialization visible even from orbit. Six massive shipyard structures hung in space like metal moons.
"Strategic chokepoint," Kleya said, her tone clinical. "Crossroads of the Hydian Way and Rimma Trade Route. Produces forty percent of the galaxy's military-grade lommite. Six Star Destroyer-class shipyards in orbit." She paused, letting those numbers land. "Guarded by four Imperial fleets and twelve Army divisions."
Luke studied the tactical overlay. Those weren't defensive numbers. Those were fortress numbers.
"So it's a fortress," he said quietly.
"It's a fortress," Kleya agreed. "Which makes what's happening there even more interesting."
She pulled up a secondary display—communications intercepts, coded messages, fragmentary intelligence reports. Luke recognized the format: Rebel intelligence gathering, pieced together from dozens of sources, none of them complete.
"Two weeks ago, a local worker cell made contact with the Rebellion through smuggler channels." Kleya's stylus highlighted one transmission. "Mine workers on Eriadu. They said they want to fight. Or flee. They weren't particular about which."
"Radicalized?" Luke asked.
"Desperate," Kleya corrected. "There's a difference. But desperation makes people useful." She glanced at him. "Our fleet could use skilled mechanics. Trained miners. People who know Imperial systems inside and out."
Luke felt something tighten in his chest. Useful. Not people we can help. Not victims of Imperial oppression. Just useful.
"So we're going there to get the workers out," he said, keeping his voice neutral.
"There's more."
Kleya brought up another data set—production reports, shipping manifests, intelligence analyses marked with red flags.
"Cross-examination between our intelligence and the workers' reports shows something unusual. Lommite production quotas on Eriadu have increased by two hundred percent in the last six months." Her stylus moved to other systems. "Similar reports from Corellia. Fondor. Kuat. Every major Imperial production world is being pushed beyond sustainable capacity."
Luke looked at the patterns. Resource flows, all converging toward—nothing. The shipping destinations were redacted, classified at levels even Rebel intelligence couldn't crack yet.
"So they're mobilizing," he said. "Expanding their fleet. Getting ready for a major offensive."
"Maybe." Kleya's expression was unreadable. "Or building something else. Something that requires massive amounts of resources concentrated in one location."
The silence that followed was heavy.
Luke felt the temperature in the room drop. Not literally—just the weight of understanding settling over everyone present. Another Death Star. It had to be. What else would require that kind of resource mobilization?
Mon Mothma spoke quietly. "We don't have confirmation. But the pattern is... concerning. Whatever the Empire is building, disrupting the supply chain buys us time. Time to identify the target. Time to plan a response."
She looked at Luke directly.
"Commander Skywalker, this mission has three objectives. Disrupt lommite production on Eriadu. Extract skilled workers who want to defect. And gather intelligence about where those shipments are going." Her voice carried the weight of someone making a choice she didn't like but knew was necessary. "You're the best choice for this. The workers won't trust a cold intelligence operative. They need someone who sees them as people, not assets."
Luke heard what she wasn't saying: Your compassion is a weapon. We're using it.
But she was also right. If there was another Death Star being built somewhere, every day of delay mattered. Every bit of intelligence brought them closer to finding it. And if helping workers escape Imperial oppression also served the Rebellion's strategic interests—wasn't that the best possible outcome?
"Of course I'll go," Luke said.
Kleya nodded once, as if she'd never doubted it. "Good. Then let's discuss operational details."
She pulled up a chair and sat, her posture shifting from briefing officer to mission planner. Mon Mothma excused herself quietly—she had a fleet to coordinate—leaving Luke and Kleya alone with the glowing hologram of Eriadu between them.
"The good news," Kleya began, and Luke almost smiled at the dry humor in her voice, "is that the local Imperial governor is spectacularly incompetent. Garoche Tarkin. Cousin to the late Grand Moff. Spent the last four years trying to fill Wilhuff's boots and failing at every turn."
She pulled up a file—Garoche's official Imperial portrait. The man looked like a poor copy of his famous cousin. Same uniform, similar styling, but something was off. Softer. Less sharp.
"Eriadu's Imperial administration is fractured," Kleya continued. "House Tarkin infighting, bureaucratic inefficiency, corners being cut to meet impossible quotas. Security is tighter than most worlds, but not as tight as it should be for a fortress system. There are gaps."
"What kind of gaps?"
"The kind you can slip through if you're careful." She brought up a calendar. "In three weeks, Eriadu is hosting Imperial Day celebrations. Major event—Governor Tarkin showing off Eriadu's loyalty and productivity to the wider Empire. Every officer, administrator, and elite family on the planet will be focused on the festivities."
Luke saw where this was going. "Security will be spread thin."
"Exactly. The celebrations happen at the Tarkin Memorial Conference Center in the capital. That means all the important people in one place, looking the wrong direction. Meanwhile, we execute a quick, clean extraction operation at the lommite mines on the far side of the planet."
She pulled up a logistics manifest. Transport schedules. Flight paths. Numbers.
"The extraction parameters are tight," Kleya said, and her tone shifted—flatter, more pragmatic. "We can only commit four freighters for the operation. Fleet resources are stretched thin. We're looking at a maximum extraction capacity of approximately one hundred workers."
Luke frowned. "How many workers are in the cell that contacted us?"
"We estimate five hundred, minimum. Possibly more once word spreads that we're offering evacuation."
"So we're choosing."
"We're prioritizing," Kleya corrected. Her voice was steady, unapologetic. "Skilled technicians first. Single laborers second. Workers with families last. It's not pleasant, but we don't have infinite resources. Every person we extract is one more trained professional our fleet desperately needs."
Luke looked at the numbers again. One hundred out of five hundred. Maybe more left behind.
"And the ones we can't take?" he asked quietly.
Kleya met his eyes. "They stay. And they face whatever consequences come from their cell being compromised. Imperial reprisals. Interrogations. Possibly execution."
She didn't look away. Didn't soften it.
"This is war, Skywalker. We save who we can. We use the information they give us. And we accept that we can't save everyone." She leaned back slightly. "If that bothers you, say so now. I'll send someone else."
Luke thought about Tatooine. About Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru, burned to skeletons because stormtroopers were looking for him. About Alderaan, vaporized. About the Rebellion's scattered fleet, running, always running, because they didn't have enough ships or soldiers or resources.
About the possibility—the probability—that somewhere out there, the Empire was building another weapon that could destroy entire worlds.
He thought about what Mon Mothma had silently said. Your compassion is a weapon.
Maybe it was. But it was still compassion.
"I'll go," Luke said. "And I'll extract everyone I can. But I'm not leaving people behind because they're not 'valuable' enough."
Kleya's expression didn't change. "You'll follow the mission parameters."
"I'll complete the mission," Luke corrected. "How I do it is up to me."
For a moment, they stared at each other across the holographic display. He could see something in her eyes. Not quite approval. Not quite frustration.
Recognition, maybe. Of someone else who'd made compromises and hated themselves for it.
"Fine," Kleya said finally. "You leave tomorrow. I'll have your cover identity and local contact information ready by 0800. Your ship is the Wandering Star—smuggler vessel, fake registration, should get you through customs without too much scrutiny. You'll pose as an equipment technician transferred from another Eriadu mining operation."
She stood, gathering her datapad.
"One more thing, Skywalker." She paused at the door. "The workers contacted us. We didn't recruit them. That means they're desperate enough to take risks. Desperate people are unpredictable. They'll want promises you can't keep. They'll ask you to save everyone."
Her voice was quieter now. Almost sympathetic.
"Don't make promises you can't keep. It'll just make it harder when you have to break them."
Then she was gone, leaving Luke alone with the rotating hologram of Eriadu and the weight of one hundred versus five hundred.
He was about to leave when Mon Mothma returned. She'd been standing in the corridor, he realized. Waiting for Kleya to go.
"Commander Skywalker. A moment."
Luke turned back. The Chief of State looked smaller somehow in the empty briefing room, the holographic map of Eriadu still rotating between them. She looked tired in a way that went deeper than exhaustion—the weight of decisions that cost lives, made daily, with no good options.
"There's something Lieutenant Marki didn't mention," Mon Mothma said quietly. "Perhaps didn't want to burden you with."
Luke waited.
"Our intelligence network on Eriadu has been compromised. In the last month, three of our informants within the Imperial administration have gone dark. One claimed a family emergency and fled off-world. The others simply stopped responding." She met his eyes. "Someone is conducting a very thorough counterintelligence operation."
Luke felt a chill. "You think the Empire knows about our mission?"
"I think someone is looking for something on Eriadu. Whether it's us, whether it's related to House Tarkin's instability, or something else entirely..." She shook her head. "I don't know. But whoever is conducting this operation is good. Professional. They've identified and neutralized our assets without leaving traces."
"Imperial Intelligence?"
"Perhaps. Or..." Mon Mothma hesitated, choosing her words carefully. "The Empire has other elements. Ones that don't operate through normal chains of command."
She didn't elaborate. But Luke heard the unspoken warning in her voice. There were things in the Empire that frightened even Mon Mothma. Things that made her cautious in a way standard Imperial forces didn't.
"Be careful out there," she said softly. "The mission is important. But you're important too. If you sense danger beyond the normal Imperial presence, if something feels wrong—trust your instincts. Get out."
Luke nodded slowly. His prosthetic hand clenched reflexively.
"I will."
But even as he said it, he knew he wouldn't. Not if people needed help. Not if the mission could be completed.
That was the difference between him and someone like Kleya, he supposed. She'd calculate acceptable losses. He'd try to save everyone and hope the Force would help him survive the consequences.
Mon Mothma seemed to sense his thoughts. A faint, sad smile crossed her face.
"May the Force be with you, Luke."
"And with us all," Luke replied.
He left the briefing room with the weight of her warning settling into his bones. Someone was on Eriadu. Someone dangerous. Someone thorough enough to dismantle Rebel intelligence networks without being detected.
Someone he might be walking straight toward.
Mara Jade was bored. Frustrated, even.
"Tyne Vellar, 86. Brenna Koss, 84."
Instructor Shan's voice echoed through the tactics classroom, flat and perfunctory. But when his gaze landed on Mara—no, on Kira Venn—his frown deepened. Something flickered behind his eyes. Uneasiness. Maybe even fear.
"Kira Venn, 90."
The urge to fidget nearly overwhelmed her training. A month of undercover, and this kept happening.
A month into her mission at Eriadu Academy, and it was a disaster. By all metrics, an exceptional cadet transferred from Imperial Center should be an easy cover to maintain. Yet here she was, drawing attention for her performance—and her peers' lack thereof.
Excellence that would have earned top marks at the most prestigious academies on Imperial Center earned only mediocre scores at this pathetic institution. And something about that excellence made her instructors afraid.
"Dismissed. Cadet Venn, a moment please."
The rest of the cadets dispersed quickly, whispering, avoiding her like a plague. Mara stayed seated while the classroom emptied.
Another Eriaduan who thought Tarkin's legacy made him untouchable. Wonderful.
"Instructor Shan?" She kept her voice confused. Uncertain. Everything an ambitious Core transfer should sound like when called aside.
"Kira." His use of her first name felt deliberate. He moved around the room, collecting abandoned datapads. Not looking at her. "You must be wondering about your marks."
Mara nodded. Played the role.
"Here at Eriadu Academy, we do things differently than on Imperial Center." His movements were crisp, professional, controlled. "Excellence has... consequences. But your scores are already well above your peers'. You have nothing to worry about."
The words were reassuring. His tone was not.
"Nothing at all."
White rage flared in her chest. Consequences. He'd all but admitted the mediocrity was intentional. She'd seen officers executed for less incompetence. But this wasn't the time. She had a mission. A role.
Mara straightened her shoulders. Made her voice earnest, almost pleading. The voice of someone who didn't understand Academy politics yet.
"With all due respect, sir, Imperial Academies have standards to maintain. Galactic standards. The Emperor demands nothing short of our best." She let the words settle. "Grand Moff Tarkin himself—"
"Enough."
The resentment in his voice was sharp, personal. Not the reaction of a traitor caught out. Something else. Something raw.
"You are in no place to question your superior, Cadet Venn." His voice went flat. Professional. Shutting down. "Have your Imperial Center instructors neglected to teach you that? Dismissed."
Mara stood, collected her datapad. "Of course. My apologies, Instructor Shan."
She turned toward the door.
"Cadet Venn."
His voice stopped her. Quieter now. Almost sad.
"A word of advice. From one professional to another." He met her eyes. "Stop trying so hard to be the best. It's safer that way."
Mara nodded slowly, as if considering. As if she didn't recognize the warning for what it was.
As if she hadn't just confirmed exactly what she suspected: something was very, very wrong at Eriadu Academy.
The mess hall was half-full when Mara entered. Conversations died. Cadets looked up, registered her presence, then deliberately shifted away. After a long moment, the whispers resumed—quieter now, more furtive.
On Imperial Center, this much attention would be a problem. Hands operated in shadows, not spotlights. But here, the attention was for Kira Venn—the brilliant Core transfer—not the Emperor's weapon. Better, even.
She chose an empty corner table with a clear view of the room. Half the cadets probably assumed she was old Core money slumming for easy rankings. The other half simply avoided her entirely.
Brenna Koss—her tactics partner—glanced toward Mara's table. Something like pity crossed her face before she quickly looked away.
As if Mara needed their worthless company anyway.
The hologram projector on the central podium flickered to life. Around the mess hall, cadets rose to attention. Mara stood with them, posture perfect, face neutral.
The blue-hued figure that materialized was Governor Garoche Tarkin, cousin to Grand Moff Wilhuff Tarkin. Even through the hologram's distortion, it was painfully obvious Garoche had gone to great lengths to mimic his dead cousin. He wore a naval uniform despite never serving in actual combat. He'd even styled his thinning hair the same way.
It didn't work. Garoche weighed nearly twice what Wilhuff had, with a considerably thicker skull. When he spoke, his voice was tight—forced projection masquerading as authority. Not the confidence that came from real power.
"Citizens of Eriadu," Garoche began. "It is my great honor to announce the celebration of Imperial Day at the Tarkin Memorial Conference Center in two weeks' time. On this joyous occasion, we Eriaduans will celebrate the peace and prosperity the Empire has brought—and continues to bring—to the entire galaxy."
He paused, as if expecting applause. None came.
"We will honor the unique bond between Eriadu and Imperial Center. Our outstanding officers and unmatched lommite production continue to play an essential role in galactic security. In fact, just three days ago, one of our very own accomplished great deeds in service to the Empire."
Mara watched several older cadets stiffen.
"Commander Ellian Zahra, top graduate of Eriadu Academy, personally led an assault that decimated two Rebel divisions." Garoche's voice swelled with pride. "Such exemplary service is exactly what the Emperor expects from all of us. Long live the Empire!"
"Long live the Empire!"
The response echoed dutifully through the mess hall. But Mara's Force sense caught something else beneath the words. Sorrow. Disgust. Fear. Anger. Wrong emotions for loyal Imperial cadets hearing about Rebel defeats.
The older cadets especially. The ones who would have been here four years ago, five years ago. Their faces were carefully blank, but their emotions roiled underneath.
Brenna Koss stood abruptly, her tray clattering. She left without excusing herself. Three other cadets followed, not bothering to hide their distress.
The mess hall remained at attention as the hologram flickered out. But Mara stayed focused on the empty doorway where Brenna had fled.
Commander Ellian Zahra. Top graduate. Decimated two Rebel divisions.
Why would that news make Academy cadets look like they wanted to vomit?
The Academy archives were in a basement sub-level, behind a door with a lock any competent thief could slice in under thirty seconds.
Mara did it in fifteen.
Disgustingly lax security for an Imperial facility. Then again, what cadet would risk expulsion to break into student records? What would they even find worth the risk?
She was about to answer that question.
The archive terminal hummed to life, bathing the windowless room in cold blue light. Dust motes drifted through the glow—the kind that accumulated when rooms went undisturbed for months, maybe years.
No one came down here anymore.
Mara pulled up Ellian Zahra's file.
Common knowledge: Ellian Zahra hailed from Eriadu, became Tarkin's protégé, now commanded Tarkin's Will. But her early life? Blank. The Empire had hundreds of competent commanders. Most were faceless. Why would Zahra be different?
Zahra's personnel file loaded. Mara scanned quickly:
Family killed by Separatist terrorists. Raised in an Imperial kinderblock on Eriadu. Top marks across all subjects. Excelled in martial arts and tactics...
She stopped.
Tactics: 102 (A+)
Instructor: Maximilian Shan
Remark: Cadet Zahra is the most brilliant young mind I have had the honor of teaching. Her talents would be wasted in army or governing positions. Highly recommended for Naval Officer fast-track program.
Mara read it twice.
Maximilian Shan. The same instructor who'd warned her about excellence today. The same man who'd looked at her scores with something like grief.
He'd recommended Zahra. Highest possible praise. And four years later, he was teaching cadets to hide their abilities.
What happened between then and now?
She pulled back from the terminal. Shan gave Zahra perfect marks four years ago. Now he was penalizing excellence. Something changed.
Her fingers flew across the controls. Pull the entire graduation class. All 198 cadets who graduated with Zahra. Cross-reference current status.
The data populated:
14 KIA aboard Death Star
3 KIA/MIA in subsequent combat operations
121 currently serving in Imperial military (including Zahra)
55 serving in civilian bureaucracy (mostly Eriadu postings)
2 suicides
3 killed in "recreational sports incidents"
Mara frowned at the last line. Recreational sports. Eriadu euphemism for hunting accidents.
The Death Star casualties were high but expected—Tarkin had staffed his superweapon with home-system loyalists. The suicides were tragic but not unusual. But three hunting deaths from the same graduating class?
She was about to move on when a name in the casualty list caught her eye.
Hannevik Koss
Koss. Brenna's surname.
Mara pulled the file immediately. The family resemblance was there in the ID photo—same angular features, same dark eyes. But where Brenna's face was guarded, careful, Hannevik's showed confidence. Pride. The expression of someone who'd never learned to hide.
Status: Deceased, non-combat
Location: Carrion Plateau, Tarkin family estate
Incident type: Recreational sports
Date: 05/14, Year 19
Academic record: Honor distinction. Top marks across all subjects. Tactics: 98 (A+). Instructor: Maximilian Shan.
Remark: Cadet Koss shows exceptional strategic thinking and leadership potential. Recommended for officer training.
Three days after graduation. Killed hunting on House Tarkin's private estate.
She pulled up the second name from the same incident.
Beldin Gor
Status: Deceased, non-combat
Location: Carrion Plateau, Tarkin family estate
Incident type: Recreational sports
Date: 05/14, Year 19
Academic record: Honor distinction. Top marks. Tactics: 96 (A+). Instructor: Maximilian Shan.
Remark: Cadet Gor demonstrates remarkable tactical innovation and quick decision-making under pressure. Recommended for officer training.
Two honor students. Both with perfect records. Both recommended by Instructor Shan. Both killed on the same day, same location, three days after graduation.
During a hunt.
Mara's hands stilled over the console.
Same day. Same location. Two graduates dead in a "hunting accident."
She pulled Zahra's file back up, scrolling past the academic records, past Shan's glowing recommendation, down to the post-graduation entries.
There.
Post-Graduation Special Training
Location: Carrion Plateau, Tarkin family estate
Date: 05/14, Year 19
Authorized by: Grand Moff Wilhuff Tarkin
Exercise type: Survival training - Albino Veermok hunt
Status: SUCCESSFUL. Cadet Zahra eliminated target. Commissioned as Protégé.
The same day.
The same place.
Three cadets went to Carrion Plateau. Two died. One survived and became Tarkin's chosen.
Mara sat back slowly, the cold from the basement seeping into her bones.
Not a hunting accident. A trial.
Shan's voice echoed in the empty archive room:
"Excellence has consequences. But your scores are already well above your peers'. You have nothing to worry about."
"Nothing at all."
He'd been trying to warn her. Because he'd recommended three students for excellence four years ago.
And only one came back.