Leia had been pacing nervously from the moment Luke and his two wingmen left the launch pad. Even now, hours into the evacuation preparations, she worried for them--especially for one of them in particular. What if they had mechanical problems? What if they ran into Imperials? What if they couldn't make it to the rendezvous in time?

"We're nearly ready, your Highness," General Rieekan announced, stepping into the kitchen. "The heavy transports are lifting off as we speak. Most of the personnel have reported to their shuttles."

The subtle nudge in his voice was obvious. "I'm always the last one to leave, General; you know that," she replied, trying to keep the sharpness out of her tone. It wasn't Rieekan's fault she was on-edge.

"This is one of the best evacuations we've had, Princess," the General explained. "No Imperials within light-years. It's almost relaxed out there. There's really no reason for you to concern yourself; the skeleton crew will be here for another three hours, until Captain Solo returns. In the meantime, you should--"

"Then I'll be here those three hours," Leia interrupted. "And I'll speak with Han before I leave, and I'll make sure the skeleton crew is aboard their shuttle. I'm not going until I'm certain everyone's safely in hyperspace."

Rieekan smiled almost fondly. "And then you'll fret until the pilots report in, won't you?"

Unable to resist a faint smile, she nodded. "You know me well, General."

"We won't hear from them for another seven hours, Princess. You should at least rest."

"I'll take that under advisement, General." She returned to her pacing, leaving Rieekan to shake his head and go on his way.

She didn't watch him go; instead, she went to the window and stared out at the people bustling back and forth, at the heavy transports lifting off in the distance. Again, she felt foreboding chilling her spine as she thought of Luke and his two pilots, out there somewhere.

I can rest when I'm dead, she thought sharply, pacing back to the scanner screens. There's too much at stake to slow down now.

As he roared down on the X-wing coming to bear on the beacon, Darth Vader found himself unsurprised when his opening shot missed completely. A flare in the Force rippled across space to him as the Rebel fighter jerked out of the way just in time to avoid the turbolaser fire--no way that pilot could have seen him coming from this angle. The X-wing peeled up and left quickly enough that if he turned just now to compensate he'd slam right into the Rebel fighter.

And it was that ripple in the Force that told him this was indeed the pilot he'd come across before, above the Death Star. Bright like a sun, pulsing with untapped strength--tentative spiderwebs of power reaching out, learning by doing; an untrained Sensitive, barely grasping the Force, using what little it could understand to keep itself alive.

And yet...this strong while still so raw...!

No trench this time--no shooting fleeks in a barrel. Just open space around them, two fighters facing off, skill for skill. And that Sensitive pilot indeed had skill--the Force was with him, his reflexes were quick, and his aim was deadly. As proof, the pair of regular TIEs that tried to hem the X-wing in for their Lord met with swift ends, even while the Rebel pilot avoided Vader's own fire. He handled the X-wing like an extension of himself--and perhaps it truly was; tendrils of Force-energy swirled invisibly around the machine, licking out like living flame to touch the surrounding space, his own TIE, even the distant beacon. The young X-wing pilot was aware in the Force, even if he didn't realize it.

That much power, that much presence, even while young and untrained...such a being was a horrible threat to himself and his master, should it ever become a true Jedi--or even a Sith. Especially a Sith--while an avenging Jedi was dangerous, there was no end to the death in Sith lineages; betrayal and murder ran rampant throughout their tales. It came naturally to those entrenched in the Dark Side. The Emperor would most likely order this pilot killed immediately, to avoid either scenario.

And yet...Vader didn't want to destroy the X-wing. He found himself preferring to disable the Rebel fighter--to capture its pilot instead.. An odd desire indeed--but strangely, not unwelcome. An untrained Sensitive with this kind of power--he would make a fine pupil, surely the Emperor would agree, if he made his case well. He could not be trained as a true Sith, of course--not with the great secrets of the Dark--but perhaps as one of his master's Hands, talented and useful in serving the Empire.

It was such a shame the Emperor demanded the deaths of so many Sensitives Vader had uncovered.

He realized he wanted to meet this stranger, this lucky and skilled young pilot. To look into the eyes of the one who could make him miss, who could shoot so well, could fly like that--like him, almost--the one who destroyed the Emperor's favorite toy with nothing more than tenacity and a raw burst of the Force. At least then, if his master was unwilling to use this new tool, he could give the Force-sensitive pilot a Jedi's death, with a lightsaber--instead of blowing him up like any random enemy.

A new directive in mind, he let his troops worry about the beacon and concentrated on herding the X-wing toward the nearest Star Destroyer. To his dark delight, the Sensitive pilot fought back--dragging them both into gut-churning spirals, rocketing toward him with lasers blazing, dodging and darting, trying to escape his net. This Rebel was deadly prey indeed--and that gave the Sith Lord all the more enjoyment as he began to bring his soon-to-be captive in.

Vader allowed himself a tight, predatory grin as he worked hard at the controls. This...is going to be fun.

Near-terrified at the skill of the Imperial pilot on his tail, Luke skittered like a panicked mynock along the hull of one of the Star Destroyers, dodging gun emplacements and laser fire all at once. There were gigantic Destroyers flocking in every direction he looked, like huge birds of prey closing in to watch the show. So far, his speed and proximity had kept him out of reach of the turbolasers and tractor beams--but he wasn't even sure how he'd survived this long, and he didn't know where Wedge and Tay were; the situation was so far beyond bad it was indescribable.

"Wedge!" he called again. "Tay! Where are you?"

He skipped aside of another blast from his dogged pursuer, hoping that his wingmen were still there to answer him. "Wedge? Come on, guys, let me know you're still fighting!"

"...here, Luke!" came Wedge's voice through a burst of static, breaking up from distance and jamming interference. "It's...not so good...get to you..."

"Wedge? You've got to get out of here--we're out of time!"

"...lost Tay...think the last sortie got him...sith-hell bastards...!"

Cold settled in the pit of Luke's stomach, the icy hand of despair gripping his heart. Tay--new, eager, worrywart Tay--was probably dead, if Wedge was correct. Blown to atoms with his fighter in the horrific melee.

"Listen, Wedge--I want you to get out and jump! You hear me?" he shouted into the comm. "Get your fighter clear and get out of here!"

"Don't be...not leaving you, Luke!"

Luke gritted his teeth. "That's an order, Rogue!"

The comm was silent for a long time, and Luke dodged away from the strange-looking TIE behind him--a craft rather like an Interceptor's bigger, badder brother--fighting to get back to the beacon.

The beacon that the nearby Star Destroyer was pulling in with its tractor beam.

Stang it--! "I gave you an order, Wedge--get out of here! Confirm!"

"...copy, Luke. I'm not going anywhere without you."

"Wedge, listen, you've got to go!" It was hard to fly and talk at the same time, with the fighter on his heels. "Someone has to let the others know! You have to warn them! This is my mission--so I'll finish it myself! You're almost clear--get out!"

"I can't just leave you again--I'd never forgive myself--!"

"Please, Wedge, do this for me. Go!"

Painfully torn between duty and loyalty, Wedge finally obeyed--Luke spotted his X-wing dashing across the conning tower of the Star Destroyer, heading for open space, a dozen TIEs on his tail and the other Destroyers closing in. "I'm sorry...I didn't want to end up failing you again..."

"You've never failed me, Wedge. Tell Leia...I'm sorry for being late."

"Luke, don't you dare die...!" At that final, choked farewell, there was a flicker of high-energy static over the comm, informing him that Wedge had finally jumped to hyperspace.

Twelve seconds to deadline.

The Star Destroyer was still reeling in the beacon--and the heavily-modified TIE Interceptor with the devil of a pilot was still hot on his tail.

Using the flak from the TIE he'd just destroyed as cover, Luke fired his engines to full throttle again and rocketed toward the beacon. On his back, the not-Interceptor swerved to compensate, green fire lancing across his path, driving him starboard instead. Irate, he glared out the side viewscreen at his round, gray-white enemy.

That Interceptor'd had a dozen opportunities to blast him out of the sky. And yet each time, the Imperial pilot had merely batted at him, scorching his wingtips with laser fire and chasing him back into the milling pile of the remaining TIEs. Pushing him ever closer to the nearby Star Destroyer's underbelly--and its yawning bay, surrounded by tractor beams.

Apparently, they wanted him alive--the other TIEs only tried to box him in. No one but the Interceptor was firing, driving him in whatever direction it wanted. He was being herded into captivity like a wayward nerf.

Like hell I'm going down so easy! he throught at the Imperial pilot, grimacing. "Artoo, drop the shield intensity," he ordered. "They want us in one piece, so let's give the engines some more power."

Artoo beeped hesitantly but complied. The steady thrum of X-wing's four engines went up to a roar, and the powerful little ship lurched forward, bursting free of the net. Caught flat-footed, the flight of regular TIEs were left far behind, buzzing ineffectively like fat bumbles. Luke blasted around the rim of the Star Destroyer, heading into dangerous territory near its underbelly--too close to the tractors for comfort.

"Quick--Artoo, target torpedoes on the beacon! We've only got one shot at this!"

The astromech trilled, obeying. Without waiting for computer confirmation, Luke hit the launch button as soon as Artoo squawked a ready signal. Twin fiery missiles shot forth like hungry piranhas, heading for the helpless beacon that was being drawn in, barely a hundred meters from the Star Destroyer's bay. Determined, Luke followed the torpedoes down, finger ready on the laser trigger.

But he had forgotten his Imperial pursuer. Not as limited as the regular TIEs, the strange-looking Interceptor had nearly matched his speed, and now came up under his wing, lasers blasting. As Luke stared in disbelief, first one, then the second torpedo winked out of existence in two small, bright flares. The beacon beyond them was never touched.

"No--no!" he shouted into the confines of his cockpit. "Who in space can shoot like that? Stang it--this can't be happening!"

Artoo whistled, a desparing sound. His translation was hopeful, but not optimistic.

If they get that beacon, there's no telling how much they'll learn about the Alliance! Luke's thoughts swirled madly as he came up under the Star Destroyer's belly, his path about to take him past the beacon. I'll have failed them all...Leia, Han, everyone... I can't let that happen!

Setting his jaw in grim determination, Luke gripped the flightstick in hands that suddenly shook, but never wavered. "Artoo...drop the shields and switch all power to the engines. I gotta do something. And...it's probably gonna get us both killed." I'm sorry, Leia...

Artoo's quiet chirp was one of gentle understanding--startling from the usually-saucy droid. [You do what you must,] the soft beeps translated on the screen. [I will always be at your side.]

"Thanks, Artoo." Luke couldn't help the smile. "Now let's make 'em hurt!"

Yanking on the stick, he pulled his X-wing into a sharp turn that left its nose pointed directly at the beacon. With all of its power concentrated in the engines, the small ship rocketed forward so quickly that not even the compensator could stop all the force of it. In moments, the beacon was looming large in his viewscreen once again.

The deadline didn't matter any more.

Even the flash of anger, defiance, and determination that burned through the Force didn't give Vader enough warning; he was not expecting the X-wing to swerve suddenly and accelerate at a crazy pace toward the transmitter beacon. For an instant, all he could do was stare in disbelief at the insane actions of the Rebel pilot.

He's going to ram it! That crazy little--!

It was so sudden, so unexpected, that he had mere moments to make his decision.

His master had commanded him to use the data contained within the transmitter beacon to locate and eliminate the Rebel base in this sector, as well as any outlying satellites. The Empire could stand to win a substantial victory, if the cell in this sector was indeed one of the command groups--perhaps even Princess Leia Organa's little collection of heroes. Such an order ranked far higher than the life of a single Rebel pilot, Force-sensitive or not.

Yet he still desired to meet this crazy, lucky, gifted X-wing pilot. For reasons beyond his comprehension, this strong new presence in the Force pulled at him, compelled him like no other before it. If he obeyed his orders, this bright little flame would be snuffed out in an instant, never to be touched again. His master would not care--the Emperor sought no new pupils, really needed no more Hands. His master had given him a command.

He had never disobeyed the Emperor's command. Bent the rules; sure. Re-interpreted instructions; of course. Pushed the limits; hells yes, all the time! But never, never had he countermanded a direct order.

In the next moment, hands tightening on the controls, he fed his craft's power to engines and weapons, darting after the mad X-wing. He didn't even need to use his targeting computer.

His thumbs smashed down on the firing controls, and green death lanced out.

Luke jerked bodily in shock as the bright flash enveloped him. He was so startled--no warning, no danger! feeling deep inside--and was moving so fast that he didn't have time to respond. Before he could move, in the time it took to blink twice, his X-wing disappeared into an expanding storm of bright fire and explosion.

His ship rocked, groaning and shrieking around him. He heard Artoo squealing, heard his own voice shouting in alarm. Then, just as suddenly, the fire was gone again, and he was facing stars and the cold white underbelly of the Destroyer. His listing X-wing was losing power fast, bucking and shuddering beneath him.

He was shaking so hard, his mind so surprised that it took him a moment to realize what had happened. Somehow, the beacon had exploded before he reached it--blown to bits right under his fighter's nose, and he had blasted right through the expanding fireball.

Which had not done his already-scorched X-wing any good, especially with his shields down.

But...how did it...? Confused, he blinked his eyes and tried to concentrate on his instruments. Why would it just blow up?

"Artoo? You still with me back there?"

A slightly weak-sounding chirp answered him, followed by a brief string of whistles.

"What? It was destroyed by turbolaser fire? But who would--?"

His answer roared across space in front of his canopy, so close he could almost hear it--the TIE Interceptor that had been chasing him. Shocked again, Luke stared at the small ship in the distance as it looped around to come back.

That pilot...saved me? No...he wouldn't save a Rebel. But...the Imperials want the beacon's data...so why...?

He was thoroughly confused--but also well aware that with the beacon gone, now would be a good time to make his escape. "Artoo, what's our status?."

A somewhat apologetic-sounding hoot replied that a lot of the instrumentation had been severely damaged in the explosion. They were still hyperdrive-capable on one remaining motivator, but most of the electronics in the lower fuselage--which, fortunately for the state of his canopy, had taken the brunt of the blow--had been melted. Which meant the S-foil actuator was dead, and they had no sensors, no weapons, and very little navigational capability.

At the moment, Artoo was functioning as the X-wing's brain, controlling life support and basic flight algorithms. His stored jump coordinates had been deleted for the purposes of this mission; all that remained was the rendezvous point--where they were to meet with a fleet transport--which was in the middle of dead space.

But the deadline had come and gone by two and a half minutes. By the time they made the journey through hyperspace--slower, thanks to the dead motivator--the transport would have already gone.

Trying to coax more flight out of the ailing engines, Luke put as much power as he could into getting far away from the multiple Star Destroyers now coming to bear on him. Any moment now, one of them would have him in a tractor lock, and all of this would be for nothing.

Wait...

"What about the coordinates you picked up from the beacon?" Luke asked quickly, urgently. "Can we make it there?"

Beeping, Artoo considered what data he had--coordinates relative to their current position. After a half-moment, he whistled a hesitant postive.

"What--you know the place? Is it safe?" Glancing out his side screen, Luke caught sight of the TIEs coming up around him again. "We better go for it if we can--it's got to be better than staying here."

Artoo chirped an emphatic agreement, doing what he could to ensure proper calculation and balance in the remaining hyperdrive motivator. When it was as ready as it could ever be, he sent the message to his master.

"Okay," Luke stated, taking a deep breath. "Here goes nothing!"

He was feeling danger again, like an imminent hammer about to fall--the nearest Destroyer was probably targeting him with its tractor beams that very moment. As TIE fighters led by the strange Interceptor roared in behind him, Luke pulled the lever--and the stars vanished into a whirl as the dying X-wing groaned its way into hyperspace.

Vader stared blankly at the empty space once occupied by the blackened X-wing fighter. Through his comm rang despairing apologies and stammered explanations from his captains; they had very nearly locked on to the Rebel when he made the jump to hyperspace. Quite unexpectedly, as well--his ship had been so damaged from the beacon's explosion that even Vader himself had thought it unable to escape. He had detected only a telltale flicker of desperate hope from its pilot before the X-wing shuddered and vanished.

"Piett," he rumbled into his direct comm line to his command ship. "Report."

"Yes sir, Lord Vader," came the prompt reply--nervous, but direct. "We've sustained only minimal damage, sir. Only the Star Destroyer Dauntless received a small amount of close-range turbolaser fire on her bridge section from the second X-wing, which destroyed a few communications antennae. We lost only nine TIE fighters in the skirmish, sir, and one more is inoperable. Shuttle crews are preparing to retrieve it now."

Vader rather liked that about Piett--the man was quick and obedient, and much more intelligent than Ozzel. Perhaps some promotions were in order, once he had time to sit down and consider it fully. "Very well, Captain. Has Admiral Ozzel finally dragged himself out of bed?"

"Er, yes, my Lord. He reported to the bridge approximately five minutes ago." By Imperial Standard Time--Coruscant time--it was a rather bleary-eyed oh-two-hundred in the morning.

"See to repairs, Captain. Have the Admiral place the First Fleet back at standby-ready."

"Yes, sir."

Still staring into empty space, his mind working over what had just taken place, Vader was silent for a long time. His fighter hung still, in neutral, near where the X-wing had been.

What in the name of the Force had posessed him to destroy the beacon? Simply to save the life of a scrawny Rebel pilot, no less! Compelling Force presence or no, such an act was inexcusable. His master would not be pleased; he would be reprimanded, punished, and the Emperor would lose faith in him.

But...he had followed the pull of the Force. He trusted the Force far more than his master ever seemed to--and the Force was still pulling at him, toward where the Rebel had gone, tugging at that place in his chest where once a heart had been. Demanding his attention, as it had when he'd received news of the transmission from Naboo...

Wait.

"Captain Piett," he spoke into the comm once again.

"My Lord?" came the captain's quick reply, moments later.

"Did your scanning crew take the Rebel fighter's vector as it entered hyperspace?"

"Of course, my Lord," Piett replied. "We estimate he could not have gone very far, with the damage to his ship from...the explosion, sir." No, the captain would not dare to mention Vader's obvious disobedience of the Emperor's orders. "Would you like us to begin a search along that vector, sir?"

"No..." Eyes narrowing behind his mask, feeling the Force all but shouting at him, Vader waited three automated breaths before continuing. "Captain...what planet lies along the fighter's exit vector? It doesn't matter how far away it is--what planet is it?"

"One moment, sir." The comm was silent for nearly a minute as Piett consulted the navigator's computer. "It's rather odd, my Lord, but...it appears the fighter's vector heads directly toward...Naboo, sir."

How did I know he was going to say that? Vader thought sarcastically, angry and somehow excited all at once. So the pilot had gained the transmission coordinates from the beacon--which meant the Rebels had indeed received the message sent from Naboo. Heirs of the Jedi, eh?

With the Force potential the pilot posessed, it was no surprise, really, that he had responded to such a message. Obviously seeking the famous "Anakin Skywalker" from whom the message had seemingly come--perhaps in search of someone to train with.

But...he did wonder how the message came to be addressed to "the Heirs of the Jedi." As far as he knew, no Jedi had ever broken their precious vows and taken a mate--none had ever produced children. None save those of endangered species, who were given special permission to increase their peoples' bloodlines--and all of those offspring were registered, tagged as Sensitives and potential Jedi, and had been destroyed. No other Jedi had dared break their sacred laws. Only he...

No. That life was dead--and the child with it. By his own hand, his own will. There were no "heirs" for the Jedi--any Jedi. And there never would be--not if he had anything to say about it.

"Er, Lord Vader?" Piett enquired cautiously. "Do you want us to pursue the Rebel, my Lord?"

Snapped out of his dark thoughts, Vader glared at the comm light. Chasing the Rebel to Naboo with the entire fleet...that would surely alert his master that something had gone awry. The Emperor wanted the Rebel base crushed--so that was what must be done.

"No, Captain," he rumbled. "Leave that to me. Ready the fleet for a search and destroy. Have Ozzel pair off the Star Destroyers to scan the surrounding systems--anything within an Incom X-wing's deployment range. If there are any signs of a base--Rebels, smugglers, or squatters--destroy it completely. Take only valuable prisoners."

"Ah--er, yes sir." Piet obeyed, though he was obviously confused. "And...er...will you be directing us, my Lord?"

"No, Captain. I have business with that Rebel pilot." And whatever fool on Naboo is calling himself Anakin Skywalker. Scowling to himself, still wondering how he was so easily disobeying his master, Vader at last fired his TIE's engines and cranked it around to head for his flagship. "I'm coming aboard. Prepare my personal transport. I will go to Naboo myself."