Luke was pulled abruptly awake by Artoo's noisy squawking--informing him that they were nearly there and he had less than a minute to get his act together. Blinking gummy sleep from his eyes, he reached for the controls and checked the chronometer, surprised at how deeply he'd slept for so many hours. The ship was still shuddering along, but there was a new, rather noisy ping developing somewhere behind him, and Artoo's terse message explained that they were going to have a rough ride any way they sliced it.

"Okay, okay, I got it," the young pilot grumbled, rubbing ineffectively at his eyes beneath the flight helmet with one hand while the other reached for the conrol lever. "Coming out of hyperspace in three...two...one..."

With an alarming hiss and rattle, the X-wing rocked violently as the bright blur of hyperspace vanished into simple night sky--a view of black and stars dominated by the smooth sphere of a planet ahead. The drop from lightspeed made Luke's stomach twist, causing him to worry that perhaps the acceleration compensator was failing as well; no time to dwell on it, though--with the re-ignition of the sublight engines, new alarms began to wail all over the board.

"Well, the S-foils are still open, the sensors are fried, the shields are dead, the comm's down, and there's no telling if the repulsors will come on. On top of that, I have no clue where to land," Luke listed off, holding tight to the flightstick as he guided the bucking X-wing toward Naboo. "Any bright ideas?"

In a worried-sounding trill, the astromech gave him a few course changes--which, Artoo explained, would at least bring them down closer to their intended destination.

"Thanks," Luke sighed, not knowing if that would do any good; it certainly wouldn't if they weren't in one piece by the time they touched down. "See if you can get anything to the shields--we're gonna need it when we hit atmosphere."

Which was coming all too soon--though the damaged X-wing was flying considerably slower than usual, both the ailing engines and the planet's gravitational field was keeping them moving. There was less to worry about if Artoo could get the repulsorlifts working, but as things were, he was looking at a hard skid landing. If he went in too fast, the failing X-wing would burn up in the atmospheric friction or hit the ground like a meteorite. If he came too slowly, the space-faring fighter would drop like a stone, its wings not truly being aerodynamic enough for air-based flight--especially open like they were.

"Any news on the shields, Artoo?" he asked tersely, trying to control the angle of entry.

Artoo reported the deflectors at twenty-five percent--insufficient, really, but with a little work the droid had routed them to the front lower section, which would see the most heat. The repulsors were also chancy--going on and off randomly, victims of a short somewhere in the system.

"Okay..." With a deep breath, Luke closed his eyes and made his decision. "Turn the repulsors off completely. They're not doing us any good up here anyway. Put some shielding over your head, Artoo--we're going in hot."

The astromech beeped nervously and complied, redirecting a few meager deflectors to keep the atmospheric heat away from his dome. In the cockpit, Luke reached for a button rarely used--the heat shields that could slide over the X-wing's thin transparisteel canopy, to protect its pilot from intense temperatures and light. It was also completely opaque, and rendered the pilot sightless but for the scopes and instruments--which, in Luke's case, were quite dead. Nobody used the heat shields except in the most extreme circumstances; usually, by the time the situation warranted it, one was just prolonging the inevitable.

But Luke wasn't one to give up so quickly. He was flying blind, in a situation that would have had most pilots saying their final prayers, but he was somehow not as frightened as he'd imagined being. He was afraid, and he was shaking with adrenaline--but he wasn't frozen, or terrified. He was...focused.

There was the telltale hiss against the hull that signaled the first touch of atmosphere around them. Artoo squealed briefly as the hiss rapidly became a roar, and the already-rattling X-wing began to shudder as if it would tear itself apart. Without the computer and the repulsorlifts, the only thing that could control the craft was the force of the main engines and careful use of the maneuvering thrusters. And in atmosphere--what many pilots called "soup"--the thrusters were hard-pressed to move the falling ship.

With no viewscreen to look through, Luke flew with his eyes closed, one hand controlling the flightstick and maneuvering thrusters, the other on the throttle lever--fingers moving lightly, touching one, then another key; another gentle pull to the stick, a nudge to the throttle, somehow keeping the X-wing in a straight line. Something like instinct was guiding him; something deep inside he hadn't words yet to explain.

The dying fighter would buck and rattle off in one direction, then another; each time, careful movements of the stick and precise touches to the throttle somehow pulled the X-wing back into alignment. It was actually a lot like maneuvering the ship into position against the old beacon--only a lot faster and a lot more dangerous. But he had that same feeling of knowing; it ran all through him--a reassuring certainty that this jet burn was right at this moment, that little control thrust at that moment was correct.

Behind the cockpit, barely sheltered by the fading shields, Artoo made no sound; despite their situation, and despite their brief career together, he had utter faith in his master.

The little ship shuddered its way through the upper atmosphere, every kilometer of its flight growing rougher and rougher as the tremendous heat and friction attacked the outer hull, tearing at the split wings. From the outside, it was a flaming-hot silver needle falling out of control through the sky; from the inside, a rattling black box barely staying on its flight path.

A tremendous wrenching shriek jolted through the fighter, throwing it violently to its portside; jolted out of his strange concentration, eyes flying wide open, Luke clung to the stick as his X-wing began to spin wildly. Moments later, another metallic scream twisted the small craft into another spin vector, throwing his stomach into loops just as wild as his ship's. Quite frightened now, but still somehow calm, he threw aside all reason--and all conventional flight wisdom--and gave full power to the main sublights to compensate for the crazy spin.

With a pinging, coughing roar that slammed him back against his seat, the spin became an arc that soon straightened out--but without instrumentation he had no idea which way he was pointed. Trying to find that sense of certainty again, he closed his eyes and gently tilted the stick, sending the moaning fighter down and to the left.

Ben...Force...whatever's out there, he thought, hoping his feelings were still leading him true. Please let this be right!

Trusting his gut, he backed off on the throttle until the fighter just began to try and twist again--a spin that even the maneuvering thrusters couldn't handle, given the forces of gravity and air working against them. So far, only the sheer power of the sublights kept him moving in a straight line.

But it was a straight line that was far too fast to land safely. At this rate, he'd come down like a falling star, and leave a crater the size of a gruntball field.

The roar began to dissipate as the X-wing fell into lower atmosphere, the friction and drag gradually slowing it down despite the engines. Luke kept the fighter on its course--and for some reason, something kept him from trying to withdraw the heat shields. Instead, he concentrated on what he could feel--closing his eyes once more, waiting for the critical moment.

The moment of truth--when he'd find out if the last few months of dead-on hunches and a lifetime of accurate premonitions and fortunate coincidences weren't just luck. When he'd know for sure if his instincts for piloting ran deeper than just inherited talent and practiced skill.

Wait for it... he told himself, trying to steady his shaking hands. Not yet. Almost...almost down...not yet...

The feeling came--now was right.

With a jerk, he cut power to the main engines and fired what was left of the reverse thrusters--at the same time, hitting the manual switch to restore the repulsorlifts. The X-wing jerked in midair, slamming him into his harness hard enough to force the air out of his lungs; the deadly plummet slowed suddenly, but did not stop. The repulsors whined sharply, caught and held, then died--then flickered on again, giving the fighter a strange stop-start like a stalling groundcar.

He cut the reverse thrusters and hoped the repulsors would hold; the ship coasted, fell, then coasted again, its flight path beginning to twist once more. He tried to compensate with the maneuvering thrusters, pulling the figher against the spin--but the repulsorlifts died for a final time and the X-wing flipped over.

The small fighter corkscrewed through the air for a brief second, all control lost--and with a thunderous roar, splashed down in a body of water with near the force of a missile.

The sudden loss of velocity from impact with the water threw Luke against both chair and flight harness with enough force that he saw stars. There was an ominous, high-pitched electronic hum--probably the last gasp of the acceleration compensator trying to save his life--before something burst loudly behind him, marking the end of any gravitational assistance. His momentum forced him once more against his harness straps, but with the thick cushion of water around his ship, it could move forward no more. The sensation of wild tumbling had become nothing more than an odd drifting.

Luke found himself panting as if he'd just run a marathon, hands trembling as he unclenched them from the stick. For a moment, he just stared into his blank canopy, astonished that he was still alive.

Good skies, I made it! he thought in disbelief. I don't believe it--I actually made it!

A sudden cold thought made him pause. "Artoo? Artoo, answer me! Are you still back there?"

There was a long moment of silence...then another...and another. Luke glanced down at his display--but was dismayed to find his instruments completely blank. There wasn't a light left on the panel; the comm, along with the rest of his ship, was quite dead. He could only hope Artoo wasn't in the same shape.

And come to think of it, he wasn't much better himself--he might have survived his dubious landing, but his fighter was sinking into unknown waters, and with his ship dead, so was his life support.

'Kid from desert world dies on ocean bottom,' he grumbled to himself, rubbing his eyes, unable to think past his landing. That'll make a great obituary...

Not to mention swimming was not his favorite pastime. He was not good at it, thanks to his desert upbringing; he'd barely passed the Alliance safety courses, and felt like a floundering ronto no matter what he did. He'd never been able to get over the vague feeling of terror at being immersed in large bodies of dark, seemingly bottomless water; it gave him near the same sense of loss and vertigo that one experienced while floating in open space.

As it turned out, he had less than a five-minute wait--during which he beat his head against a figurative wall and bemoaned his dead ship--before his situation changed. With a clang that nearly sent him leaping out of his chair--no good, thanks to the flight harness--his ship abruptly changed direction. Startled, he tried to open the heat shields and see what was happening, but those controls were as dead as the rest--his fighter continued moving backwards, and possibly upwards, at what might have been a good pace.

Maybe I get to be eaten by a sea monster, he thought, in terrified humor, as he struggled to reach his blaster and a concussion grenade in the cockpit stow compartment. At least it would beat suffocating on the ocean floor.

Well, if that was his destiny, he could give the thing a mean case of indigestion. Holding his weapons ready, he listened for any sign of what might be going on outside.

He wasn't disappointed; soon enough, he heard splashing water--the surface! Waves beat against his fighter's hull as it went along, and the harsh bobbing was beginning to do unpleasant things to his stomach; nearly as bad as his controlled freefall from space, only he had more time to think about it. Maybe he wasn't being eaten, after all--maybe it was some kind of rescue.

But who would be out in the water waiting for a ship to crash?

Finally, the forward--or backward, in his perception--movement seemed to stop. The X-wing rocked a bit, noises clunking against its hull as it shuddered, dragged, and bumped against something. Soon, there were softer thumps from outside--almost like...knocking.

Someone's out there!

Despite the situation, his heart leaped--Imperials, natives, or otherwise, people were easier to deal with than ocean bottoms. At least he had a chance for survival and escape, even if it was bad.

Unbuckling his flight harness, he reached for the emergency hatch release. Small charges broke the canopy locks and the heat shield bolts, allowing him to push the hatch upward. Blaster in one hand, canopy in the other, he heaved himself upright--

--and found himself face-to-face with a green-skinned, leathery, ducklike snout, surmounted by a pair of eyestalks.

Okay, not an Imperial then.

Luke blinked. The eyestalks blinked.

"Whatsa yousa doin', comin' down lika boomrocket an' landin' splatta on us?" a rough voice demanded--coming from the alien beak. "Yousa busten' up my bongo!"

A long arm flung itself out to point at the nearby water's edge--where a strange, organic-looking watercraft floated, a sizeable scrape in its starboard side.

Caught flat-footed, somewhat confused by the mangled Basic, Luke blinked again. "Oh...uh...sorry..."

"Don't bein' hoppinmad, Ruper," said a second, somewhat older-looking bluish creature, coming around the nose of the X-wing. "Mesa notta tinkin' hesa doin' it on meanto."

Anxious not to step on any toes, Luke nodded quickly. "Yeah! I didn't mean to land on your...uh, bongo. My ship broke, see? And I sort of...crashed."

"Muy muy busted, yup," agreed the older creature, surveying the damage. "Mesa sein' notta lotta ship left."

Gulping, Luke finally thought to look his fighter over--and found himself gaping in dismayed horror at the damage.

There wasn't much left of the X-wing's nose, just a blasted, melted slag that ended some two meters from his cockpit--goodbye, sensor package. The metallic shrieks he'd heard midair must have been the lower wings snapping off--one at its base, the other about a third of the way out, accounting for some of the craft's crazy spinning. The remaining wings were irreparably warped, the turbolaser tubes themselves melted away, and the body of the craft was blackened and bubbled from the heat.

It had to be a miracle he'd survived that.

Alarm hit him once again, and he dove out of the dead craft to look up at its scorched back. "Artoo! Artoo, answer me!"

There was a brief whirr, then a creaky, soft beep. Artoo's dome turned toward him--whole, thank the Force, and unmelted, but somewhat singed.

"Artoo, you okay?" Luke called up, relieved that the little astromech was still functioning somewhat.

A shaky whistle answered him, going upscale. It seemed positive.

"Yousa not comin' from dese parts, no?" the older creature asked, coming alongside the young pilot to examine the wrecked ship. "Yousa not...wit dem badEmpires?"

Luke shook his head, pulling off his flight helmet with a sigh. "No...no, I'm not."

Surprisingly, the creature's mouth split into a grin. "Goodies! Yousa bein' welcome, den. Notta ouched from crashin'?"

"Uh, no...I think I'm okay," Luke replied, quickly beginning to pick up the ideosyncracies of their dialect. He glanced around at the other natives starting to gather around the fallen craft, and began to notice what he'd failed to see before; the shore he stood upon was next to a huge, clear lake--so large he couldn't see the other side. The trees were thick all around, sheltering what seemed to be a small settlement that set its feet on both land and sea--half in, and half out of the water. The buildings were both advanced and rustic, with metal, bone, and wood interwoven in their designs.

Wide-eyed, he turned back to his rescuers. "I'm sorry to seem rude, but...who, and what, are you?"

The older creature grinned again. "Mesa call' Ribber, an' disa my boy Ruper. Wesa bein' Gungans, an' disa planet Naboo."

"Oh." Still rather amazed, he gazed around at the gathered Gungans, feeling the weight of many eyes and whispers. Apparently, visitors weren't common to this little village. "I guess I'm kinda lost...are there any human settlements around here? I'm...sort of looking for someone."

Ribber shook his head. "Notta any Naboo 'roun dese parts. Wesa come here for secret, hidin' from badEmpires. Deysa not likin' Gungans."

"I see." Typical Imperial oppression--aliens used, abused, or outright murdered simply for being nonhumans. "Then could you point me in the right direction? I don't want to make trouble here, so I'll just--"

A commotion amongst the throng of observers grabbed everyone's attention, as a salmon-orange and white Gungan pushed his way through the crowd, stumbling in his hurry. He seemed a bit older than Ribber--his colors faded, his amphibious skin worn and creased with faint wrinkles. But his eyes were bright and his grin was enormous, and he was babbling at top speed.

"--knews it! Mesa knews it! Ani yousa back! Yousa not dead! Mesa knews it!" Without pausing--or stopping for air--the Gungan threw his arms around Luke in a bone-crushing hug. "Mesa waiten lotta years an' never believin' yousa dead! Mesa knowin' yousa comen back someday, notten stoppin' Ani! Mesa missen you so much...!"

The Gungan trailed off, pulling back as if realizing something. Startled, Luke had gone rigid when the Gungan embraced him, too shocked to even lift his blaster--but now he stared up at the suddenly-confused alien with wide eyes and short breath.

"Oi...yousa not Ani." Blinking puzzledly, the old Gungan released him and took a step back. "Yousa muy muy too short to be Ani...but yousa lookin' too lotta like him..."

"Who's...Ani?" Luke croaked, thrown for a loop--but with a strange, gnawing suspicion in his gut.

"Oh...hesa bein' Aniken Skywalkur," the Gungan replied, rather sadly. "Hesa good friend o'my, muy long time ago. Mesa sorry..."

"Wait, don't go!" Suddenly desperate, Luke grabbed the Gungan's arm before he could turn away. "You--you knew my father?"

The Gungan stumbled, stopping in his tracks. "Fadder? Yousa jus' say fadder?" The creature's eyestalks nearly popped out of his face, and he stared at Luke as if seeing a miracle. "Yousa...Ani's boy?"

This time, Luke didn't stiffen nearly as much when the Gungan embraced him joyfully again.

Darth Vader was wide awake and in an impatient mood when he finally came out of hyperspace over the planet Naboo. What with seeing to his fleet's redeployment, giving the thick-headed Admiral Ozzel a few last-minute, explicit instructions, and getting his personal ship fueled and prepared, he was a good hour behind the Rebel pilot. Such delays grated on him--not only did it signal ineptitude and inefficiency among his men, it also put him at a disadvantage to his prey. An hour was a lot of time, really; who knows where the pilot might be by now?

There was one thing he was certain of, though--the Rebel would end up at the address posted in the message from the fake Anakin Skywalker. All he had to do was wait there. And hopefully avoid whatever goons the Emperor had sent.

His comm unit crackled briefly. "This is Naboo Imperial Flight Control. We have you on our screen now; please confirm your transponder signal."

Vader sighed irritably; his shuttle's transponder would tell them that he was a high-ranked, high-priority Imperial guest--but who, precisely, they would not know until he acknowledged them. A waste of time, in his opinion--but if he ignored or countermanded them and flew directly to his destination, it would arouse more suspicion than if he went through normal channels.

"This is Lord Darth Vader," he growled tersely. "Prepare for my arrival."

The flight controller was instantly overwhelmed. "Ah! Yes m'Lord! Immediately! My apologies, sir!"

"I have urgent business outside the capital," he added, no patience in his tone. "I want a transport ready."

There was a second's hesitation--enough to make Vader scowl. "Er, yes, m'Lord...I'll see what can be made available...as soon as possible. You are cleared for landing in the Theed Palace hangar. A garrison representative will meet you, m'Lord."

Without bothering to reply, Vader switched off the comm. Something was up down there...usually his requests were met with instant compliance, not the hesitation he'd clearly heard and sensed. He did not enjoy it when men attempted to deceive him.

Still frowning, Vader guided his shuttle through the lower atmosphere as he passed within sight of Theed. The grand old city still stood proudly atop the cliffs and waterfalls, the ancient domes and sweeping architecture still strong and polished. It was much as he remembered it--though the skyline was now dominated by the Emperor's flags, and the squared-off, grayish, misfit profile of the Imperial garrison that had been built into and around Theed Palace when the elected monarchy and governing bodies were disbanded. The dull permacrete structures were quite out-of-place amongst the beautiful Naboo buildings.

With its rulers banished from the capital and the Imperial garrison established, Naboo had become tantamount to an Imperial resort world. Since it was the Emperor's place of birth, it had gained galactic fame as a must-see destination for rich Imperial supporters. It hosted the major celebration of the Emperor's birthday every year, and a good many Governors, Grand Moffs, and Admirals came to spend holidays basking in the beautiful planet's calm atmosphere, green expanses, and breathtaking waterfalls. The Emperor himself came here to relax, and took great pleasure in staying in the expansive Palace suites of the Naboo royalty he had deposed.

Now that he was Emperor--as Palpatine often reminded the Naboo, cackling--his home planet needed no other rulers save his own august self.

But it was one of the few places in Imperial territory that had not fallen prey to industrialization, strip-mining, and conscription orders--thanks in large part to Darth Vader's influence. For a sentimental reason he could not believe he clung to, he refused to see Naboo--one of the only places in the galaxy that held pleasant memories, despite his efforts at erasing such attachments--transformed into another of the Empire's production factories. Bad enough his master insisted on eliminating the Gungans and removing the planet's traditional ruling bodies.

So Naboo had been reduced to a picturesque picnic spot for Imperial fluffballs. He firmly told himself that he did not really care; the planet meant little to him any more. He had only lobbied for it years ago, when he was still weakened by another life's memories.

The wide-open bay of the Theed Palace hangar loomed before him. It was easy enough to steer his shuttle inside; it was much larger than an N-1, but it was a quick, responsive craft. Nowhere near as bulky or sluggish as a Lambda­-class shuttle, his personal transport was a faster, smaller version of the crew transport, with sleeker folding wings and a much shorter, narrower dorsal vane. It was also much more well-armed--and armored. He had commissioned the design himself, and it included all his necessities in its aft living quarters. It was his favored method of traveling around the galaxy by himself, especially when he wished to get away from beaurocratic Imperial idiots and incompetent crewers--especially morons like Ozzel.

No matter how many years had passed, Vader was still a consummate pilot, and guided his ship to a smooth, rapid landing in the space that had been cleared for him. Powering down the engines, he set his shuttle on standby and hefted himself from the pilot's chair, heading for the hatch.

Standing at the top of the ramp, he glanced around at the near-empty hangar; he had not been in this place in decades, but little had changed. Where once the proud yellow-and-chrome N-1 Starfighters had stood, TIE fighters waited patiently in their racks; his own shuttle sat where the Naboo Royal Starship used to make berth. But besides the differing ships and the stormtroopers replacing Naboo Royal Guards, the old hangar was the same as it had been so many years ago.

When a little boy hid in a starfighter cockpit, while the Queen and two Jedi went on to battle...

Shoving his pointless musings aside, Vader took a step down the ramp, heading for the nervous-looking representative that awaited him.

"Stay in that cockpit."

The voice made him stop in his tracks, startled for a single moment--until he realized he'd imagined it. The man who'd spoken those words to him had died over thirty years ago, defeated by one of his Sith predecessors. His mind was trying to play tricks on him.

"Greetings, Lord Vader," said the nervous representative, as he finished his descent of the ramp. "I'm Lieutenant Moors, head of Imperial Visitations here on Naboo. How may we be of service to you?"

"You can start by not wasting my time," Vader replied succinctly, striding past the man, making the officer scurry to keep up with him. "I require nothing more than quick transportation and no interference. You will prepare a fast landspeeder at once."

"Er, yes..." Increasingly nervous, Moors nodded. "I'm sorry--I'll have to speak to my superiors about this...but...if you'll just follow me..."

With obvious jitters, the pale Lieutenant Moors led him toward the personnel offices--away from where he knew the speeder berths were. Sighing with irritation, Vader played along; already, he knew someone was delaying him. His requests were not usually met with such...hesitance. He smelled Imperial Special Ops--they were under his master's direct control, and were for the most part the only ones who dared even look him in the eye.

It was probably best to meet with whoever was in charge of this little farce. That way, he'd get things out in the open and make certain his search suffered no interference. Darth Vader had very...permanent ways of ensuring that.