The first rays of dawn were gleaming over the horizon as Wedge sat down with his datapad and a cup of caf, enjoying the cool of the Tatooine morning before it turned into the daily blast furnace.

He took a drink from the battered cup, grimaced at the burned taste, and looked at the roster again. The memory of the previous day’s discussion with the younger man still sat uncomfortably in the back of his mind. For a guy who’s not yet twenty, Luke can be really perceptive sometimes. I’m not sure he was right, but he was more right than he was wrong.

With an effort, Wedge pushed his stewing down and focused on the task at hand, looking at the roster. Essentially, he had six pilots he was absolutely certain of: himself, Puck Naeco, Zev Senesca, Hobbie, Cesi Eirriss, and Wes Janson. Veteran Rebel pilots with plenty of flight hours, combat experience, and the durasteel core the squadron needed. Certainly, they each had their own flight styles and personality quirks, but Wedge had no doubt they’d be reliable in combat and follow orders.

Tycho Celchu, if he survived, would become that sort of pilot himself in another three to six months, though right now Wedge didn’t know what to think of the Alderaanian. He kept to himself and was about as expressive as Wedge’s battered mug. Luke had described the man as brittle, and it fit. Wedge didn’t know how to fix it, though there had been a few traces recently of Celchu’s shell cracking and allowing something of the man underneath to come out.

Karie Neth, Kit Valent, and Samoc Farr were all green pilots. There was plenty of potential in all three of them, but they required seasoning that would only be acquired through surviving.

Mara Jade was an issue all her own, as far as Wedge was concerned, though Luke’s words on that subject stung him as he considered. He’s probably right. I’ve filtered too much of my opinion about Mara through Syndulla’s protective streak, and I did a disservice to everyone that way. Though how to classify her was still a bit of a mystery; she definitely wasn’t green like the newest Rogues, but she wasn’t a seasoned veteran, either. And the Force nonsense that Luke agreed to just ignore doesn’t make it any easier.

He wished fervently, for just a moment, that he understood it.

And then there was Luke Skywalker himself, the leader of the squadron and even more difficult to define than Mara. Nineteen years old, made a commander due to his heroics at the Battle of Yavin, an Outer Rim farmer whose first time in an X-wing was maybe four months prior, and the most naturally-gifted fighter pilot Wedge had ever met. By any reasonable expectation, he should be an utterly green pilot who needed the protection of a veteran; and yet, he had flown repeatedly into ridiculous odds and came out alive with a streak of kills that would be the envy of any fighter pilot in the last twenty years. He was learning small-scale fighter tactics at a prodigious rate, to the point that Wedge, if he was feeling honest, felt a flicker of jealousy.

Wedge wasn’t feeling particularly honest right now.

Twelve pilots. Six pairs. Three flights.

He started at the top of the roster.

SKYWALKER/ANTILLES

It was tempting, in the way Puck’s jet juice was tempting. Flying with Luke in combat was exhilarating; during Skyhopper drills, he could keep up with Wedge like no one else, anticipating breaks and brackets before they were called. But like the jet juice, the downsides were extensive: too much command responsibility wrapped up in one pair where a lucky Imperial gunner could cause a leadership crisis, and too much squadron effectiveness at the point of the spear. He scrubbed it off the datapad almost immediately.

SKYWALKER/CELCHU

The Alderaanian was skilled, machine-precise while drilling. Luke could work with that and turn it into a new sort of weapon.

Of course, Luke can fly with anyone. He showed that over and over again during the drills. Is that the best way to use either Luke or Tycho?

He knew the answer to that already and scrubbed the entry off his datapad.

Okay, don’t start with Luke. Start with the rookies. He pulled two names together and nodded to himself.

CELCHU/VALENT

Tycho had been quietly mentoring Kit Valent. The rookie tended toward overthinking and spiraling; Celchu had been helping him slow down and concentrate. It gives Tycho something to think about besides Alderaan, and Kit’s been looking to Tycho for guidance more all the time. He grimaced. I’d probably like putting Kit with Hobbie better, but maybe this fixes two problems instead of one.

SENESCA/NETH

Wedge took a drink of the rapidly-cooling caf. Karie and Hobbie were too conservative during the Independence ambush, but she needs an old hand to steady her who won’t hold back while still keeping an eye on her. Zev can do that. Their Skyhopper drills weren’t phenomenal, but Karie’s best drills happened with me and Luke. She didn’t trust anyone else to be where she needed them to be, so she spent more time looking and less time flying. These two together for a couple months and Karie will know Zev is reliable. Zev will be more focused on the fight if he has a rookie wingman, too.

Four pilots assigned, eight to go. One rookie left: Samoc Farr. She’s probably the best of the rookies. He contemplated, for a moment, putting Farr on Luke’s wing. She’s good, but she wouldn’t be able to keep up when Luke gets weird. And Luke would slow down to make sure he doesn’t leave her behind. It’d be good for her but bad for Luke’s effectiveness.

He looked at the veteran list again.

Hobbie’s a cynic, but he’s a survivor. He’ll keep her alive long enough for her to grow into her talent. He frowned. Though she won’t push him to be aggressive in a fight. It’d be the same problem we had during the Independence ambush. Wedge paused, choosing to skip over Farr for a moment.

KLIVIAN/NAECO

That pairing instinctively felt better. Puck is good, better than he gives himself credit for. If he’s flying with Hobbie, he’ll have the reliability he needs to let himself get aggressive, and Hobbie can’t just sit at the back of the engagement and let others do the work because Puck won’t let him. It will push them both to be better. They’ll temper the worst impulses of the other. And yes, Puck is going to drive Hobbie up a wall. It’ll be worth it if it means they both are pushed to be better.

Hobbie might not think so, but this isn’t his decision to make.

Wedge stared at the roster. I know where the rest of this is going to go. I don’t like it. But I don’t have to like it for it to be the correct decision.

JANSON/EIRRISS

Luke had pointed out, rightly, that during the Independence engagement, Wes had taken the lead and dragged Cesi through the entire fight. But during the Skyhopper training, Eirriss had proven herself more than willing to call Janson out on his nonsense, forcing him to hold formation, to cover when she took the lead, and to provide the stability Janson needed to let himself go loose and aggressive.

He considered putting Farr with either Janson or Eirriss, then immediately scrubbed that idea by process of elimination. Putting Farr with Janson would be a disaster for the rookie, and pairing Farr with Eirriss meant Janson would end up flying with either Luke or Wedge. Luke would, of course, accept it with good grace and spend too much of his time in combat keeping Janson leashed; Wedge was certain he could fly well with him, but not while also keeping a close eye on the larger tactical fight. If I wasn’t the executive officer, it’d be fun to fly with Janson. But I have command responsibilities to keep in mind.

He considered for a moment further. I’ll make Eirriss lead for the element, too. That should help.

ANTILLES/FARR

Samoc was green, but she was the sort of rookie who’d stay on his wing and call out on comm if something happened that he missed. It was the conclusion he’d circled earlier. She was technically gifted, had good instincts, but needed seasoning. He could work with that and it wouldn’t annoy him in combat the way one of the other rookies might, and he could teach her good habits – the sort that would keep her alive when hard light started flying. And with a few months of intensive drilling, she’d learn his own quirks well enough that he could focus on the squadron’s tactical picture, not just the immediate fight.

Which leaves exactly what I would’ve avoided a week ago.

SKYWALKER/JADE

Wedge stared at his datapad and forced himself to think logically. Yes, Syndulla would hate it. Will hate it, when she hears about it. But that doesn’t make it wrong. He frowned, took a drink of now-cold caf. Luke relies on her by instinct. He’s not even aware he’s doing it unless I point it out to him. Unbidden, a memory surfaced: Luke telling Wedge in brief detail about the discussion he’d had with Mara about the Force. She won’t be dazzled by him, but she’s also willing to tell him if she thinks he’s making a mistake. His lips compressed into a tight line. And if he goes strange in a fight, she’s one of the three or four pilots in the Rogues that might actually keep up with him, or see the shape of what he’s doing and actually do something useful herself with it.

This still feels like juggling thermal detonators, though.

He put the datapad down for a moment, closing his eyes. And I have no idea if there’s something else between them, too. I assumed there was once already and was wrong.

Wedge opened his eyes and looked at the roster again. Yes, he decided. Yes, this is Rogue Squadron. And I can justify all of it.

He stood up, dumped the mug out in the sand, picked up his datapad, and headed to the mess to find fresh caf.

---

“You know, Jade, on your day off, you’re supposed to take the day off,” Wes Janson’s voice floated under the Skyhopper.

“Not all of us are hungover, Janson,” Mara grunted, pulling hard on the hydrospanner until she was satisfied the fastener was secure.

“No need to shout,” Janson grumbled, though his tone was more amused than annoyed.

Her smile was smug, though no one could see it. “I also like knowing the Skyhopper I’m flying tomorrow isn’t going to turn me into a smear in the desert.”

“You don’t know which one you’ll be flying.”

“Good thing I’m working on all of them, then,” she said, sliding out from under the Skyhopper on the repulsor creeper. “For some reason, I want to keep the rest of you alive, too.”

To her surprise, Janson was offering her a mug of caf. She took it, sipped it, and her eyes widened in surprise. “This is actually pretty good,” she admitted.

“Don’t get used to it. We only had a little.”

Mara took another sip. Rich, no burnt taste. “Where’d this come from?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Janson said dryly.

“Try me.”

“It’s mine.”

Mara raised an eyebrow. “And who did you steal it from?”

Wes snorted. “No one. I’m from Taanab. We grow some of our own. This is the last of what I brought with me after my last trip home, over a year ago. Was saving it for a special occasion.”

“Training on Tatooine is a special occasion?”

“Recovering from a hangover on Tatooine is a special occasion.” He raised his own cup. “To surviving.”

Mara clinked her mug with his and took another sip. “I figured you’d hoard this for your partner in crime.”

Janson’s face colored. “My…what?”

“Naeco.”

Wes offered a short chuckle, his expression clearing. “Puck doesn’t appreciate caf that tastes better than burnt engine grease.”

“So what did I do to earn the caf?”

“You’re keeping us all alive?” he offered, gesturing at the Skyhopper.

It was Mara’s turn to offer a chuckle. “If it wasn’t me doing it, it’d be someone else. Maybe even you.”

“That seems reason enough.” Wes took a drink from his caf, and his eyes settled on her, as though seeing her for the first time. “Or maybe I’m curious.”

“Curiosity killed the tooka,” Mara said, her tone sharper than she intended.

Wes ignored it, sipping at his caf. “Everyone has a story,” he continued. “Lot of the Rogues don’t have much for living family anymore. I’m lucky; I’ve got family back home on Taanab, though between Arcon Multinode and the Empire I can’t exactly drop in to visit. Wedge’s parents are dead and he’s not on speaking terms with the closest thing he has to an uncle. We’re standing on our esteemed commander’s homeworld, but stormtroopers killed his family. Celchu’s whole world is gone. Naeco’s got family on Denon, but they’re Imperial loyalists so they’re not on speaking terms.” His eyes narrowed. “But what about you?”

Of all the ways Mara had considered her day might go wrong, this hadn’t been one of them. “What about me?”

“I’m pretty sure you didn’t spring from General Syndulla’s forehead full-formed. Wedge and Hobbie are terrified of her on your behalf, but you’re clearly not her kid.”

“Oh? Why are you so certain?”

“You’re not a Twi’lek, Jade. I’d have noticed.”

Something twisted in Mara’s chest. “I’m not a book for you to pick up and read, Janson.”

“No, you’re not,” Wes agreed, “but you are a Rogue. You’re one of us.” He leaned forward. “So, where are you from?”

Mara shrugged uncomfortably. “Don’t know.”

“Parents?”

“Don’t know.”

Wes studied her silently for several long heartbeats before straightening. “You really don’t know.”

“That’s what I said.” She offered the barest of shrugs. “I don’t dwell on what I don’t know. That won’t keep me alive. It won’t keep you alive. And it certainly won’t help me fly an X-wing.”

“Like you need the help.”

Mara started to reply, but was interrupted by the arrival of another pilot.

“Wes,” an irate Puck Naeco spat, “why does my pee glow in the dark?“

Janson looked up at the sky. “It’s not dark.”

“It is in the refresher!”

“That sounds like a personal problem,” Janson said affably. “Have you spoken to the medical droid?”

Mara, grateful for the interruption, moved the creeper to the next Skyhopper and slid underneath, out of sight, and began to open the belly access panel.

---

The twin suns had already set when Tycho slipped out of the barracks to go for a walk.

He’d barely made it twenty meters when another figure materialized from the mess, falling into step beside him.

“You don’t have to do this every night, Zev,” Tycho said quietly.

“Rule one of camp: ‘No one goes anywhere alone,’ remember?” Zev said with a trace of a smile.

“I was there when Commander Skywalker said it.”

“Then you know why I’m doing it.”

Tycho shook his head as they moved away from the dim noise and activity of the camp. The Rogues were settling in for the night, but fusion generators still hummed and droids trundled back and forth in the sand, performing maintenance and monitoring. The two men approached the loosely-defined camp perimeter and turned, walking parallel to the edge instead of crossing over.

“How do you feel tonight?” Zev asked after a while.

Tycho considered. “Numb, mostly. Last night I was drunk enough to feel something for a while. The hangover wasn’t worth it.”

Zev grunted and continued to walk, letting silence hang between them.

“How long did it take?” Tycho asked several minutes later.

“To feel normal?”

“Yes.”

Zev considered. “After Kestic Station? Three or four months before I felt more than numb. But that was when I found out it was my fault. I’d gotten sloppy and led the Empire there. Then months of guilt and anger.” He spared Tycho a glance. “The guilt is natural. But it’s not your fault.”

Tycho nodded slowly. “Easier to say than believe.”

“Yes. And I’m going to carry the guilt until the day I die.” Zev seemed to ponder for a while as they continued their slow circuit. “You’ll always carry the hurt. But not the guilt. Enough time, and your brain will admit it’s not your fault. But the anger, that’ll probably last until you die.”

“Anger is better than numb.”

“Just don’t let it burn you out.” The older man was contemplative. “The new tactics, the new doctrine. Rogue Squadron could become the best squadron in the galaxy. But it’s going to demand more from all of us to make it work, Tycho. You ran the Ralltiir simulation, right? What happened with Skywalker and Jade and Sarkli?”

Tycho nodded.

“Sarkli managed to do a lot of damage because the old three-ship element offered him room to maneuver without anyone depending on him. The new tactics are better, more effective, but there’s no room to run off and die on your own.” His smile was small. “There are people depending on us. Our wingmen. The squadron. Alderaan’s gone. Kestic Station is gone. But there are still people depending on us.”

The Alderaanian hesitated before putting the thought into words. “Dying would be easier.”

“Dying doesn’t bring back the dead. And dying now might kill people depending on us.” Zev’s voice took on a cold edge. “And I’m not lying down and dying without taking more of the Empire with me.”

Tycho recognized an echo of the sentiment in his own chest. Somewhere under the leaden, numb blanket, there was an ember of righteous fury still smoldering. “I understand that.”

“I figured you would.”

The two men continued their slow circuit of the training camp perimeter as the skies darkened and the stars began to sparkle.

The Rogues drilled hard for another five days in the Skyhoppers.

Luke and Wedge ran the Rogues through all the pairings, practiced maneuvers, and then ran all the pairings again.

The results often weren’t what they expected.

After reviewing the telemetry from the Independence ambush, Luke had thought he had a good grasp on how the pair dynamics would shake out, but he was rapidly proven wrong. Wedge’s initial notes on who he’d expected to work well together were similarly worthless, forcing them both to conclude that they’d drawn conclusions prematurely.

Luke and Wedge had agreed that putting Wes and Puck together in a wingpair would be chaos incarnate, but they tried it anyway to see how effective it would look in the two-vs-three doctrine. Wedge suspected they’d end up separated and picked apart, given that both pilots flew aggressively. Instead, as a pair, they flew far too conservatively to be effective. Wedge had been entirely flummoxed by the results, and it wasn’t until after Luke had slept on it that he’d understood the issue: both pilots knew the other was aggressive and didn’t trust the other would stay together. Lack of trust killed their effectiveness.

On the other hand, when paired with one of the steadier veterans, like Zev Senesca or Hobbie, both of them were happy to take the aggressive approach, knowing instinctively that they could rely on their wingman to be where they needed to be, allowing them to lean fully into their instincts without fear.

At the Independence ambush, Luke had pointed out to Wedge that Cesi Eirriss was reluctant to take lead (and Janson reluctant to yield it), limiting their ability to operate as a pair; but in training, Cesi had unflinchingly overridden Wes in simulated combat when she had the better line or yielded when Wes had the better shot. Wedge had offered the observation that the Independence ambush had been a high-stress, unexpected fight with a brand-new doctrine, and training was allowing better pairings to emerge. In other pairings, Cesi was unflinching under fire as both lead and wingman, flying like she understood what the galaxy was demanding and determined to provide it.

After more evaluation, Luke and Wedge also agreed the three greenest pilots needed to fly with veterans. Karie Neth was the best of them, having survived some actual combat minutes, but in the heat of the moment tended to fall back onto her instinct and forget her new training. Luke was certain more repetitions would help integrate her training into her instincts, but until she was more reliable, she’d do best staying in the wingman position. Kit Valent, on the other hand, tended to overthink instead of trusting his instinct, slowing him down; he needed a partner he’d trust until he trusted his own instincts. Samoc Farr was the most precise flyer of the trio and was doing well in simulation, but Luke wanted to see how she’d respond to actual combat flight. He hoped she’d be aggressive enough to push one of his conservative veterans, like Hobbie, out of a default defensive posture.

Wedge grumbled at length about Tycho Celchu after every evaluation. “He flies like a droid,” was the sentence Luke had heard the most often from his executive officer, and to be fair, the telemetry did little to disprove it. Among all twelve Rogues, Tycho was the most mechanically correct pilot, taking absolutely correct lines in almost every situation. He lacked the conservative, defensive flying of Hobbie or the aggressive edge of Puck; he simply was. Luke suspected they’d end up putting one of the rookies with Celchu, because he’d keep a wingman alive, but Luke fervently wished he could find a way to crack the man’s shell. He was withdrawn, seldom smiled, seldom frowned, and showed all the emotional range of a flight computer. I don’t want him to break in the cockpit in the middle of a mission, Luke had privately despaired.

And then there was Mara. Luke supposed she should be included in the list with the green pilots, but she flew far more like a seasoned veteran than her age would imply. In training, she flew at least decently well with everyone, though Wedge had observed that she tended to fly like her wingman. Pairing her with Zev resulted in a highly conservative pair that could survive almost anything but with few kills to show for it; pairing her with Cesi or Wedge led to a lot more kills but increased risk; putting her with the rookies was three times over a disaster, with none of them producing anything approaching combat chemistry.

Luke suspected he knew the optimal solution, but outside the cockpit he wasn’t ready to trust his instincts.

Wedge was waiting in their shared quarters when Luke ducked inside, out of the blazing suns, carrying a tray of food.

“If Wes and Puck can manage to behave for another two days, they’ll finally be off kitchen duty,” Luke remarked. “I’m not sure who we’ll put in charge of cooking.”

“I wouldn’t be in a hurry to pick out the next person for the mess,” Wedge deadpanned, not looking up from his datapad.

“Probably.” Luke set the tray down before seating himself across from Wedge. “Training notes?”

“Is there anything else to do on this rock?”

“You could take up moisture farming. It’s lucrative here.”

“Or I could move to a planet where the water lets itself out of the air.”

Luke nodded and poked at his food with a utensil, finally setting it down. “How close are you to finalizing pairs?”

Wedge frowned, looking up for the first time to meet Luke’s gaze. “Me? I thought we were doing that together.”

“We need to talk,” Luke said bluntly. “About all of this.”

The datapad went down on the table. “Talk about what?”

Luke took a deep breath. “Okay, I’m going to talk, you’re going to listen.” Keep it coherent, Luke. “The training run, five days ago. You sabotaged my comms.” He leaned forward, meeting Wedge’s hazel eyes. “You did that deliberately, and it wasn’t part of the training for that stage. I’ve read through all the training curriculum you wrote, and we’re not doing simulated comm failures for at least another week. You deliberately tried to undercut me, didn’t you?“

Wedge sat for a moment, clearly thinking it over. “I did,” he admitted. “You made a stupid bet with Janson.”

“That wasn’t your call to make,” Luke said, striving to keep his voice even, though a little anger slipped in anyway. “Wes needed to be fully committed to the engagement for the lesson to sink in.”

“Luke, you’ve never trained fighter pilots before.”

“You’re right, but I did grow up in a Skyhopper cockpit with a lot of braggarts who hated owning up to their own shortcomings. I wasn’t publicly humiliating Wes; I was making sure he remembered what was about to happen.” Luke leaned forward. “If you have a problem with how I’m doing something, you talk to me, you don’t try to undermine my authority. You’re my executive officer. I can’t run the squadron without you. But I also can’t run it if you pull that sort of stunt again. The squadron won’t follow me if you don’t have my back.” He shook his head. “I’m not asking for an apology. Just don’t do it again.”

Wedge’s expression was mixed as he worked through Luke’s rebuke.

That’s good enough for now. “The other topic we need to discuss: Mara.”

This time Wedge’s expression hardened. “What about her?”

“Wedge,” Luke said, his voice becoming more gentle, “you have to stop worrying about Syndulla.”

Whatever words the Corellian had been expecting out of Luke’s mouth, that statement clearly wasn’t it. “What?”

“You’ve got a blind spot the size of a Star Destroyer, Wedge. I think Hobbie does, too. You both served under Syndulla in Phoenix Group, and you’re both terrified something is going to happen to Mara because of it.” Luke shook his head. “She’s a combat pilot, and a good one. You can’t coddle her because you’re afraid of a Rebel general outside your chain of command.”

Wedge found his voice. “You’ve never seen an angry Hera Syndulla.”

“You’ve never seen a Tatooine sandstorm,” Luke replied with a shrug. “It doesn’t matter. Do you remember what Mara told us when we interviewed her back on Yavin?” When Wedge shook his head, Luke supplied the answer. “If I’m in your squadron, I follow the orders you give me and no one else’s. She was afraid of this exact thing.” He held up his hand to forestall comment. “There’s history I don’t know about, I know. But Wedge, we’re building a squadron. She’s earned her place here several times over. If you coddle her because you’re scared of Syndulla, you’re sabotaging the squadron and doing everyone a disservice.”

“Anything else I’ve been wrong about?” Wedge asked sardonically.

“I’m sure I could come up with a list if I asked Hobbie,” Luke replied. “Next subject. Pairings.”

“Like I said before, I thought we were doing that together,” Wedge said, letting a breath escape.

Luke was already shaking his head. “No. I’m turning it over to you.”

Wedge studied him for a moment. “Because of the promise you made to Jade.”

“That’s one of the reasons, yes.” Luke didn’t need to elaborate, and Wedge didn’t push; they’d already had that argument the day after Luke had talked to Mara about the Force after Wedge had drawn conclusions from combat telemetry. “But also because I think you’ll do a better job of it. I operate too much on instinct, and this isn’t instinct work – it’s datapad work.”

“And if you don’t like the roster I come up with?” Wedge asked, a bit of edge in his voice. “You’re already questioning my judgment, Luke.”

“Then I learn to live with it,” Luke said simply. “I just told you to talk to me if you have a problem with a command decision I make. I have told you where I have a problem with the command decisions you have made. And now I’m extending trust again.” He met the other’s eyes, expression steady and unflinching. “You’re still my executive officer. Draw up the roster.”

---

The twin suns setting was usually a signal to the Rogues to fall into their racks and sleep. Morning flight hours in the Skyhoppers, afternoon classroom instruction, and constant maintenance to keep the airspeeders flying, along with camp maintenance, cooking, and even regular checkups on the X-wings to ensure the starfighters were ready to fly at a moment’s notice, filled the day to the point of exhaustion.

Tonight was different, though. After the afternoon classroom session, Commander Skywalker had ordered a stand-down for the next day. No flying, no training, no classroom, just rest.

Janson had told Mara, “Straight west of camp when the second sun hits the horizon,” while ladling protein slop onto her tray at the evening meal, and against her better judgment she found herself walking out with Cesi Eirriss.

Over a small dune, in a sandy depression just outside the nominal perimeter of the training camp, Wes and Puck had been busy.

A pit had been dug and lined with stone, now filled with burning scrub brush and bushes common in this particular stretch of Tatooine. Camp chairs were stuck in the sand in a circle around the fire, and most of the Rogues were already present.

Wes raised a flask. “Jade! Eirriss! Come join us, ladies!”

Mara snorted as they descended into the hollow. “Please tell me that isn’t the poison you were brewing on the Independence,” she said.

Wes sniffed, mock-haughtily. “Poison? Hardly. Also, this is Puck’s batch.”

“Please tell me you have something other than jet juice,” Cesi said with a raised eyebrow.

Hobbie spoke up from a chair on the far side of the fire. “They do. It doesn’t mean it’s better.”

Puck was already rifling through a crate. “What kind of savages do you think we are? We’ve got a couple of bottles of Corellian whiskey, for one.”

“Whyren’s Reserve?” Cesi asked, a note of hope in her voice.

“I’m a Rebel pilot. I don’t have the credits for Whyren’s. It’s Double Worlds.”

Cesi made a face. “Better that than your homebrew. Unless you have anything else.”

“We’ve got a couple bottles of lum,” Puck said helpfully. “And two bottles of Tatooine wine.” He frowned. “I have no idea where these came from.”

“That was from me,” a familiar voice said from the top of the ridge.

Mara turned and saw Skywalker and Wedge descending into the hollow.

Wes and Puck exchanged guilty looks.

“You’re off-duty, Rogues,” Wedge said with a wry smile. “I would have been surprised if you weren’t out here drinking.”

“To hangovers,” Wes said, lifting a battered metal cup in the air.

The Rogues gathered around the fire, all present now. Mara glanced between them: Karie and Kit, both already flushed; Samoc nearby with a wicked smile; Zev and Tycho, deep in a private conversation; Hobbie sitting and staring into the fire; Wes and Puck rummaging through bottles of spirits; Cesi content to stand near the fire for the moment with Mara; and now Luke and Wedge joining them. Mara frowned at the last pair, clocking a bit of discomfort in Wedge’s posture and masked strain around Skywalker’s eyes. Not my business, she decided after a moment.

Wes came up with more battered cups, passing them into empty hands, including Mara’s, before Puck came around with one of the bottles of Tatooine wine. “Calwell Farms,” the latter man announced as he filled cups in turn. “The finest of Tatooine beverages.”

“Cheapest,” Skywalker corrected. “Moisture farm teenagers don’t exactly have a lot of credits. Calwell tastes okay and never cost much.”

When everyone’s cup had been filled, Wes lifted his in the air. “To the planet that water abandoned,” he toasted.

Mara peered at her cup for a moment, hesitating. Alcohol of any form wasn’t really a part of her life; the Ghost crew seldom imbibed, and before that, a clouded head wasn’t conducive to survival. The rest of the Rogues were all drinking the sweet-smelling wine, though. Hell with it. I’m a combat pilot. How bad could it be? She lifted the cup and drank, swallowing fast.

It burned going down, and she barely kept from coughing.

To her surprise, several of the Rogues actually did cough.

“This is your good wine?” Zev asked.

Skywalker smiled. “For Tatooine? Yes.”

Wedge shook his head. “Puck, Wes, get us something good to drink.”

The fire burned as the Rogues sat and the sky grew darker. Mara let the conversation wash over her, not eager to speak but finding some strange contentment in the presence of the squadron and the warmth growing in her chest as some of the Corellian whiskey made its way around.

It was Janson who threw out the challenge. “Best piloting story. And by best I mean funniest. Let’s not be boring and heroic here. Looking at you, boss. No one wants to hear about blowing up a Death Star.”

Skywalker smiled, but to Mara it looked distant, like his mind was elsewhere. Or maybe it was the alcohol.

“You first, Wes,” Wedge said.

Wes was more than happy to share with a captive audience. “Tierfon Yellow Aces,” he said, “because all my best stories start there. We were training on Y-wings. We had a bombing range setup with multiple targets on a low-gravity moon. Our usual training configuration was a set of dummy free-fall bombs with minimal guidance.” He smiled, cheer and alcohol evident on his face in equal amounts. “Jek Porkins and I were supposed to fly a run with our training officer. We showed up, preflighted, and took off for the range.”

“Pretty dull so far,” Cesi commented. “Come on, Wes, amuse us.”

“I’m getting there. We get to the range, and the training officer leads us through a couple of simulated passes, safeties on, no bomb drop. Just to get a feel for it. We set up for the fourth pass, and he tells us to go safeties-off and we’re being scored based on our accuracy.” His face grew even merrier. “We’re over the range and hit the releases. And way too late to do anything, we found out our Y-wings had been loaded with live proton bombs, not dummies.” He flared his fingers out in a simulated explosion. “Turned the entire target range into one big smoking crater. Our trainer was not happy, chewed Porkins and me both out for requisitioning the wrong equipment for the training run…until he realized he was the one who’d ordered the ground crew to arm the Y-wings.” His grin stretched ear-to-ear. “Porkins and I both got full marks for accuracy. There wasn’t a target left standing.”

Chuckles spread around the fire.

Puck told a story next: an early training mission in an R-22 Spearhead, coming in to land on a frozen lake and accidentally hooking the throttle control on the sleeve of his flightsuit as he set down, sending the fighter skidding across three hundred meters of ice before it ended up buried nose-first in a snowbank. His flight instructor hadn’t said a word but handed him a shovel and told him to report for debrief once the Spearhead was parked in its designated slip.

Kit volunteered a tale from his first trip off Huulia. All of fifteen years old at the time, he’d hired on as a crewman on a tramp freighter. At their first port-of-call, the captain had told Kit to talk to the customs official. Kit, knowing some of the freighter’s cargo, had tried to bribe the man, only to be informed later he was the captain’s second cousin once-removed or some such. He never got his credits back, with the captain calling it a tax on stupidity.

Hobbie spoke next, just a few words. “A few weeks after Wedge and I jumped ship, General Syndulla had me on a training rotation on Atollon in a Spearhead. I overshot the landing zone when we were doing touch-and-go practice runs and crashed the trainer. Had to walk half a klick back to base. The next day, Syndulla had me on the combat roster. She told me if I was lucky enough to survive a crash like that, I was lucky enough to survive a combat.”

“That’s a Syndulla story, not a Klivian story,” Janson protested.

Hobbie had shrugged and retreated into silence.

Tycho Celchu offered his own misdeeds at the Imperial training academy at Prefsbelt IV. A night of drinking with his fellow cadets, including Skywalker’s Tatooine friend Biggs Darklighter, had led to spectacularly bad decision-making that ended with the academy commandant’s personal TIE decorated with a ludicrous number of fighter kills. Celchu maintained that the kill tallies had been calculated based on the commandant’s bragging about his combat exploits. His instructor, one Imperial captain Soontir Fel, had officially been unable to ascertain which cadets were responsible and had privately told Celchu to make sure nothing so stupid happened a second time.

Mara thought, for the first time, she saw a crack of real emotion on Celchu’s face, but she couldn’t identify it. Grief? Anger? Some odd bit of fondness for his instructor and fellow trainees? It was impossible to tell.

Karie Neth’s tale involved transposing coordinates on a navigation drill in flight school, leading her flight of Z-95 Headhunters hundreds of kilometers out of position. She maintained her own innocence, however, suggesting it was her instructor’s mistake and he refused to fess up.

Wedge told a brief story about a smuggling run he took for the Rebellion after his defection, hauling a cargo of blaster rifles on a stolen Imperial shuttle through a blockade to a resistance cell on the surface. He was intercepted by a customs patrol on his inbound route and convinced the inspector, who was on his first tour without an immediate supervisor, that the cargo was for the Imperial garrison on the surface.

Zev volunteered his own memory of gunrunning; his cover cargo included Corellian whiskey and, unbeknownst to him, it was subject to local tariffs. The Imperial port inspector completely missed the hidden cargo of A280 blaster rifles, but fined him for failing to declare the whiskey. The resulting fine had eaten up the entire profit from the smuggling run.

Samoc’s misdeeds dated back to the tender age of fourteen, when she’d crashed an airspeeder on Chandrila into a private beach house owned by the Mothma family. Mon Mothma herself had accepted Samoc’s apology and restitution for repairs to her property, and had paid for a year of piloting lessons for the young woman to ensure it didn’t happen again.

Cesi volunteered her own tale next, though it wasn’t strictly a piloting misadventure. “My doctoral thesis was on the fragility of Imperial governance and the inevitability of rebellion. My advisor told me my research was thorough, my citations immaculate, and my conclusions well-supported. He also explained to me, in exquisite detail, what Imperial powers-that-be would think of it when it came to some government official’s attention in the Imperial Education department. And he offered me, quietly, a name and office on Alderaan I should contact if I wanted to put my thesis to work in the real galaxy.” The Twi’lek shook her head. “The contact and the office are both gone now, of course. But she put me through an aptitude test and I was as surprised as anyone to score highly on all the prerequisites for starfighter combat. I can’t say pilot was on my list of aspirations, but here I am.”

Mara unconsciously fingered the pendant, which had slipped out from under her shirt. Her hand gripped it tightly when eleven heads turned toward her, and she realized it was her turn.

“Yavin Four,” she said aloud. “After I officially certified on the X-wing thanks to Wedge and Hobbie, General Merrick asked me if I’d be interested in joining Blue Squadron. When I said yes, he took me for a check flight in orbit.” A small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “We ran a skirmish against some Red Squadron pilots. I scored one kill during the dogfight. I got so target-fixated I completely ignored my astromech screaming at me and shot down Merrick.”

Laughter rolled around the campfire, and Mara couldn’t keep the smile completely in check. “Afterward, he told me it was very fine maneuvering, but he was glad the Empire didn’t use X-wings because he’d hate for me to accidentally mistake him for an enemy.” She shook her head. “He put me through a whole week of target identification drills.”

“What about you, Commander?” Puck asked.

Skywalker looked down in his cup, then at the mostly-empty bottle of Tatooine wine. He’s the only one drinking the stuff, Mara noted with amusement.

“I’m not sure I’ve drank enough to tell any of the good stories,” he said wryly after a moment. “Most of my stories are about people who aren’t here anymore. Doesn’t feel right to tell them.” He looked up, around at the Rogues, and then raised his cup. “To absent friends,” he said after a moment. “To those who came before us, and those who will come after us.”

Cups raised in response to the toast. Rogues drank. Wes and Puck heckled him about his lack of story, but Skywalker didn’t relent. The stars were out now, the twin suns long asleep over the horizon. The fire had burned down to embers. The Corellian whiskey was gone, the two flasks of jet juice were empty – even Mara had risked a swallow of it and regretted her decision – and the Rogues were slowly settling into companionable quiet as exhaustion crept over them.

In twos and threes, the Rogues began to head back to their quarters, where sleep awaited. Karie and Samoc first; a few minutes later, Zev and Tycho and Kit; Wedge and Hobbie after, Puck right behind them, with Wedge pausing just long enough to exchange a look with Skywalker that Mara didn’t quite understand; then Wes and Cesi, which struck Mara as odd. And then only Mara remained with Skywalker, the fire nothing but embers.

“You didn’t tell a story,” Mara said at length.

“No.” Skywalker looked down in his cup, then tossed the remaining contents into the sand. “Didn’t want to ruin the mood. The squadron needed the relief tonight.”

Mara studied him for a moment, deciding. “Thank you,” she said.

He looked up, meeting her gaze and raising an eyebrow. “For?”

“Not asking.”

Skywalker nodded, his expression a complicated mix. “You’re welcome.” He kicked sand over the coals; it took only a minimal effort before all trace of the fire had been extinguished. “Get some sleep. Tomorrow is a day off. But after that, we’ll be moving into the next stage of training.”

“Permanent pairs?” Mara asked before she could stop herself. This is why I shouldn’t drink, she chided herself.

“Wedge is drawing up the roster.” Skywalker’s smile was genuine. “Though knowing him, it’s probably already done. We don’t know how much time we really have before we’re called back to the fight, and I want Rogue Squadron to be ready when the moment comes.”

They made it to the fifth morning of Skyhopper drills before the cracks started to show.

The T-16 with the cracked ion manifold had been declared unsafe to fly drills by Zev, Mara, and Hobbie in turn, even after repairs. Luke had decided instead to cannibalize it for parts, and it was now permanently grounded.

After the first day of pair drilling, Luke had pointed out that they could reduce downtime by putting two pilots in a Skyhopper at a time, meaning ten Rogues could be in the sky with no downtime to swap pilots. If Luke and Wedge were in one Skyhopper and Wes and Puck were in a second, they could run pair drills first with Luke and Wes, immediately followed by Luke and Puck, then Wedge and Wes, and finally Wedge and Puck, all without having to land.

Wedge had put the plan into practice, and it was allowing them to test pair configurations much more rapidly than he’d initially planned, but the Skyhopper cockpits were cramped with two pilots shoulder-to-shoulder, and tempers were getting thin.

The current round of drills pitted a pair of Rogues using the new two-ship elements against a trio of Rogues as an aggressor flight using the standard three-ship element and following strict by-the-book flying. Wedge had designed the exercise both to test for natural pairs and to teach the Rogues to rely on the additional flexibility of a looser wingman to overcome a numerical disadvantage. It was exactly the sort of fight the Rogues would be facing when they used the new formations in live combat, and Wedge wanted to find weaknesses and reinforce good habits before the Empire got a chance to kill them.

The Skyhoppers had been fitted with low-powered targeting lasers and a handful of sensitive receivers designed to register a simulated hit. The datalinks were all handled by encrypted comms, managed by Luke’s astromech. That droid has some esoteric programming, Wedge observed. I wonder what Bail Organa used it for?

Days of hard flying, relentless heat, and classroom instruction had frayed patience.

Wedge observed from the right seat of the Skyhopper; Luke was strapped in on the left side as pilot-in-command. He was currently leading the aggressor group, with Tycho and Hobbie as his wingmen, opposing Wes and Mara, three kilometers of airspace between them.

“Rogues, Aggressors, ten second countdown,” Luke said calmly. “Then standard rules of engagement. Starting now.” There was a click on the comm as Wes and Mara changed to a private channel to coordinate.

Wedge clicked the chronometer in his hand and settled back in his seat, content to watch without speaking.

Luke waited an extra two seconds past the end of the countdown before pushing the throttle forward smoothly, accelerating but not as hard as he might have pushed the Skyhopper. Tycho and Hobbie matched his velocity, and he spoke calmly. “Aggressors, banking port,” he called as he began bringing the airspeeder around toward his opponents.

Distantly, Wedge could see Wes leading Mara in a short, sharp climb for altitude, then leveling off and beginning to accelerate toward them. Rules of engagement restricted them from firing at a target over five hundred meters away, which prevented either side from long-range kills but opened the opportunity for preliminary maneuvers.

As Wedge had expected, at two kilometers out, Wes and Mara split; Wes banked north, Mara south, opening hundreds of meters between them in seconds. It was the simple bracket maneuver Wedge had been training them on, designed to force an opposing element to either fragment, losing their concentrated fire advantage, or focus on one half of the pair, leaving themselves vulnerable to the other half.

“Keep together, Aggressors,” Luke commanded.

Wedge frowned. That’s not what I expected, he thought as he glanced between his datapad and out the canopy. Luke turned the Aggressor group to the north, focusing on Wes as the distance fell. Wes banked further, then further still, the rate of closure dropping.

“Reverse,” Luke called, stick swinging back, and suddenly the Aggressor group was banking south toward Mara, head-to-head in a three-versus-one.

Mara, to her credit, firewalled her throttle and dove, trying to make herself hard to hit. All three Aggressor Skyhoppers fired, the targeting lasers registering as a high-pitched, soft, repeated thump-thump-thump instead of the heavier, deeper sound Wedge associated with the guns on his X-wing. On his datapad, her Skyhopper flashed as Artoo-Detoo declared hits, simulated damage but not a kill.

Luke inverted the Skyhopper and pulled back on the stick, sending the airspeeder screaming through a split-s with Hobbie and Tycho maintaining their positions. Never supposed to go inverted in a repulsorcraft, Wedge thought with an amused smile tugging his lips as much as the g-forces. Of course, Luke probably never read the manual. Or he did and he ignores it anyway, because bush pilots treat rules more like guidelines. He spared a glance at his datapad. Mara was banking to port, trying to buy enough time and distance to link back up with Wes. On the other hand, Wes had missed the Aggressors changing target and had lost precious seconds and distance, putting him badly out of position to support his wingman.

Tycho opened fire on Mara’s Skyhopper as the Aggressors leveled off, and more hits registered on the datapad; then the icon went red as Artoo declared a kill. Luke grunted, ruddered back to starboard to force a head-on with Wes, and all three opened fire. A moment later, Wes’s icon went red as well.

“End exercise,” Wedge called. “End ex, end ex.”

The comm channel clicked as Wes and Mara rejoined.

“…far out,” Mara was saying. “You should have reversed…”

“Then you should have called it,” Wes said, irritation in his voice. “I’m not a mind-reader.”

“I’m not your damned astromech,” Mara retorted. “Keep your eyes on your instruments and on the sky.”

“No, my astromech has survival instincts and would have warned me so we don’t die.“

“End ex,” Luke said dryly, and silence filled the channel for two heartbeats. “Wedge? Observations?”

“The pair split too far,” Wedge said, striving to keep humor out of his tone. “Though I think they both already realized it.”

Both Mara and Wes erupted on the comm, trying to argue over each other. “Stop,” Luke said, his voice mild but bringing immediate silence.

Wedge shot him a sidelong look. How does he do that? “For the record,” he continued, “Wes, you drifted way out of position because you missed the reverse from the Aggressor group. And Mara, you should have called it. Overcommunicate with your wingman.”

“You make it sound easy,” Wes grumbled, more controlled but still irritable.

“Not easy. Necessary,” Luke corrected. “Nobody can see everything in the fight, so when we see danger we call it out. And this is a small fight – we should all be able to track an engagement this size. This isn’t anything like the Independence ambush.”

“You’ve got the board stacked in your favor,” Wes continued. “You’re flying with the two pilots who have breathed and slept and drilled standard three-ship tactics for years. It’s easy to sit on your side and take us apart and tell us we’re not doing it right.”

Wedge started to open his mouth, but Luke glanced over and shook his head to silence him.

“Okay, Janson. Let’s go again. I’ll fly the two-ship group, you fly Aggressor. Pick the pilots for the rest of the exercise. You win, I polish your boots. I win, you polish mine.”

Wedge facepalmed. Getting cocky, Commander?

“You’re on,” Wes said immediately. “You and Mara as Rogue, I’ll keep Hobbie and Celchu as Aggressor.”

“Done.” Luke’s voice was confident, fully in his element. He pulled back on the stick, breaking formation and climbing to gain distance. Wes and Mara broke formation, Wes settling in at the head of the Aggressor group and Mara sliding onto Luke’s wing.

Wedge looked over at him. You already knocked Wes down a peg. This bet was a stupid idea, Luke, and I don’t see anything good coming from it. He considered for a moment. Maybe I need to bring you both down another notch.

“Move out to three klicks separation,” Luke ordered, leading Mara away. “And then prepare for merge.”

Wedge’s stomach lurched as Luke added power to the Skyhopper’s engines. He glanced over and saw a smile on Luke’s face – not the predatory grin he half-expected, but something more akin to delight merely at flying and competing.

Luke glanced back. “Switching to private channel,” he said. “Call the start of the exercise.”

“Ten seconds to live,” Wedge called. “Counting down.”

The timer hit zero, and Wes’s Aggressors were in motion, accelerating in a broad, smooth turn toward the Rogue element. “On me,” Wes called on the open channel, audible in Wedge’s ear but hidden from Luke. “We’re going to target Jade.”

“Stay with me,” Luke said calmly, his own turn leisurely as he brought the Skyhoppers up to combat speed, keeping his course perpendicular to the Aggressors.

Wedge’s eyes narrowed. Yeah. We’re doing this.

Luke’s grip on the stick tightened as the Aggressors closed. “Get ready,” he warned Mara, though Wedge, still on the open channel, couldn’t hear her reply.

When just over a kilometer of separation remained, he called “Now!” Luke swung into action, the Skyhopper turning straight toward the Aggressors, the throttle firewalled and stick shoved forward in a stomach-churning dive that pressed Wedge back in his seat. He spared a glance at his datapad and saw Mara’s Skyhopper holding off their wing, though she hadn’t cut the turn as hard and had slipped from starboard to port and lost meters of distance.

The Aggressors were firing, and Luke snapped the airspeeder’s nose up. His own targeting laser fired in return, enough to make Hobbie flinch.

“Break right!” Janson called, audible in Wedge’s ear but unknowable to Luke.

Wedge chose that moment to disconnect Luke from the Rogue comm channel. Simulated comm failure, he justified to himself.

“Breaking left!” Luke called, unaware Mara couldn’t hear him. She followed the maneuver but she lost more space.

The Aggressor formation crossed with the Rogues, too close and too tight to shoot, Luke and Mara below Wes, Hobbie, and Tycho.

“Bracket!” Luke called as he reversed. “Slow and I’ll drag them across!”

Mara held formation.

Rogues and Aggressors crossed again, reversing toward each other, the two formations flying a flat scissors. “Bracket!” Luke called again, most of his focus on flying. “Mara?” He spared a glance at Wedge.

Wedge couldn’t hide the smirk. “Comm is jammed,” he said dryly.

“Oh, is that what’s happening?” Luke shook his head and hauled back on the stick, breaking out of the scissors. Mara fell back, late to follow the break, the space opening up further, to the edge of mutual support.

Wedge looked over again. Luke’s face was hard, and Wedge considered for a moment that he may have made a mistake.

Luke banked a half-second to port, then starboard, then port again, as if indecisive about his maneuver, before finally committing to the port turn. Wedge glanced at his datapad in time to see Mara commit to the starboard turn.

And then the Aggressor formation was climbing hard in Luke’s wake. “They’re separated!” Wes hollered. “Take the boss!”

Luke held the port turn a heartbeat longer than Wedge would’ve dared, then reversed back to starboard. Bad call, Wedge thought to himself. Should’ve held the left bank. They’re flying the same airspeeder and they couldn’t have outturned you.

And then Wedge’s jaw dropped as Mara slid in neatly behind the Aggressors as Luke pulled them back across her flight path, targeting laser firing nonstop as she raked fire across Tycho, registering the first kill in under two seconds.

Wes let out a startled “Kriff!” before his Skyhopper, too, registered as dead under Mara’s sustained fire. Hobbie broke hard across Mara’s flight path, too fast for her to get the third kill, but Luke was already inverting into a split-S, textbook-perfect, and five seconds later had scored the third kill on Hobbie.

Luke gave Wedge a pointed look.

Wedge re-enabled the comm.

Silence reigned for a full five seconds. “I hate this planet,” Wes said at last. “I’ll polish the boots after I’m done peeling tubers with Puck.”

---

Wes’s day had not improved by late afternoon.

The afternoon classroom time had been spent reviewing the morning’s drills, and Wedge’s critique had been relentless. Learning that Commander Skywalker and Jade had beaten him, Hobbie, and Tycho thoroughly without comms had done nothing positive for his ego.

The Tatooine farmboy beat the Taanab farmboy like a rented gong, Wes thought as he picked up another tuber from the crate and set to work peeling it. It wasn’t hard work, especially after you’d peeled as many as Wes had in the last few years, and it left him altogether too much time to think. And I can’t even open the latest round of jet juice, because I’m probably flying tomorrow.

And Puck wouldn’t shut up.

The Denon pilot was a meter away, dicing peeled tubers into small cubes to fry, and he continued prattling.

“Hey, do you think Commander Skywalker would let us borrow that lightsaber he carries around?”

Wes looked up from his tuber. “He’s told me no thirty-seven times so far.” He nodded idly. “Maybe thirty-eight is the right number.”

“I was just thinking,” Puck said, “about tubers. It would make this go a lot faster.”

“How so?” Wes asked, barely paying attention to the conversation but trying to focus enough so he didn’t cut a finger. Last thing I need is to catch some stupid Tatooine blood infection and get grounded again. Porkins flew my cockpit at Yavin and died because I was sick. Which Rogue would die in my place this time? The thought wasn’t logical, but his mood was spiraling and he couldn’t seem to stop it.

“Think about it,” Naeco said cheerfully. “You peel the tubers, which we can’t get around, because nobody wants to eat a tuber with the skin on. But then I dice them into these little squares. And then we fry them in oil to make them edible, or boil them in water and mash them, or whatever. But if we had a lightsaber, I bet it would fry the tubers when I dice them. We’d have food in half the time.”

“Jedi cooking possibilities are endless,” Wes said, nodding sagely.

“Wes.”

He looked up. “What?”

“Rogue Squadron to Wes Janson. Where are you?”

Wes shook his head. “You know, I thought Yavin 4 was bad. Hot, humid jungle. When the commander said ‘Tatooine’, I thought at least it’s a dry heat. But a blast furnace is even worse than a jungle.”

Puck snorted. “Told you before, you should be working on your tan. When we get back to the Independence, we’ll be the best-looking squadron around. Even Stone Cold Celchu will look good for the ladies, and he’s got all the warmth of an asteroid.”

He finished with a tuber, dropping the cubes into a bucket. He walked over to where Wes was sitting and started collecting the peeled tubers. “So what are you going to do with the boots?”

“The boots?” Wes asked, still brooding.

“Skywalker’s boots. Don’t tell me you’re going to just polish them.”

Wes snorted. “I lost the bet, fair and square. So no, I’ll polish his boots, and then figure out something to do later, when we’re off this dust bowl.”

“Ha.” Puck shook his head. “Is that what you’re brooding over?”

“What?”

“Rogue Squadron to Janson. You’re clearly bothered over something, and it ain’t the tubers.” Puck leaned in. “You shouldn’t feel bad. You lost that fight because of Commander Skywalker. Jade’s a tough wingman assignment. She’s too busy pretending she doesn’t need anyone to…”

Wes hit him.

Which was two seconds before Wedge Antilles walked into the mess.

Puck was dragging himself back to his feet, Wes was on his feet but didn’t remember standing up, and Wedge just stood looking between the two men, letting the silence drag on. “Explain this,” he finally said.

Neither Puck nor Wes spoke for a moment, before Puck said, “Sir, we were discussing hand-to-hand takedowns…”

Wedge just stared until Puck shut up. Then he spent another ten seconds looking between Puck and Wes before he finally asked, “Is this going to be a problem again?”

“No, sir,” they both said in unison.

“Then I’m going to pretend I didn’t see anything. You’re already both on kitchen duty and I need you two training, not grounded. Got it?”

“Yes, sir,” they both echoed.

Wedge shook his head and walked out.

They waited several seconds to ensure Wedge wasn’t coming back. Puck looked over at Wes. “I’m not sure what I said to deserve that.”

Wes sighed and picked up another tuber. “Don’t make excuses for me,” he said at last. “Just…don’t. Jade’s not the problem. I was sloppy, and if I make excuses, I don’t improve. And if I don’t improve, more pilots die because I’m not the flier I should be.” He started to peel again. “Sorry about the jaw.”

“Don’t worry, you punch like a Chadra-Fan,” Puck said, a hint of his earlier humor seeping back into his own voice.

They worked for several minutes in silence.

“I wouldn’t take you for the hothead type,” Puck commented after a while, not looking up from his cutting board.

“What do you know about Taanab?”

“Agri world. Tallgrains and nerfs, I think. Your homeworld?”

Wes nodded. “When you’re the runt working fields with a crew full of bigger kids, you learn to keep your temper clamped down or you get the shavit beat out of you. So I learned to crack jokes instead. Make the other guy lose his temper first.” He grinned. “Learned the hard way how to fight, too.”

Puck pondered that for a moment. “Is that what farmboys do for fun? Crack jokes and fight?”

“You know better than that. We also drink heavily.”

“Commander Skywalker doesn’t strike me as the sort of guy who got in a lot of fights,” Puck said contemplatively.

“No, his friends were all the racing types. He doesn’t fly that Skyhopper, he wears it.”

“You think he drinks, too?”

Wes snorted. “We’ve been on this planet for all of a week. I think the local entertainment begins and ends with whatever the local homebrew is.” He picked up another tuber. “I bet the commander can drink most of the squadron under the table.”

Wedge crossed his arms as he waited for Luke and Mara to climb out of the Skyhopper.

“Commander!” he heard Puck call before he could speak. “I thought we were fighter pilots, not teenagers!”

“Some of us are both,” Luke riposted, a smile on his face. “And some of us just act like it.” He met Wedge’s gaze and nodded, making a straight line to his executive officer.

Wedge eyed the younger man. He’s tired. He spared a glance at Mara, who had disembarked the Skyhopper on the other side and was now following Luke over. So is she. Dammit, Skywalker.

“We’ve got five more T-16s parked half a kilometer east of here,” Luke said. “I didn’t want to risk bringing them all the way in to camp on ferry-link. The deposits were already generating interference, and we didn’t need one of our new airspeeders deciding to nose-first into our training camp.”

Wedge nodded, waiting until Mara was within earshot. “Jade. Go get some rack time.” She nodded wordlessly and turned toward the barracks, trudging away. Then he turned back to Luke. “I thought I told you not to do anything stupid.”

Luke had the gall to give him an innocent look. “It wasn’t stupid. It worked.”

“Did either of you get any sleep?”

“Not really,” Luke admitted. “Too keyed up.” He frowned. “It’s…odd. Being back here.”

“On Tatooine?”

Luke nodded. “It’s only been a few months since I left, but it feels like years. And it feels like yesterday.”

“How did you get the Skyhoppers back?” Wedge asked, vaguely aware of the proximity of several Rogue pilots. I’m not sure whether they’re eavesdropping or not.

“Ferry-link,” Luke said. “Built-in Incom system for moving craft around without a pilot. X-wing doesn’t have it because it’s got an astromech instead. It wasn’t made for flying airspeeders this far, but Mara and I managed it.” He frowned. “Yes, it was stupid, but it worked and saved us a lot of time.”

Wait. Wedge recalculated, and decided to risk the question, dropping his voice further. “Luke, why didn’t you and Mara sleep last night?”

“I tried,” Luke said, “but I couldn’t make myself do it. Too many memories and our training plans and all of it jumbling together. I talked to Mara for a while, and it helped, but every time I closed my eyes, I was home again. Watching the smoke.”

Oh. Then he and Mara didn’t... Wedge felt the tension bleed out of him. One less thing for Hera to kill me for. Okay. “Think you can sleep now?” he asked.

Luke nodded. “I think I’m tired enough now to try.” He stretched a bit, cracking his neck. “We need to bring in the rest of the Skyhoppers, though. One of them has a cracked ion manifold, so I should probably fly that one.”

“Go to bed, Luke,” Wedge said. “I’ll handle getting them in. It’s not like I’m short on pilots who can fly them.”

“But a Skyhopper…”

“…should be flyable by anyone in the squadron,” the Corellian pointed out. “That was the point of this, right? Transition should be seamless.”

Luke nodded reluctantly. “I…you’re right.”

“You should be used to that by now,” Wedge said dryly.

The younger man looked abashed. “You’d think so.”

“Go get some sleep, Luke. I’ll round up pilots and we’ll get the rest in. I’ll wake you in a couple hours and we’ll brief the Rogues on our training schedule.”

---

“Valent, Farr, Neth, Celchu!” Captain Antilles’ voice rang in the hot, clear air. “On me!”

Kit rolled off his bunk and pulled his boots on, hustling out of the men’s barracks as he zipped his flight suit up. Don’t be late, don’t be late. He winced in the bright light of the double suns hanging overhead.

Captain Antilles was standing next to a parked T-16 Skyhopper and Kit immediately noted that, Yes, I’m late. I’m the last one. He skidded to a stop in the sand in front of the captain, short on breath.

Antilles didn’t even look at him. “Commander Skywalker brought back six Skyhoppers,” he said without preamble. “One is here. The other five are a half-klick east. We’re going for a walk and flying back.”

“Sir, I’ve never flown a T-16,” Kit blurted before his brain could catch up.

Antilles turned to look at him for a moment, and Kit wanted to bury himself in the sand. “Good thing this is just a ferry flight and not a combat operation, then, Valent,” Antilles said. “All of you are certified to fly an X-wing. I’d assume you can manage to fly an Incom Skyhopper half a kilometer without crashing it.”

Kit gulped and nodded. Great way to show you’re a combat pilot worthy of serving with the two X-wing pilots who survived the Death Star, he scolded himself. 

“Grab water,” Antilles added, almost as an afterthought. “It’s not a long walk, but I don’t want anyone getting heatstroke. We’re leaving in five.” He clapped his hands once. “Move, people.”

Kit spun on his heel and hastily beat a retreat back to the barracks to find his canteen.

The barracks were less-sweltering than the open sun, but the comfort unit was clearly struggling to keep up with the outdoor temperatures. The prefab shelter wasn’t large, but it was big enough to boast three sets of bunkbeds, six lockers, and a prefab table with six lightweight prefab chairs, all hollow durasteel tubing with synthcloth covering that Kit suspected was the same material as their flight suits. Wes Janson, Puck Naeco, and Zev Senesca were sitting around the table playing sabacc as Kit entered and crossed to his locker.

“Move faster, Valent!” Naeco called. “The captain hates slow pilots! It’s the reason he doesn’t fly Y-wings.”

“He doesn’t fly Y-wings because he doesn’t appreciate the finer things in life,” Janson contradicted.

Zev Senesca snorted.

Kit rummaged through his locker. Whereisitwhereisitwhereisitwhereisit… A hand landed on his shoulder and he jumped.

Tycho Celchu’s cool blue eyes met his. “Breathe, Valent,” he said. “Don’t let them get to you.”

“I’m not letting them get to me,” Kit denied. “I don’t want to be late.”

“You’re not late,” Celchu said. “Breathe. Slow down. Trying to sprint half a klick in this heat to the Skyhoppers won’t end well.”

Kit gulped and turned back to his locker, finally finding his canteen. Tycho, he registered dimly, was already carrying his. Kit took an extra second to snag the fine gold chain and medallion out from a hook in the locker and slid it into his pocket. “Okay. No heatstroke.”

Celchu jerked his head toward the door. “Come on.”

The sunlight seemed even harsher when they left the barracks again. “Sorry, Lieutenant,” Kit said. “I don’t want to give Captain Antilles the wrong impression.”

“Some advice, Valent,” Celchu said as they walked over to where Antilles was waiting. “When the captain or the commander gives you an order, take it seriously. But if we’re not in combat, those orders aren’t life-and-death requiring immediate compliance. Slow down and breathe so you think, not just act.”

Kit winced, and then winced at his wince.

“You’re already on the squadron roster,” Celchu continued, unperturbed. “Don’t try to impress. Just do what the squadron needs you to do.”

Kit and Celchu beat Farr and Neth back by several minutes – long enough for Kit to begin to feel uncomfortable again. Celchu, on the other hand, appeared to be perfectly content to bake in the twin suns. He’s a veteran, Kit told himself. He was a TIE pilot. He’s probably used to all of this.

The walk to the Skyhoppers took longer than Kit expected; half a kilometer should only have been a few minutes of travel, but the parking spot to the east required the Rogues to climb a hundred meters in altitude. Antilles didn’t tackle it directly, instead taking a less arduous but longer route, and he didn’t push the pace hard. The Rogues didn’t talk, conserving energy and water in the relentless heat.

The five T-16 Skyhoppers were parked in a ragged line, wings folded up. Captain Antilles checked out each of the Skyhoppers in turn, declared the second in the line his own, and then assigned each of the Rogues a craft. Kit was assigned the fourth airspeeder in the group.

He approached it cautiously and laid a hand on the Skyhopper. The skin of the airspeeder was hot in the sunlight, and he withdrew his hand quickly. He stopped, wiped sweat from his forehead, and took a drink from his canteen. Slow down. Do your walkaround. Then preflight.

The Skyhopper was an old design, highly popular across the Rim due to its simplicity, cost, and reliability. Its profile in-flight was reminiscent of the Empire’s Lambda-class shuttles, featuring a vertical stabilizer and two down-angled horizontal stabilizers. The cockpit could theoretically fit two, though it’d be a snug fit. The blunt nose of the Skyhopper was a sharp contrast to the long, graceful fuselage of the X-wing. The single ion engine with afterburner was simple and reliable, and the airspeeder featured a redundant array of repulsorlifts that gave it both a tremendous amount of lift and a safety cushion that had kept many a young hotshot bush pilot alive through extremely poor decisions.

Kit’s particular T-16 was battered and scraped; the body was painted white, and blue racing stripes had been added but had been scoured by weather. The canopy was intact and there was no obvious damage to the airspeeder’s exterior panels.

The cockpit was not quite as cramped as he expected but ridiculously hot; no doubt the hour it had been parked in the sun had turned the interior into a blast furnace. Kit evaluated the controls. Oh. Throttle here, stick here. System displays. Fuel gauge. Internal diagnostics. It’s not exactly the same as my X-wing, but it’s laid out mostly the same way. When my flight instructor talked about Incom-standard, this must be what he meant.

The ion engine came online with a not entirely pleasant whine. The self-diagnostics took a minute to run, but the displays showed green when he clicked the Skyhopper’s built-in comm on. “Valent here, ready to fly.”

“Good,” Antilles’ voice returned. “This is just a short hop. Stand by until everyone’s ready. We go together.”

Kit pulled the gold chain out of his pocket and studied the medallion for a moment. Then he wrapped it around the grip of the T-16’s flight stick, looping it until no slack remained. Finally he settled his hand over the chain, feeling the familiar bite in his palm. Dad never crashed with this, he told himself, and neither will I.

---

The suns had settled into their late-afternoon decline to the west when Hobbie settled into a chair in the back row of the Rogues’ briefing room. It was larger than the prefab barracks and currently far more comfortable. Probably because no one’s been in here adding to the heat, he decided. A dozen chairs were arranged in two rows, a small arc centered on a surprisingly large holoprojector Wedge had requisitioned for the training mission. The comfort unit on the wall hummed quietly, producing a steady breeze of cool air that kept the room tolerable.

Mara dropped into the chair next to him, yawning.

“Long night?” Hobbie asked evenly, eyeing her.

“Hard to sleep in a strange place,” Mara said in return. “Didn’t feel safe like the Independence.”

Hobbie didn’t pry further, though it looked like Skywalker was just as tired. Of course, there’s every chance she has no idea what that looks like, Hobbie reflected. She’s always been a little odd. But then again, we all are. A person has to be a little odd to fight an insurgency against a galaxy-spanning empire.

The rest of the Rogues filtered in, a few at a time. Puck and Wes came in together and looked at Hobbie, disappointment on their faces. Yeah, I’m not letting you two sit behind me, Hobbie thought sardonically as the two of them instead took the chairs in front of him and Mara.

Puck half-turned. “Was school like this on Ralltiir?” he asked.

“No. But I actually went to school,” Hobbie said dryly.

Mara elbowed him.

Kit Valent, Samoc Farr, and Karie Neth all sat in the front row, coming in together. Cesi Eirriss, Tycho Celchu, and Zev Senesca all slid into the back row with Hobbie and Mara, their banter low and subdued. 

Skywalker stood at the front silently, clearly waiting, until the last Rogue came through the door – Wedge, who promptly walked up and joined Skywalker at the holoprojector. They talked in low tones for a moment before Wedge stepped back, apparently yielding the floor.

The young commander offered a smile to the assembled pilots. “Welcome to Tatooine,” he said. “No, the heat doesn’t get better. No, you don’t get used to it. Yes, you do learn to tolerate it.” He cleared his throat, his expression sobering. “Most of you have flown at least one mission as a Rogue,” he said. “Some of you have flown more. Right now, that doesn’t matter. All of you are certified to fly your X-wing, and I’m not going to tell you I can teach you better than your instructors did. We’re not here for everyone to re-learn the basics. We’re here to learn new doctrine.”

He picked up a datapad, glanced down, tapped a button. The holoprojector hummed to life, and simplistic holograms of a pair of X-wings swam to life over the holoprojector. “We’re here to learn a new way to fight. All of you trained on three-ship flight elements. Rogue Squadron is going to fly two-ship elements instead.” He looked around the room. “All of you except Kit and Samoc got a taste of this during the Independence ambush. Wedge and I have been studying the flight telemetry from that battle, and now we’re going to train with the lessons we learned from that.”

Hobbie grunted and raised a hand. Skywalker nodded at him. “What does this training look like?” he asked.

Skywalker, in turn, looked at Wedge.

Wedge stepped forward. “I haven’t finalized the schedule yet,” he said, “but we’ll be flying Skyhoppers in the morning, when it’s cooler, and have classroom discussion and flight breakdown in the afternoon when the heat is worse.”

“I don’t think Tatooine gets cold,” Puck cheerfully chimed in. “But having an entire planet as an oven makes kitchen duty easier.”

“Cooler, not cold,” Wedge corrected dryly. “I’m glad you feel so optimistic about kitchen duty, Naeco.”

“Just looking for the positives.”

Celchu’s hand was in the air next. “What exactly will we be flying in the airspeeders?” he asked, skepticism seeping into his tone.

“Drills,” Skywalker said, “of every sort of tactics and reflex you need to have for a two-ship element. We’ll run bracket drills, break-and-reform drills, wingman-loss drills, two-on-three combat simulations.”

“And we’ll be rotating pairings,” Wedge added. “As of right now, Commander Skywalker and I do not know who is ultimately going to fly with who. The only pair that’s ruled out is Skywalker and myself. Command staff does not fly together.”

“An unlucky turbolaser shot shouldn’t cripple the squadron,” Skywalker agreed. “I will be flying as Rogue Leader. Wedge will be flying as Rogue Five. All other slots are up for reassignment.” His blue eyes, bright and open, scanned over the pilots. “We’re going to drill pilots together to see who works well together, and who doesn’t, and that’s our highest priority.” He smiled. “If, for example, we assign Puck Naeco to fly on my wing, that doesn’t mean he’s now third-in-command of the squadron; it means he works well with me. That’s our organizing principle.”

“In the afternoon, we’ll be looking at flight telemetry from the training sorties,” Wedge continued. “To see where we make mistakes and where we’re doing well. We want to catch bad habits right away, not let them fester until someone gets killed. We’ll also be discussing combat theory, everything from Tallon’s treatises to Ackbar’s The Pilot and the Rebellion to historical After-Action Reports dating back to before the Clone Wars.”

“This sounds more like university than pilot school,” Janson grumbled.

Cesi Eirriss turned toward him, her smile all teeth. “Some of us actually appreciate reading something more complicated than farm equipment repair manuals.”

“Fifty Shades of Ryloth doesn’t count,” Janson deadpanned.

Skywalker cleared his throat. “We’re going to cover everything we can,” he said. “But we all have duties to pull aside from flying and studying. The Skyhoppers will require maintenance every morning. X-wings will require maintenance at least every few days even if we’re not flying them. Kitchen duty, which I may be incorrectly assuming will belong to someone other than Wes and Puck at some point in the future. Maintenance on the rest of our equipment. And so forth.”

Hobbie grunted. That’s a lot of work. “And we’re going to be putting all six Skyhoppers in the air at a time?” he asked.

The commander shook his head. “Right now, only five of the Skyhoppers are flight-ready,” he said, “though we’re going to see if we can fix a cracked manifold on the sixth. More likely, we’ll put four pilots in the air at a time, with Wedge or me or both monitoring from here and issuing orders. We’re setting up datalinks with the T-16s so we have the same telemetry that we use on the X-wings.”

“That’s a lot of sorties,” Celchu commented.

“Sixty-five to put every pilot together for a run, excluding Luke and me as a pair,” Wedge said. “Two sorties at a time. If we can manage four runs a morning, that’s eight of the sixty-five every day. Over a week to put everyone together.”

“There are other pairings we’re eliminating in advance,” Skywalker added. “But the first week is going to be gathering initial impressions, and then a few weeks to test our data to make sure pilots work together the way we believe. Then permanent assignments and more intensive training.” He shook his head. “We’re going to train everyone in the same tactics, so any Rogue can fly with any Rogue. But our permanent pairs will reflect our best judgment about who works well together.”

“The old three-ship elements sound a hell of a lot easier,” Hobbie grumbled.

“Easier doesn’t mean better,” Wedge said evenly. “And we’re going to put the whole squadron through hell in training if it means Rogue Squadron survives the battles that killed Red and Blue Squadrons.”

“We should be back before noon,” Luke reassured his second-in-command. “We’ll leave as soon as the sun is up.”

“As soon as you can,” Wedge’s voice was tinny over the encrypted comlink. “Camp is battened down for the night and the sentry droids are patrolling the perimeter.”

“And the Skyhoppers will keep Janson and Naeco out of trouble?” Luke asked wryly.

“Kitchen patrol is helping right now, but that’ll only work until they decide to improve our rations. And we’re not out here for shore leave.”

“No, we’ve got a narrow window and there’s every chance that General Rieekan will call us back early.” Luke could imagine Wedge’s grimace. “We’re secure here, and we’ll be out with first light. See you tomorrow, Wedge.”

“Goodnight, boss.” The channel hung up with a hiss of static for a moment. “Don’t do anything stupid, Luke.”

“I won’t,” Luke reassured him with a frown. What is Wedge getting at?

The channel clicked off and the encrypted connection dropped. Luke flicked his comlink to standby and laid it down on the garage workbench.

“Perimeter’s checked,” Mara said, her posture more relaxed than her tone as she walked through the door. “Gate is locked, and I rigged an alarm on it – someone comes in, even with Kessik’s code, and it’ll squeal our comlinks. Kessik actually has a decent intruder detection system for everything else. Better than I’d expect on a Rim world like this.”

“Too many desperate people around,” Luke commented. “From talking to a few locals, the harvest this season was better than average, so the risk is low. Some seasons the harvest is terrible, and then some people start looking for a quick solution.” He watched her for a moment; now that they were in relative privacy, she’d freed her red-gold hair from the shawl, though it was matted with sweat. Luke was sure he wasn’t much better; months off-planet meant Tatooine now felt hotter than it had for nineteen years of his life.

Mara moved over to one of the two cots in the garage and sat down. She hesitated for a moment, then kicked her boots off and laid down completely, head up, her blaster still on her hip. “You’re from this planet, aren’t you?” she asked abruptly.

“Yes. Born and raised. Or raised, anyway.”

“Not born?” Mara asked.

“I’m not sure what to believe,” Luke said dryly.

Silence stretched, and Luke was just beginning to suspect she’d nodded off when she quietly asked, “Why?”

He opened his mouth to answer but stopped himself, replaying the conversation they’d had a few days prior. Promise me that you won’t push this on me. Nothing about the Force. Nothing about the Jedi. Nothing about lightsabers. Visibility is death, Skywalker. The Empire hunts people like me. Like you. Promise me you won’t push me. Where did that line lay? But this is about me, not her. I’m answering her questions, not demanding answers from her.

Luke took a deep breath to order his thoughts before he spoke. “I grew up on a moisture farm here on Tatooine, raised by my Uncle Owen and my Aunt Beru. Good people, hardworking, smart, independent, tougher than rock. And they lied to me. They told me my father was a navigator for a freighter working for the Hutts, moving spice, and that he’d gotten mixed up with some bad people and died. They were always trying to keep me away from that world because it’d done in my own father.”

“But that wasn’t the truth,” Mara said.

“No. But it was what I believed until Uncle Owen bought two droids from the local Jawas that really belonged to the Rebel Alliance and were carrying a message for Ben Kenobi. Ben is…was…an old hermit who kept to himself.” He decided not to delve too deep into the details. “When I brought the droids to him, Ben told me they’d lied. My father wasn’t a navigator, he was a Jedi Knight who’d fought in the Clone Wars.” Luke strove to keep the bitterness out of his tone. “Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru were afraid if I knew the truth I’d want to become a Jedi like my father.”

“So you ran off with Kenobi and joined the Rebellion?” she asked.

“The Empire came while I was gone, looking for the droids. Burned the farm down. Owen and Beru…” he shook his head. “After that, there wasn’t anything to keep me on Tatooine. So yes, I left and joined the Rebellion.”

Mara was silent, and Luke desperately wanted to ask what about you? but his instincts told him she’d view the question as prying.

“Ben told me my father had been murdered by Darth Vader. He promised to teach me about the Force, and we started while we were on the Millennium Falcon, but we didn’t get far before Vader killed Ben on the Death Star.” Luke’s hands curled into fists. “From what I learned afterward, that monster has a lot of blood on his hands. And someday, I hope, he’ll have to face justice for it.”

“Vader is a monster,” Mara agreed, and the vehemence in her voice surprised him.

He waited but she didn’t expound further. He stole a glance at her and saw she was still lying on her back, one hand resting on the pendant that normally was concealed under her clothing but occasionally worked itself free.

“It’s strange, being back here,” Luke said at last. “Tatooine hasn’t changed, but I have.”

“What were they like?” she ventured. “Your aunt and uncle.”

“Beru was kind,” he said, and an image of the older woman floated in his mind. “Soft-hearted. When I made mistakes or acted out, she was the one who’d forgive me or talk me down. But she worked hard every day of her life.” He smiled a little. “Owen was a hard man. Not cruel, but hard because you have to be to survive and eke out a living on this miserable rock. He tried to keep me out of trouble. I can only imagine how I would have turned out without him riding me so hard. How I managed to talk him into letting me get my old Skyhopper, I’ll never understand.”

Mara was silent for a while after that before she finally offered, voice so quiet Luke had to strain to hear, “I don’t know who my parents were, either. Hera’s the only person I have left who tried to raise me.”

Questions immediately jumbled together in Luke’s mind, but he pushed them back down. “Wedge is terrified of her,” he said dryly instead.

“I keep expecting her to show up and drag me back to the Ghost,” she said, voice no louder than before.

Another memory surfaced for Luke, back on Yavin. If I’m in your squadron, I follow the orders you give me and no one else’s, she’d said. “As long as you want to be a Rogue, you’re a Rogue,” Luke said aloud.

She was quiet again for a few minutes. “Did you have friends here?”

“Yes. Well, one good friend, Biggs, and plenty more that I thought were my friends. I never really fit in, though,” Luke admitted. “After Biggs left for the Academy, I started to see the truth of it. But I don’t miss them, except Biggs.”

“He was in the trench with you,” Mara said, a statement of fact.

“Yes. Wedge took a bad hit and pulled out. Biggs covered me until he died.” One more death Darth Vader needs to pay for, Luke told himself, forcing his hands to relax. “It’s strange, being here. And this was my idea.”

“Training?”

“Tatooine,” he clarified. “The Empire doesn’t care about it, and between the Hutts and how remote it is, there’s no chance the Rebellion would set up a permanent base here. So I proposed it as a temporary location for Rogue Squadron to train.” He shook his head. “I didn’t realize it’d feel this strange, being back here.”

The night wore on, and neither of them slept.

---

The first of the two suns was peeking over the horizon, but the Rogues’ camp remained shrouded in shadow in the mouth of the canyon as Wedge crossed from the officer barracks to the temporary mess hall. The heat soaked through his fresh clothing, and he could feel himself already sweating. This heat is going to get old very fast. He checked his datapad as he walked, reviewing the automated reporting from the sentry droids he’d deployed to patrol the camp perimeter at night.

Based on the same spherical frame as the target remotes used for blaster practice and lightsaber training by one aspiring Jedi, the sentries were a new innovation the Alliance had begun deploying at temporary bases. A permanent base would use embedded sensors to monitor for any local disturbances, but those units required time to install and configure. The sentries, on the other hand, were great for locations that would not be held for long. They required more maintenance and regular charging, but they could be deployed and in place in minutes. The three-month training window Rogue Squadron was theoretically operating in was a stretch for temporary, but Luke had asked for the droids anyway, arguing that keeping them charged was less demanding for the small team.

He rubbed his cheek wearily. Someone was near the perimeter. From the inside. He checked the data again. Two people. Because I told everyone to go in pairs. But they didn’t breach it.

Wedge pondered that for a moment. I’ll keep an eye on it, he decided, but I’m not going to make an issue of it unless someone actually leaves the camp.

The perpetrators could be almost any of the Rogues, save Wedge himself, who was asleep at the time, and Luke and Mara, who were in Mos Entha. Stars, I hope Skywalker didn’t do anything stupid last night. That could make this whole training deployment very awkward.

The mess was less empty than he expected.

Cesi Eirriss was sitting at one of the prefab tables, a battered durasteel tumbler of caf on the table in front of her and a datapad in-hand. The Twi’lek was wide awake and engrossed in her reading. Karie Neth and the new pilot, Samoc Farr, were sitting across from her, though both of them looked more asleep than awake.

“Captain,” Cesi greeted without looking up, a lek twitching.

Wedge picked up a mug. It was wrapped in camouflage netting, secured with space tape. He shook his head and moved to the dispenser. “What’s the political treatise of choice today, Eirriss?” he asked as he filled the mug.

“Treatise on Starfighter Tactics,” she said dryly. “Not my usual light reading, but it seemed like a better choice given our current mission.”

“Adar Tallon’s book,” Wedge said approvingly. “That was required reading at Skystrike. Good primer on the fundamentals.” He snorted. “Had to be good, given that Imperial instructors were still assigning it after Tallon deserted and disappeared. Most of the time, if an officer gives the Empire a black eye, any material associated with him disappears. Tallon’s work hasn’t.”

Samoc Farr spoke up. “Captain, Tallon’s biggest focus is on what he calls the five stages of a combat engagement. Detection, closing, attack, maneuver, disengagement.” She frowned. “Isn’t that obvious? Why formalize it?”

Wedge moved over to the table and sat down, mug held in both hands as he inhaled the aroma that he was certain smelled better than the caf was about to taste. “The reason he categorizes and formalizes stages of air combat is so that pilots understand what point they’re at in a combat engagement, which affects which tactics they should employ. Would you like an example?”

“Absolutely, sir.”

“So here’s a scenario. Rogue Squadron is in open space and we’ve got sensor contact with a squadron of TIE fighters. We’ve both detected each other, and the distance between the two fighter groups is falling. What combat stage are we in?”

“Closing, sir,” Karie said sleepily.

“During the closing stage, the Rogues are doing their best to get an opening advantage over the Imps, including bracket maneuvers, spreading out, and so on. But if we’re in the maneuver stage, we’d be doing a lot of the same things. So what’s the difference?”

Samoc shook her head wordlessly.

“During that initial head-to-head, standard tactics for an X-wing unit will be to double-front our shields,” Wedge said. “Leaves our tails exposed, but we can shrug off more fire from the front where we know it’s coming from. During the maneuver stage, we’re likely tangled up with the survivors from that head-to-head, so we’re going to stabilize our shields forward and back, even while we’re doing those pincers, brackets, and so forth. We need to know the stage so we know what we should and shouldn’t be doing. The harder you train, the more you can do correctly on reflex.”

“So it’s not categorization for the sake of military analysts,” Samoc said slowly. “There’s actually value for us as pilots.”

Wedge nodded. “The point isn’t to fly exactly like Tallon’s primer. The point is to develop the right instincts for the moment you’re living in during a dogfight.” He offered a smile. “Don’t worry, Farr. We’re all here to learn.”

---

Both suns had cleared the horizon by the time Mara gave Skywalker the thumbs-up to fly.

The Skyhopper’s cockpit was cramped. Theoretically, the airspeeder would fit two; Mara was not large, Skywalker was a slender man barely of average height, and they were still bumping shoulders as he worked the Skyhopper’s controls and she monitored the ferry-link through her datapad. It should have felt uncomfortable.

Mara wondered, briefly, why it didn’t.

“Starting the engine,” Skywalker said a moment before he hit the ignition. The ion engine lit with a low rumble, more felt than heard. Mara eyed her datapad and watched as the five other Skyhoppers all came alive in sequence, engines showing operational status. He glanced over at her. “We good?”

“We’ve got engine starts across the board,” she confirmed. “Let’s keep it low and slow until we’re out of Mos Entha, at least. If something goes wrong, I’d rather we didn’t send a stray Skyhopper into someone’s house at a couple hundred kay pee aitch.”

Skywalker nodded in agreement, feeding power slowly to the repulsorlifts. The Skyhopper rose out of the fenced-in garage yard, and one-by-one the rest of the airspeeders rose to join it.

“Less jitter on four this morning,” Mara observed. “Wonder if it’s heat-related?”

“Keep an eye on it.”

“Like I wasn’t going to already.”

Skywalker added power to the engine, and the airspeeder began to glide forward slowly. They were perhaps ten meters off the ground; high enough to avoid colliding with anything this far out from the center of Mos Entha, but low enough to set down in a hurry if something went wrong.

Even at the very slow pace, it took less than ten minutes to clear the outer edge of the city. A belated thought occurred to Mara. “What did you do with the speeder bike?”

“It’s strapped under the belly of this T-16,” Skywalker said with a smile. “Didn’t want Alliance Supply to be angry with me for leaving assets behind.”

Mara frowned. “How does that affect maneuvering and speed?”

He glanced over at her. “I can feel it, but it’s not a big hindrance. Why?”

“Ferry-link is mirroring your controls,” she pointed out. “If this Skyhopper handles differently, it means everything else will fall out of position by comparison. Or try to pass us, actually.”

He grimaced. “I didn’t think of that.”

“It’s just one more thing to factor into the trim,” Mara said, no real irritation in her voice as she made adjustments on the datapad. “None of these things are new. I figured I was going to have to individually adjust each one of them anyway.” She looked up and out the canopy. “Bring us up to a quarter throttle, but do it slow. I’m going to space the formation out but try to keep the airspeed as synchronized as I can. Once we’re up to full throttle, the less maneuvering you do, the better.”

It took twenty minutes of slow flying, with throttle adjustments and long, slow banks to port and starboard before Mara finally nodded in satisfaction. “Alright, we should mostly keep formation like this. Bring us up to cruise speed, slowly.” She glanced over at him, saw him meet her eyes but then look away.

Huh.

Skywalker brought them up to speed, and though he had already proved to be one of the best fighter pilots she’d met, he apparently had the patience of a farmboy driving a heavily laden landspeeder. With a caution that tested even her patience, he got all six of the Skyhoppers up to speed, now at six hundred meters of altitude, and on course for the Rogues’ camp.

Though the T-16s were capable of far greater speed than the Aratech bike had been, by mutual agreement Skywalker kept their airspeed restrained. The suns crept higher in the sky as baked desert rolled by lazily below them. Maintaining the necessary trim to keep the airspeeders together proved to be a moderately annoying task; it was not so demanding as to keep Mara’s attention fully, but required tweaking often enough that she couldn’t afford to look away from the datapad much, either.

“When we first got to Tatooine, you said there was nothing to see,” Mara commented as she looked over the seemingly endless desert. “I think I understand that now.”

“Try living here,” Skywalker replied, his voice as dry as the air. “The nothing is everywhere.”

They flew on in companionable silence, giving Mara far too much time to think about the night prior, what Skywalker had said, and what he hadn’t asked.

For the first time in well over three years, she was tempted to talk about all of it, but she restrained the urge.

You barely know him, even if you’ve fought together. Visibility is death, Mara.

But he would understand in all the ways Hera doesn’t.

Visibility is death, Mara.

As the twin suns warmed the air from merely hot to stifling, rising thermals began to buffet the Skyhopper, the ride becoming rough. Skywalker glanced over at her. “How much maneuvering can your trim take?”

“Hard to know until we try it. Why?”

Skywalker looked forward out the Skyhopper’s canopy again. “The thermals are predictable, but I’ll need to maneuver some.”

Mara lifted the datapad. “Keep it gradual and I think we’ll be fine. Don’t forget about that cracked ion manifold, either. I’d hate to crash that Skyhopper when we’re almost back to camp.”

He gave her a grin that was ninety percent fighter pilot and ten percent Luke Skywalker, all white teeth. “We can’t have that.”

Skywalker was as good as his word, adding gradual banks to their previously-direct flight path, while adding more throttle. The ride immediately smoothed, and though Mara had no idea how he was predicting the turbulent air, he clearly knew something she didn’t. She loosened the formation further, though it strained the limits of the ferry-link system; Incom clearly hadn’t intended it to be used to fly half a dozen Skyhoppers spaced over half a kilometer.

It was nearly four hours of flight time before the vaguely familiar stone fingers began to rise toward them, well below the Skyhopper. Skywalker began shedding velocity and altitude.

Mara gave him a questioning look.

“We’ll set them down half a kilometer from the camp,” he explained. “I don’t want to try to bring them all in on ferry-link right into camp. The deposits cause sensor interference, and if the ferry-link jitters out at the wrong time, we could have a wreck.”

“Makes sense.”

Mara tightened the formation and trim, bringing the Skyhoppers back together as they descended. The ferry-link on the number four Skyhopper began jittering like crazy as they dropped down below the tips of the stone fingers, and Mara winced, finger hovering over the cutoff, but it held long enough for Skywalker to get all the T-16s down to the ground before she shut it down.

Now unencumbered, Skywalker lifted off and flew the last half-kilometer to the training camp like a madman, blasting over the camp at full throttle before reversing with a flourish, a quick barrel roll, and setting the airspeeder down with the touch of a falling feather.

Mara looked over at him, nonplussed, until he met her eyes. “Next time,” she said, “I’m flying and you can run the datapad.”

Mara found Skywalker inside the Gallofree. He’d already changed into what she suspected were local clothes: dark, loose-fitting trousers, a light-colored and loose-fitting tunic, mostly covered with a poncho. He had a helmet tucked under his arm; it was not his X-wing helmet, but a leather contraption more fitting for swoop racing. His service blaster was holstered and on his hip, but his lightsaber was conspicuous by absence.

“What are we doing, Commander?” she asked, trying to keep discomfort out of her voice.

“Supply run to Mos Entha. We need some equipment.”

Mara frowned. “Equipment? For what? We just got here.”

Skywalker shook his head and jerked a thumb toward a deeper compartment in the ship. “There’s some civilian clothing in there to help us blend in. Go ahead and find something and change.” He studied her for a second, and she couldn’t read his expression as he considered his next words. “You probably need to do something about your hair,” he said at last. “It’s…” he hesitated again, “…too memorable.”

She rolled her eyes. “Of course. What are you going to be doing?”

“Getting our ride ready. Go get changed.”

She nodded and headed deeper into the transport. A handful of maintenance droids were moving through the freight hauler, but she ignored them, and none of the other Rogues intruded. It didn’t take Mara long to find the stash of civilian clothing, and she riffled through it quickly. Men’s and women’s. Some of this would fit either me or Karie, I think. Or close enough. Skywalker and Wedge were planning ahead. Style wasn’t of any real concern to her, and she quickly settled on a set of leggings, a comfortable, white blouse, and an oversized poncho similar to the one she’d seen Skywalker wearing. A shawl, light to the touch but opaque, worked well to wrap her head and conceal her red-gold hair, already matted with sweat in the oppressive heat. He’s probably right. On a backwater like this, any locals would probably notice the color. Best to be unmemorable. She had to dig around to find another swoop racer’s helmet, then headed back toward the aft of the ship.

Skywalker was already down the ramp with a speeder bike that had clearly seen better days. Mara eyed it warily. Aratech 712-AvA. Engine sounds okay, not great. Repulsors seem to be balanced okay. They’re supposed to be generally reliable but a headache to fix when they do break. 

The commander caught her looking and fished in his belt pouch for something, hand coming out a moment later with a pair of goggles. He tossed them to her before pulling out a second pair for himself. “It’s not fun to catch a bug in the eye at a few hundred kay-pee-aitch,” he said dryly.

Mara raised an eyebrow. “You’ve done that before?”

“Once was plenty.” He swung onto the speederbike and jerked his head toward the seat behind him. “Come on.”

She hesitated again, feeling like a trap had been baited. “Why me?”

“Because you’re the best mechanic in the Rogues, straight-up,” he said with no trace of deception in his voice. “If there’s something wrong with the gear we’re buying, you’ll find it.”

Grimacing, Mara finally relented and climbed on the speederbike behind him, wrapping her arms loosely around him for balance. “Don’t get us killed, Skywalker.”

She could hear the grin in his voice. “No promises.”

They quickly accelerated away from the Rogues’ landing site, and in seconds it had completely vanished behind them. Skywalker navigated the bike a few hundred meters away from the canyon before turning and setting course straight into the desert.

Less than two minutes later, Mara was fighting down her panic. I’m completely lost. How is he navigating? There are no landmarks. If something happened to Skywalker right now, I don’t think I could find my way back.

But Skywalker seemed to be enjoying himself. Now that they were away from camp, with no one around, he opened the throttle up, and wind ripped at them as the speeder bike screamed across the desert, dust billowing in their wake. She forced herself to focus, first watching the terrain, trying to pick out distinctive rock formations, before quickly giving up. The moment I think one looks unique, we change angles, and it looks like something else entirely.

Instead she focused on Skywalker’s piloting, and found more of interest there. He was clearly in his element, effortlessly picking a route through the seemingly endless sand dunes with the same sort of complete confidence he demonstrated in his X-wing. He seemed to know exactly where the bike needed to be at any given time, slipping past softer patches of sand that would slow the bike’s propulsion, or swinging clear of magnetic deposits that could interfere with repulsorlifts. Occasionally, a concealed mineral band would cause the repulsors to whine in protest, but then he sideslipped the bike easily with a practiced lean, never allowing their forward momentum to break. He’s very good, she admitted reluctantly. I wonder where he learned to navigate like this?

She settled into her seat more firmly, forcing herself to relax. This could be a very long ride.

---

Cesi found the work of setting up the fusion generators simple enough to preoccupy herself with watching the Rogues.

She settled the second unit in place next to the three shelters Captain Antilles had designated for barracks and started snaking power feeds to each of them. The temporary shelters had built-in comfort units, designed to either cool or warm the structures as needed. She shook her head as she plugged in each one in turn, keeping an eye on Wes and Puck as they stretched camo netting over another X-wing.

“I know security is a concern, but it’s a crime against civilization to hide starfighters this beautiful,” Wes waxed poetically, though Cesi was pretty sure he wasn’t serious.

“We could paint the netting,” Puck suggested.

“I already checked. No paint on the transport. Or if it is, it’s locked up somewhere I couldn’t find it.”

“I bet Jade has some packed.”

Wes shook his head theatrically. “Then it’s unobtainable. Unless you’re blaster-proof.”

Puck snorted. “She’s not that scary.”

“I’m amazed you survived this long with instincts that poor,” Wes riposted. “And I’m not even talking about General Syndulla.”

The conversation was loud, entertaining, and distracting all within earshot. Cesi plugged in the third feed and stopped to glance at the two jokers as they finished with the eighth X-wing. The camo was stretched tight, anchors driven into the hardpack (though Cesi had concerns about Puck Naeco and a giant hammer), and Wes was cutting off the roll. The process left a meter-wide strip to be trimmed, which Wes did neatly and efficiently with a vibroknife, all while trading comments with Naeco about the dangers of the youngest Rogue.

And then he rolled up the trimmed strip into a tight bundle and handed it to Puck, who slipped it under his loose outer layer.

Interesting, Cesi thought.

She returned to the Gallofree, passing the construction team hauling another prefab shelter, and retrieved a fuel core. The Twi’lek checked the capacity reading, nodded, and headed back out into the Tatooine sun.

Most of the Rogues were clearly suffering in the heat, though Commander Skywalker had seemed oddly unbothered. Cesi, on the other hand, had been born on Ryloth. While it had been years since she’d stepped foot on her homeworld, the tidally locked world was brutally hot and brutally cold, and while Tatooine was far less hospitable than Chandrila, where she’d earned her doctorate, it reminded her oddly of home.

Whistling cheerfully to herself, she inserted the fuel core into the fusion generator and powered the device up.

She glanced at Wes and Puck again, their conversation now shifted to a debate about which member of Rogue Squadron had the highest Imperial reward. A lek twitched involuntarily. Those two idiots are far more dangerous than they look.

---

Judging by the position of the twin suns, Mara guessed it was after local noon when they finally reached Mos Entha. Never been a planet with two suns before, she thought. Probably because they’re all as bad as this one. Or worse.

Skywalker finally eased off the throttle as the speeder bike reached the outskirts of the city and buildings, small, one-story huts of sun-baked stone, began to cluster around them, the buildings getting larger and more numerous and closer together as the city proper grew around them.

Mara was unimpressed. Not really any different than any city I saw after joining the Spectres. Or before that. Local materials, haphazard city layouts, streets that could generously be described as winding, wealth close to the city center and only trickling to the outskirts were the common denominator of little spaceports on thousands of Outer Rim worlds.

Their destination was far enough into the city that the streets began to crowd with traffic: local riding animals, larger landspeeders better-suited for carrying cargo than the Aratech speeder bike, and pedestrians. Whatever Skywalker wants to buy, it must be small, she thought. Unless we’re renting a big speeder to transport it back. But what would we get here that we couldn’t have brought from the Independence? 

Skywalker finally nosed the bike out of the main thoroughfare and into a small lot before shutting the engine down entirely.

Mara pulled her goggles off and climbed off the bike, patting her clothes as she did so. Clouds of dust rose and tickled her nose, threatening a sneeze. She coughed instead, wishing she’d left the goggles on a moment longer as her eyes watered. Karabast. Blasted desert. She straightened and looked around.

“An…airspeeder dealer?” she said dubiously.

Skywalker pulled his own goggles off. “Yes,” he said, voice low. “Incom T-16 Skyhoppers.”

“Skyhoppers,” she repeated, keeping her own tone down to prevent anyone from overhearing. “Commander, we flew X-wings here. What do we need Skyhoppers for?”

“Training. Our starfighters are just that, starfighters. If we’re going to train, we need to fly sorties, multiple a day. Wedge ran the numbers on the necessary maintenance. The parts upkeep, fuel, and hours we’d need to spend on every X-wing would mean we would’ve needed three transports and a full mechanic team. Wear-and-tear would keep at least half of our fighters on the ground after the first few weeks.”

Mara frowned. “So little airspeeders?” she asked skeptically.

“You haven’t flown one,” Skywalker said dryly. “I practically lived in one when I was old enough to fly. They’re Incom-built with the Incom-standard control layout. I could put you in one right now and you could fly it nearly as well as your X-wing. But they’re airspeeders, not starfighters, so they’re a lot cheaper to keep flying and are built for the sort of abuse atmospheric training is going to put them through. They’re not as fast as a T-65, but they sip fuel, they’re agile, and we can build the muscle memory and reflexes everyone needs to learn.”

“Skyhoppers,” Mara repeated.

“Incom’s entire line is built on transferring skills,” he pointed out. “The old Z-95 Headhunters they built with Subpro, the X-wing, every one of their airspeeder designs built between the Clone Wars and now are designed on the same philosophies. These are perfect for our needs, if we can get enough of them. Cheap to fly, easy to maintain, and trivial to keep fueled.” He was about to add something when an older man, most of his hair gone, came out the front of the shop and raised a hand. Skywalker returned the wave and glanced back at Mara. “I see six Skyhoppers. I want you to go over them while I do the haggling. See what looks good and what doesn’t. We don’t need a Skyhopper we can’t fly.”

Mara nodded and returned to the speeder bike. In one of the saddlebags she was unsurprised to find Skywalker had packed in a toolkit. He and Wedge planned every step of this, she thought, annoyed. Would’ve been nice to actually get briefed on it before I’m appointed airspeeder inspector.

She followed Skywalker toward the apparent proprietor. Let’s see if any of these Skyhoppers are in better shape than the city.

---

Luke wasn’t joking when he said it got hotter in the afternoon. Wedge wiped sweat from his forehead before it could run down into his eyes. Of course, the heat was a little detail he glossed over when we were planning the training.

Even with the comfort unit running at full capacity, the heat seemed to soak through the walls of the temporary shelter. He stepped out of the smallest barracks unit, the one he and Luke were sharing, and stopped dead for a moment. A flimsiplast sign was space taped to his door, written in deliberately blocky letters to try to obscure the author. CAUTION: CONTENTS UNDER PRESSURE AND MAY EXPLODE.

“True,” Wedge muttered.

He blinked for a moment and then shook his head again. “Janson. Naeco.”

“Sir!” they both echoed from nearby.

Wedge stared at the camp. Camo netting had been expertly anchored over each of the X-wings and the Gallofree. And over each of the shelters. And over the generators. And wrapped around the EG-6 power droid they’d brought as a self-portable power generation unit.

He turned, slowly. “You two realize that the netting is designed for concealment from a distance, don’t you?” Wedge asked, bemused. “It doesn’t do much at close range.”

The pile of netting half-buried in the sand between the officer barracks and the next barracks twitched. “He can’t see us,” Wes stage-whispered.

“Kitchen duty. Both of you. And if supper rations are camouflaged, too, I’ll add latrine duty.”

“I thought we weren’t digging a latrine,” Puck said.

“I’ll make an exception.” Wedge walked back into his barracks and closed the door, then shook his head and allowed the amused smirk where no one could see it.

I can’t believe I let you talk me into this, Luke.

---

Mara realized, partway through her evaluation of the first Skyhopper, she’d made a tactical mistake.

Skywalker and the proprietor were standing near the main building. She’d chosen the further Skyhopper to start on, and as a result, she couldn’t overhear the entire conversation. Instead, she was only catching snippets.

“…condolences,” the old man was saying. “When…about…farm, we…”

Mara strained to hear, even as she jotted notes on her datapad about a poorly-repaired control linkage that would absolutely fail when the Rogues started abusing it in training.

“…thank you,” Skywalker said. “…been…time…here.”

“Owen…and Whitesun. Thought you…”

Mara frowned as she closed the panel on the side of the T-16 and considered the implications of what she was hearing. That doesn’t sound like idle banter. That sounds like the shop owner knows Skywalker. She started slotting the pieces together, and then almost kicked herself for not seeing it before. This is his home planet. I bet half the Rogues know and I never asked. I thought this was mostly Wedge’s plan. I bet it was actually Skywalker’s. She shook her head and moved to the second Skyhopper. I hope he knows what he’s doing. At some point he’s going to be on the Empire’s most-wanted list, I’d bet.

Visibility is death, Mara. She shook her head, pushing away the reflexive thought.

It took Mara over two hours to evaluate the airspeeders. The six Skyhoppers were both better and worse than they looked. Every one of them was technically flyable right now, which was a minor miracle; two of them looked like a rancor had used them as clubs, and the other four were battered and scraped by what Mara suspected was airborne grit. All of them needed at least minor maintenance. Three of them she’d deemed mechanically sound with no caveats, a fourth needed its primary power couplings replaced within the next few hours of flight time, the fifth needed control recalibrations, and the sixth had a cracked ion manifold that was two hard banks away from completely disintegrating and a subsequent nose-first crash.

More annoyingly, by the time she got close enough to actually hear their conversation, they were discussing very local topics: the moisture harvest, water taxes, Imperial inspectors, Hutt shakedowns, and Mos Entha gossip.

When she’d finished, she handed her datapad of notes – both detailed and summarized – to Skywalker.

He glanced over the summary, frowned, then looked at the detailed notes, seemingly absorbing most of it in a glance.

“What do you need for all six?” Skywalker asked.

“Forty-five is very fair,” the proprietor said.

Skywalker rolled his eyes. “Forty-five would be fair if they were factory-new. Not one of these is ready to go, Kessik. Twenty.”

The old man snorted. “Just because I offered you sympathy doesn’t mean I’m going to let the Lars boy rob me. Forty.”

“If I paid you forty and then died flying that Skyhopper with the cracked ion manifold, I’m sure you’d offer sympathy, too. Twenty-five.”

“You wound me. It’s a simple job for anyone good with a spanner. Thirty-eight.” Kessik nodded at Mara. “She’s good at it. Better than you?”

“That’s why I brought her. And you know I spent years keeping my own flying. Thirty.”

Mara felt an unexpected flush of pride at the offhand compliment, and crushed it down immediately.

“Thirty-six is the least I can do.”

“At six thousand apiece, we don’t want the worst one,” Mara inserted. “It’s only good for spare parts, and there isn’t more than five hundred credits worth of usable parts we could salvage off it.”

Kessik stared at her. “I thought I was negotiating with him, not you.”

Skywalker laughed. “She’s been watching my back for a while. And my wallet. I’m at thirty for all six.”

The old man grumbled a bit. “You negotiate like Owen did,” he grumbled. “Probably why the only people who liked dealing with him were the Jawas. Fine, thirty.”

“You know you’re not going to get another buyer at that price anytime soon,” Skywalker said cheerfully, extracting a pouch of credit coins from under his tunic. “Most of these have been here at least three seasons.”

“Don’t rub it in.”

With the transaction completed, Mara moved over to stand behind him. “Command…Luke,” she said, the name feeling foreign on her tongue but realizing ranks probably weren’t the best for operational security, “I have a question.”

“What’s that?”

“How are we going to get six Skyhoppers back to camp with just the two of us?”

---

Mara was clearly unimpressed with his explanation, even if she was also grateful for the reprieve from the heat. The sunken cantina was cool and dimly-lit, though there was still enough light to catch a few strands of her red-gold hair that had worked loose from the shawl.

Luke took another sip from his cup. “I mean, we did it before.”

“You flew six Skyhoppers on a ferry-link?” she asked skeptically.

“Not six,” he conceded. “Just Deak’s, because he wasn’t safe to fly his own.”

Mara snorted. “Teenage farmboy antics probably shouldn’t be the basis for any squadron plans.”

“The idea is sound,” Luke countered. “X-wings don’t have ferry-links because they use astromechs. If a ground crew needs an X-wing or Y-wing moved, they use an astromech droid to do it for them. But airspeeders don’t have droids, so Incom builds them with an encrypted ferry-link to allow a central computer to move units around. They get used at big dealerships and in mechanic shops.”

“The two datapads we have between us don’t really translate to a central computer, Skywalker.”

“No. But we can use the ferry-link to broadcast nav data from the lead Skyhopper.” He leaned forward, finishing his water. “Skyhoppers can fit two people. So I fly one, you ride copilot and handle keeping the ferry-link stable on the short-range comm. We transmit nav data as offsets, in a chain, so each Skyhopper gets the same data with offset for its position. Essentially, I’m flying all six from one set of controls.”

“Even if we can get it working, there’s going to be differences in trim and acceleration,” she pointed out. “I’ve been through all six of the Skyhoppers. Some of those engines are much better tuned than others.”

“Which is why I need you making the adjustments we’ll need on the fly to keep the Skyhoppers together. And this way we get all six of the T-16s back in one attempt. If we make multiple runs to Mos Entha, we’re more likely to draw attention.”

Mara pursed her lips. “You really think we can do this?”

“Five, sure,” Luke said off-handedly. “That sixth Skyhopper might get exciting.”

---

It took them most of the afternoon to rig the ferry-links. Luke ended up paying Kessik an extra five hundred credits to replace missing components for the ferry-link system on two of the Skyhoppers, and Mara threatened to take the speeder bike back to the Rogues’ hidden training camp (though Luke was fairly certain she wouldn’t be able to find it in the Jundland Wastes), but with less than an hour left before the twin suns would set, they were ready to test.

“Links green,” Mara said, studying her datapad and the comm panel in turn. “Wait, I’ve got jitter on four. It’s smoothing. Now we’re stable.” She glanced over at Skywalker, shoulder-to-shoulder with her in the cramped cockpit. “Go ahead.”

Skywalker held the starter button in.

The Skyhopper’s ion engine thrummed to life. Mara returned her eyes to her datapad, watching as the rest of the Skyhoppers reported back, in sequence, successful engine ignition. “Five successful starts,” she said. “Ready for stage two.”

Wordlessly, Skywalker cut in the repulsorlifts. The Skyhopper rose a meter, two meters off the ground. She turned in the cockpit, looking out to see the nearest linked airspeeder follow suit. Then she returned her attention to her datapad and frowned. “Jitter on four again,” she said. “There it is. Comm seems a bit flaky on it.”

“Kessik doesn’t have any more parts,” Skywalker said offhandedly. “We’ll have to make do.”

“You’re sure he wasn’t shorting you?” Mara asked skeptically.

“He likes credits.” He eased power to the thruster and a bit more to the repulsorlifts, the Skyhopper slowly gliding forward and gaining an extra meter of altitude. One by one, each of the Skyhoppers followed in turn. “This looks good.”

“Now we just have to fly across hundreds of kilometers of desert at a reasonable speed without turning any of these airspeeders into a crater,” she said dryly.

Skywalker was already shaking his head. “Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

He nodded. “It’s too close to dark.”

“Don’t tell me the farmboy hero of the Rebellion is scared of the dark.”

Skywalker snorted at that. “Too dangerous to fly at night over the desert. The Sandpeople don’t need an excuse to shoot at us in the dark. It’s better to wait until morning.” He began descending again, the chain of Skyhoppers following behind him. “When I went back to Kessik for parts for the ferry-link, I asked him about a room for the night. He gave me the access code for his garage.”

Mara realized, belatedly, that Skywalker’s descent was taking them neatly into an enclosed lot with a small building – presumably the aforementioned garage. “Wonderful,” she muttered. “Well, it won’t be the worst place I’ve ever slept.”

Skywalker glanced over at her and apparently decided not to ask.

The Ghost had barely settled on its landing struts in the Independence‘s main hangar bay before Hera Syndulla was up and moving.

“Mind the ship, Chop,” she called, a secured pouch of datacards in-hand as she headed down the boarding ramp. She ignored the old astromech’s grumpy burble as she reached the deck, a young dark-haired human in a ship uniform waiting for her, holding a salute.

She returned the salute. “Courier delivery,” she said. “And I need to meet with General Rieekan.”

“General Syndulla,” the young man stammered, “we weren’t expecting you to be the data courier.”

Hera offered the ensign a toothy smile with little mirth. “I believe you.” She nodded vaguely toward the interior of the Independence. “General Rieekan, please.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the ensign said, spinning on heel and leading the way.

The Twi’lek general took a moment to look over the hangar bay as she walked, searching for any trace of Rogue Squadron. She’d had plenty of details from the complaints the air wing commander, Colonel S’man, had filed with anyone who’d accept them, but in the hustle and noise, she didn’t see any red-striped X-wings. Nor did she see any sign of Wedge or Hobbie or Mara. Dozens of other fighters were scattered across the hangar, mostly A-wings and X-wings, some under maintenance and others clearly primed to fly. She frowned as she continued to follow her guide. Didn’t one of the complaints say they’d taken up residence in an auxiliary hangar? They’re probably not here.

“Ensign,” she said as they reached a corridor snaking away from the main bay, “where is Rogue Squadron berthed?”

He hesitated, just a brief breath. “That’s classified.”

“I’m a general of the Rebellion,” Hera said dryly. “I don’t think that’s above my paygrade.”

“Ma’am, General Rieekan’s orders are to direct all queries about Rogue Squadron to his office.”

“Good thing you’re already taking me there, then.” Hera continued to follow, though a pit was settling in her stomach. Long-range comms were up and the Independence was ambushed. They broke comm chatter. I still haven’t seen a report about what happened. Did they take losses?

The walk to Rieekan’s office took several minutes, the ensign threading through crowded corridors, up a turbolift, and then another brief walk. “Ma’am,” he said, stopping outside a door that looked no different than any other they’d passed, “General Rieekan’s office.” He saluted again.

Hera returned the salute, watching as the man spun on heel and beat a hasty retreat. She shook her head and tapped the door control for access.

The outer office was a large space crowded with three desks, a pair of R3 astromechs, and a number of analysts. Rieekan himself was present as well, and he looked up with clearly-feigned surprise. “General Syndulla. I’m surprised you brought the courier packet yourself. Aren’t you commanding the Liberty task force?”

She restrained the urge to roll her eyes. “Can we speak privately?” She hefted the courier packet.

Rieekan nodded and headed back through the outer office to his private one. Hera followed, waiting until the door had closed behind her, then plopped the packet down on the other general’s desk. “Latest communiques and messages from the Liberty,” she said, “and I’ll take the Independence‘s packet with me.” She sat down in one of the chairs at Rieekan’s desk. “So, where is Rogue Squadron?”

“Classified,” Rieekan said, picking up the pouch and unsealing it while seating himself.

“Carlist, you know one of my people is in that unit,” she started.

Rieekan held up a hand. “Let’s talk first about the attack on the Independence task force. That seems more relevant right now than your personal connections.”

Hera pressed her lips into a firm line. “Fine,” she bit out.

“Six days ago, the Independence and her support ships were ambushed by an Imperial task force. The attack was carefully targeted. The Imperial group came out of hyperspace directly on the Independence‘s vector, forcing us to re-vector and calculate a new jump.”

“They knew exactly where you were,” Hera observed.

“Yes. Right now, we’re assuming long-range communications continue to be compromised. Hence, courier packets.” Rieekan shook his head. “Shouldn’t you be on the Liberty? You’re hardly the only person in the Alliance who could run a packet to the Independence. You’re a flag officer.”

“The Liberty is currently at Mako-Ta for repair and refit,” Hera said. “Captain Yamarus was tired of me being underfoot while he was overseeing the work. And the Ghost is far less likely to be spotted by an unfortunate Imperial patrol group than any regular courier in the Alliance.” She nodded at the packet. “I do have datacards from Mako-Ta there as well.” She locked eyes with Rieekan. “How did the Independence escape?”

“Colonel S’man’s air wing did excellent work,” Rieekan said, “and Rogue Squadron was already in space on a training mission when the ambush hit.”

“Losses?” Hera asked, trying to keep her expression controlled.

“The air wing took losses to all its units, including the squadrons off our light carrier,” Rieekan said. “Rogue Squadron suffered no pilot losses.” He leaned forward in his chair, his voice dropping in tone and losing some edge. “General Syndulla. Hera. I know how protective you are of your people. But Flight Officer Jade is part of a squadron here. You can’t drop everything to come check on her. You’re a flag officer, and your responsibilities must be greater than the handful of survivors from your Spectre cell.”

“She’s one of mine, Carlist,” Hera said wearily. “I want to see her.”

“You can’t.” He leaned back in his chair, face closing up. “She’s not here.”

“Where is she?”

“Classified.” He shook his head. “Rogue Squadron has been trying to build itself since the evacuation of Yavin IV weeks ago. At Commander Skywalker’s request, Rogue Squadron has been temporarily assigned a training mission, long-term duration, location classified. They’re off the grid until they come back.” He chewed on his lip. “Frankly, they need the time. Antilles proposed some interesting new fighter doctrine that looks promising, but if they’re here on the Independence, they won’t have time to train it.”

“Then tell me where they are,” Hera said, realizing suddenly she had a white-knuckle grip on the chair. “I can get in and out without raising any attention.”

Rieekan shook his head. “Rogue Squadron is incommunicado. Off the grid means just that. Unless there’s an emergency, I won’t send anyone to their location.” He raised an eyebrow. “Is there something beyond normal concern here?”

Hera grimaced. She didn’t reply to my message. She swallowed. And that’s not urgent enough. “No,” she said at last.

“Feel free to use the Independence‘s facilities,” Rieekan said after studying her a moment. “The ground crew will have the Ghost refueled shortly, though it may take a few hours before our return courier packet is ready. I’m assuming you’re going back to Mako-Ta?”

Hera nodded, swallowing ash. All for nothing. She’s not here. “Yes.”

“We’ll have you back in space soon,” Rieekan said. “Sorry I can’t help you with your personal interest this time.” He offered her a reassuring smile that didn’t help at all. “She’s a good pilot, Hera. And she’s flying with some of our best. She’ll be okay.”

---

“Thanks, Artoo,” Luke said. “Two minutes to reversion, Rogues. We’re not expecting trouble, but let’s be ready.” He clicked his comm off, staring at the swirl of hyperspace outside the canopy of his X-wing.

Eleven pilots under his command, in tight formation, with a bulky droid-piloted GR-75 transport behind them carrying everything they needed for months of training. He shook his head at the absurdity of it all. Not six months ago I was a farm kid on Tatooine with a busted-up Skyhopper. Now I’m leading a fighter squadron for the Rebellion. He swallowed hard. And coming back to Tatooine.

He ran through the roster in his head as seconds ticked down.

Wedge Antilles, my best friend in the squadron, my executive officer. Corellian. Orphaned. He’s got the knack for organization I’m still learning. He’d probably make a better Rogue Leader than me.

Luke pushed down the feeling of inadequacy.

The new pilots I’ve barely met. Samoc Farr, Chandrilan. Kit Valent, Huulian. They both show promise, if we can train them and keep them alive long enough.

He shook his head. Don’t assume they’re going to die. Don’t assume any of your pilots are going to die. We’re going to build a better squadron. He chose to ignore the memory that poked at the back of his brain: Biggs, dying in the trench. 

The pilots that joined after Yavin. Karie Neth, from Baraan-Fa. Rookie, timid in the cockpit, but good in the simulator. Zev Senesca, veteran from Kestic. Wes Janson, Tanaab joker. Tycho Celchu, Alderaanian defector who’s still mourning his world. Cesi Eirriss, Twi’lek university scholar-turned-fighter pilot who’s as serious as Janson is jolly.

And the pilots we started this with. Puck Naeco, the Denon pilot who was a double-ace before he even started with us, but he’s a prankster who isn’t nearly as aggressive in a dogfight as I expected him to be. Hobbie, Ralltiir, who defected with Wedge and would tell me he isn’t cynical, just realistic about the state of the galaxy. And Mara Jade.

The last name brought a whole lot more concerns and worries than he had time to address. Mara Jade, homeworld unknown, with the same sort of potential I have, but she is terrified of it. Or terrified of something else. And if I pry, she’ll leave.

He forced out a breath as the timer ticked down the last few seconds. So I don’t pry. I have a squadron to lead and it’s not like I know what I’m doing with the Force anyway. He smiled, an expression cynical enough to be worn by Hobbie. Trust your feelings, Ben? Stretch out? I need more than that if I’m ever going to be a Jedi like my father.

The timer chimed, and the swirl of hyperspace resolved into star lines, then snapped into individual pinpoint stars. Ahead, out his cockpit, a familiar sight awaited: the binary stars of the Tatoo system. Out to port, not far away, the desert world of Tatooine. “Artoo?”

His combat display cycled through the Rogues. “Welcome to our home for the next three months, Rogues,” Luke said over the comm. “If anyone has any problems after the jump, now’s the time to speak up.”

“I should have packed a towel and sunblock,” Puck Naeco answered immediately. “The air wing is going to be jealous of our tans.”

“Naeco, if you have time to tan, I need to adjust our training schedule,” Wedge said dryly.

“Good thing some of us don’t need any help to be good-looking,” Janson chimed in.

“If your ego could power your shields, you wouldn’t need evasive maneuvers,” Cesi snarked. “Honestly, this doesn’t look too bad. At least compared to Ryloth.”

“What’s our destination, boss?” Wedge asked, tone professional.

“I’m working on that,” Luke said, working his primary display through planetary navigation and atmospheric sensors. “Don’t want to bring us down through a sandstorm. The X-wings are going to complain about contamination even without us deliberately choking the intakes with flying grit.”

“Are we going to see the local sites?” Karie asked, her tone both cheerful and naive.

“There’s nothing to see,” Luke said dryly, checking his rear scopes when the Gallofree transport finally reverted from hyperspace behind the loose spread of X-wings. “Artoo, check the navlink with the transport.” The blue-and-white astromech whistled a confirmation of the navigation link coming online. “Camp location locked in. Follow me down, Rogues. Let’s go set up camp.” He banked to port and started his descent into Tatooine’s atmosphere, flames beginning to lick over the nose of his fighter. Behind him, the X-wings of Rogue Squadron fanned out with the Gallofree in their wake.

---

Wedge kept watch on his long-range sensors as they dropped into atmosphere, watching for any indication of someone taking an unfortunate interest in the Rogues’ descent. He and Luke had been over the details several times: a small Imperial presence in Bestine, the local Imperial capital, with most of the real danger coming from criminal cartels. Jabba the Hutt maintained a stronghold here and spent time on the desert planet. While the Rebellion was not at war with the Hutts, neither were they allies. Some of the cities on Tatooine maintained a small security force to protect and police their own settlements, but none of them were likely to take interest in some distant contacts setting down in the desert.

Nothing but the IFF transponders of distant freighter traffic, and the occasional mercenary gunship or fighter, greeted him.

No wonder Luke wanted to get off this planet so bad. There’s almost nothing here. 

And their destination wasn’t exactly going to put them in contact with the locals, either. The flames from atmosphere re-entry had faded away as they’d slowed, but Wedge swore he could still feel heat bleed-through. Is this planet so blasted hot that I’m actually feeling it? Or is it my imagination?

He’d know either way as soon as they set down and popped the canopy. He suspected he wasn’t going to like the answer.

Wedge glanced at his planetary map on a secondary display. His astromech had helpfully painted settlement markers on it, and Luke’s destination was clearly far from any of them. “No man’s land,” he muttered. “That’s what Luke said our destination is called. Or what the locals call it. The Jundland Wastes?”

His astromech whistled a confirmation. Wedge ignored it, glancing at the displays again as his sensor returns started to become confused. Magnetic ore deposits, he recalled. Luke said sensors aren’t reliable here. Even if someone’s looking for us, they’re going to have a hard time finding us.

Stone outcroppings rose like fingers as the X-wings and Gallofree descended, following Luke’s fighter on point. “Almost there, Rogues,” Luke said.

“Then the fun begins!” Wes said.

“The work begins,” Wedge corrected. “I have assignments as soon as we’re down.”

A chorus of groans hit the comm, and Wedge smiled.

Their destination finally came into view, several hundred meters of hardpack in the mouth of a canyon. There was little loose sand; craggy stone formations obliterated lines of sight and interfered with sensors. Luke set his X-wing down close against the canyon wall, the rest of the Rogues following suit. Wedge landed last, waiting until the Gallofree had settled into place before finally bringing his fighter down on repulsorlifts and kissing the hardpack with his skids.

He popped the canopy and immediately regretted the three months of decisions that had led him to this point in his life. “That’s blasted hot,” he grumbled out loud, doffing his helmet and preparing to slide down the side of the X-wing’s fuselage. “Arfive, run the post-flight checklist. I’ll be back to confirm everything with you later.”

Luke was already heading toward the Gallofree, seemingly unaffected by the heat. The rest of the Rogues were still shutting down and disembarking. He made it to the Gallofree’s ramp where Luke was waiting, then waited in turn for the rest of the pilots to arrive, in ones and twos.

“Alright, Rogues, listen up!” Luke said, raising his voice to ensure he was heard. “We’re here local morning, and this is the cool part of the day.”

“This is cool?” Hobbie asked.

“Yes. It gets worse.” He smiled. “Wedge has duty assignments. But before he hands those out, I’m establishing rule number one for training camp: no one goes anywhere alone. I don’t care what you’re doing. Training flights are a minimum of a pair. All maintenance tasks will be a minimum of two people. If you’re going to the refresher, you don’t need someone in with you, but they’d better be outside the door.”

“That seems excessive, Commander,” Samoc Farr commented skeptically, sweat already visible on her forehead.

“It’s only excessive until something goes wrong. We don’t want to run across any of the local groups if we don’t have to,” Luke said calmly. “Pairs for everything. If you’re not sure, the answer is yes, you should have someone with you.” He turned. “Wedge?”

Wedge cleared his throat, pulling a datapad from his pocket. “We need to establish camp,” he said. “Duty assignments.” He glanced around. “Hobbie. Celchu. Post-flight on all the X-wings. Make sure they’re locked down tight when you’re done. The sand is going to be an issue no matter what we do, but we’re not going to make it worse. Make sure fuel is topped off on all the fighters, too.”

He received a pair of nods and continued on.

“Janson. Naeco. There’s camouflage netting on the transport. We want netting over the X-wings and the transport. We ended up with a giant bolt of the stuff. You’ll need to cut it to fit. And make sure you anchor the netting down hard, so the wind can’t whip it off. We don’t want to be visible from the air.” He glanced between the two of them. “And if I catch one of you doing anything else with the netting, you’ll be peeling tubers the entirety of the time we’re here on Tatooine.”

“We will be anyway,” Puck said.

“Probably.” He checked the next entry. “Senesca. Farr. Valent. Neth. You’re setting up shelters.” He jerked a thumb at the transport. “The Alliance provided us temporary units. They take at least two people to handle. There are six in all. Three of them are barracks units. The smallest one is for Luke and me. The other two are for the rest of you. Janson, if you try to move in with the women, I’ll look the other way when Jade shoots you.”

Mara offered a predator’s grin.

“The rest of the units are for logistics. One for briefing room, one for a kitchen and mess, and one for a refresher. We’re downright civilized. I thought we’d have to dig a latrine.” He looked around until he spotted Cesi, the only pilot aside from Luke who looked completely unperturbed about the sweltering heat. “Eirriss, you’re with me. We’ll be getting generators online so we can have some cool air.” He shoved his datapad in his pocket. “That’s all. The sooner we get our jobs done, the sooner we’re out of the heat.” He clapped his hands. “Let’s move, people.”

The crowd of pilots dispersed toward their tasks. Mara walked up to him, confusion evident. “You didn’t give me a job.”

Wedge jerked a thumb toward the Gallofree; Luke had already vanished into the transport. “You’re with Skywalker.”

“Sir?”

“Supply run to one of the local cities.” Wedge pursed his lips. “You’ll need to change first. Local clothes, not Rebel flight suits. Pretty sure Luke took care of that.” He nodded at the transport. “Go talk to him about it. That part is his plan, not mine.”

The Independence was still on alert status, even safely ensconced in hyperspace, but Mara found it was still better than the security lockdown the Rogues had suffered after Sarkli’s betrayal.

Puck had announced, with theatrical disappointment, that none of the lounges on the Independence were available for a drink even after the appropriate paperwork had been filed, medical check-ins completed, and maintenance scheduled for all the X-wings. Even the mess hall in pilot country was closed, offering only burnt caf and some shelf-stable rations, and Mara was not in the mood for a potential run-in with either the air wing’s pilots or Hal. Wes and Puck had decided to make bang-corn and were implying alcohol would materialize later. I’d rather not risk my flight status and eyesight on whatever those two have been distilling. At least not the first batch, anyway. Skywalker and Wedge had holed up in the briefing room, presumably doing command-level paperwork of the sort that never seemed to end.

Looking for solitude, Mara instead made her way through the Aux Two hangar to one of the adjoining storage bays opposite the Rogues’ quarters. Weeks ago, it’d been half-filled with cold storage crates of nearly-forgotten supplies. Puck had floated an idea the first day they’d arrived on the Independence for the space, but it wasn’t until the lockdown that several of the Rogues – Hobbie, Cesi, and Mara – actually had the free time to work on it. Crates had been moved into another storage room and equipment had been improvised until the Rogues had a small but functional weight room.

She eyeballed the newest set of improvised weights. I don’t have a spotter, she told herself reluctantly, and I don’t trust Wes Janson’s welding. Instead, she walked over to the wall where a handful of empty duffels hung from crudely-fashioned hooks that suspiciously resembled restraint rings from an X-wing’s belly cargo compartment. She picked one of the duffels, took it over to a corner locker filled with odds and ends, some of them tools, other parts that Mara couldn’t identify. She filled the duffel partway, tested the weight, threw in another half-kilo of hydrospanners, and zipped it shut.

Mara hoisted it up on her shoulder, winced, adjusted, and began to walk, pacing along the bulkhead, circumnavigating the room at a brisk walk.

That was stupid, she told herself. You should have found another way.

There wasn’t another way.

There’s always another way.

Visibility is death, Mara.

Her own justification returned. Visibility is death later, that was death right then. It was reach or die.

Yes, visibility is death later. But when does later arrive? She had no answer for that, which was more than a bit irritating given that she was interrogating herself. You can always run. Send Hera the message. I’d be on the Liberty in a week or two. Back into concealment. I’m a nobody, a flight officer. I can be scrubbed off a squadron roster and vanish. Hide.

But then I’d be leaving Rogue Squadron behind.

She frowned at herself. So why does that matter? Visibility is death. Rogue Squadron is becoming visible. Too visible. I can’t stay.

Can’t I?

That thought niggled at her. Why don’t I want to leave?

She adjusted the duffel, shifting it to the other shoulder, continuing her steady pace. Unbidden, a memory from several years prior.

The Ghost is not my home, she’d told Hera flatly. I don’t belong here. I’m not Ezra. I’m not going to train and be your pet Jedi. That’s a good way to die. And later, when Kanan tried to talk to her. You took me in out of pity. I’m not like you. Becoming a Jedi is a great way to die. And when he’d asked her what she wanted, then. I don’t want your lightsaber, but I’d take your blaster. It’s not like you’re going to be using it. And she remembered her own shock when he’d silently given the DL-18 to her. Now, years later, she regretted the casual cruelty of her comment.

She nearly stumbled in surprise when the door hissed open abruptly. Mara paused, mid-stride, to see who had interrupted her reverie.

“Mara,” Commander Skywalker said, “can we talk?”

---

Okay, Luke, don’t screw this up, he told himself. 

Mara dropped the duffel she’d been carrying off her shoulder to the floor of the Rogues’ makeshift gym; it clunked with substantial weight. “Commander,” she said guardedly.

Luke moved into the gym and sat down on one of the two benches. “Sorry to interrupt your workout,” he said apologetically, “but I wanted to address a few things.” He winced internally at the phrasing.

Mara’s face became even more unreadable, somehow. “Yes?”

“The engagement today,” Luke said, forcing himself to pace the words. “First, I wanted to tell you that you did well. You and Tycho flew great together. Wedge and I were reviewing the flight data from the battle for everyone, and you two did the best with the new flight doctrine.”

That earned him a wry smile. “We had all of a couple hours learning it and a comm channel where we could hear maybe every fourth word we were saying. It was ideal testing conditions.”

“Exactly,” Luke agreed dryly, “so the real test will be an engagement that’s not so well-planned and trained for.” He sobered. “I also owe you an apology.”

That statement clearly wrong-footed her. “An apology?”

Luke grimaced. “I made a bad call after Tycho took that hit. I ordered him back to the hangar and I ordered you to hold position. Alone.” He shook his head. “I’m learning the new squadron formation, too, and in the heat of battle I guess I was still thinking in three-ship elements. In a three-ship, Tycho getting hit and being ordered to withdraw would mean…”

“…that I was still flying with someone, not alone.”

Luke nodded. “I didn’t immediately register it as Mara is flying unsupported. Not until the TIEs had you isolated.”

Mara’s face closed up again. “You and Wedge got me out,” she said. “Though if you’ll record this as It’s Commander Skywalker’s fault, so I can point the mechanics to you when they’re rebuilding that s-foil tomorrow, I’d appreciate it.”

Luke offered a small smile. “That’s what a squadron leader does, right? Takes care of the squadron. That includes the threat of a hostile maintenance crew.” The smile faded again. “There’s something else, too.”

She was completely inscrutable now.

Luke braced himself. “Mara, Wedge and I just spent a couple hours looking over the telemetry from the ambush. And when you were isolated, when Wedge and I were trying to get to you, you should have died.”

“I didn’t,” she said flatly.

“No, you didn’t. But there was a critical moment, when you were pinned with your shields collapsed. And then you broke toward a gap in the TIEs coming toward you that didn’t exist yet.” He tried to read something, anything from her hard green eyes. “Like you knew it was going to be there, before it appeared.” He swallowed. “For a few seconds, you started flying like I do.”

Mara didn’t speak.

“Are you a Jedi?” he finally asked.

She didn’t answer his question, and her posture was statue-still. “Who knows?”

“Me. And Wedge. He saw it first, before I did, or I wouldn’t have even known what I was looking at. He showed me how I’d done something similar at Ralltiir, acting with certainty a few seconds before it actually happened.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t stay.” Mara said suddenly, her voice cold. “I’m putting in for transfer to the Liberty.”

Luke rocked back. “Is that what you want?” he asked.

“No. But I’m not going to stay here and be your good little student and…”

“Student?” Luke blurted. “Mara, I barely know anything. I’m not trying to teach you.” The words fell out of his mouth faster than he could think to stop them. “I don’t want you to leave. I want you to stay here with Rogue Squadron. You’ve already flown with me into hell on Ralltiir, followed me into the Great Temple on Yavin, painted the X-wings. I’m trying to understand you.” He grimaced. “When we saw the telemetry, Wedge figured that was why Hera was so protective of you. And I realized that General Rieekan’s security inventory had been accurate. You have a lightsaber. He and I both thought it was an error.”

Mara was stock-still again, and her green eyes were fixed on Luke as if evaluating him. “I’m not a Jedi,” she finally said.

Luke nodded. “Neither am I.” He hesitated. “If you want to transfer to the Liberty, I won’t try to stop you. But I’d rather you stayed with the squadron.”

She’s calculating something, but I don’t have any idea what it is, Luke thought as he met her hard gaze again.

“Promise me.” Her tone was unyielding durasteel now.

“Promise you what?” Luke hesitated.

“Promise me that you won’t push this on me. Nothing about the Force. Nothing about the Jedi. Nothing about lightsabers. Visibility is death, Skywalker. The Empire hunts people like me. Like you. Promise me you won’t push me.”

And for the first time, Luke recognized what was in her eyes. It wasn’t cold determination or indignant anger; it was fear, fear that burrowed all the way to the core of her being.

“I promise,” Luke said. “You stay as a Rogue. As a pilot.”

“No reports to Rieekan,” she warned.

Luke shook his head. “Wedge won’t be happy, but it goes no further than us. You have my word.”

Mara studied him for long moments, her eyes flicking over his face.

“Then I’ll stay,” she said finally, her voice very quiet and very uncertain. “When…if I decide I want to talk about it, I’ll come to you. Not before.”

---

Wedge’s dissatisfaction only grew as he sat in the security briefing with Colonel S’man, Captain Verrack, General Rieekan, and a handful of other on-board officers.

It’s just a comedy of errors around here, he thought ruefully. Except we’re not laughing. We’re paying in blood.

“The new long-range communications protocol clearly wasn’t secure,” Rieekan commented.

“Unless there’s another infiltrator on the Independence,” S’man commented, throwing a pointed look at Wedge. “The long-range comms coming online would have given a spy the window he or she would need to call in the location of the Independence and bring an Imperial task force down on our heads.”

The Mon Calamari officer, Verrack, was already shaking his bulbous head. “No. We checked all outgoing messages. All queued messages were held, and only a handful of senior staff even knew we were reestablishing the long-range comm network with the other task forces. There was no transmitted traffic that wasn’t fully vetted and encrypted. The Empire detected us when we brought the system up. Likely they did a long-range sweep with a small patrol ship or probe droid to confirm our location so they could put a task force directly on our heading.”

Rieekan’s gaze shifted to Wedge. “Where’s Commander Skywalker?”

“Meeting our last new pilots,” Wedge said. “I do have notes on behalf of our squadron.” He flicked the appropriate file open on his datapad. “The first is about training protocols. Respectfully, General, given our long-range comm problems, Rogue Squadron shouldn’t have been training in open space without torpedoes or long-range hypernav capability given the danger. If we’d have known you were risking long-range comm, we’d have insisted on it.”

S’man snorted. “Skywalker’s vanity squadron doesn’t get classified information briefings because of one unexpected ambush, Captain.”

“You should be grateful, Colonel,” Wedge retorted, “because that vanity squadron kept the Empire off the Independence long enough for you to get your squadrons into space. And we did it without proper combat loads.”

The air wing commander was clearly feeling antagonistic. “Barely. If you’d have been flying the standard starfighter doctrine of the last twenty-five years, you wouldn’t need special training in the first place. As it is, your understrength flight elements were struggling to hold their part of the screen.”

Wedge contemplated hurling his empty caf mug at the colonel. “The Rogues more than carried their weight in the fight,” he said, acid slipping into his voice in spite of his best efforts, “and we brought all our pilots back in spite of new tactics and no torpedoes.”

Rieekan intervened before S’man could retort. “This meeting isn’t about Rogue Squadron,” he said sternly, “nor is it about the air wing. This meeting is to ensure we don’t have a repeat of this ambush.” He met eyes with Colonel S’man. “First, I’d like to say that your standing procedures for keeping all starfighters armed and ready to fly kept the Independence and her support ships alive. In spite of the losses suffered by the squadrons both here and off the Battle Dog, thousands of Rebels are alive because of those efforts.” Then he looked at Wedge. “I would be remiss if I also didn’t credit Rogue Squadron for buying the air wing time to launch. The Imperial ambush was precisely sprung, and without the Rogues already in space on a training exercise, there’s a good chance that most of the air wing would’ve been destroyed in the hangar when TIE bombers breached the standing fighter screen.” He looked back to S’man. “Moving forward, if we’re going to undertake a secure operation that may endanger the task force – like bringing long-range communications online again – we’ll make sure the air wing is on full alert status and ready.”

S’man looked mildly placated, though still unhappy with Wedge.

“In the meantime, Rogue Squadron will run any training missions with full combat capability,” Rieekan continued. “Colonel S’man, Rogue Squadron is attached directly to High Command and answers to me. I understand you are unhappy with the way Commander Skywalker has chosen to run his unit. You are allowed your opinion, but until you are part of High Command yourself, your opinion will remain yours.”

Wedge tried his best to hide a satisfied smirk, and wasn’t sure he succeeded.

“Given the losses the air wing suffered during the ambush,” S’man spoke up, “We’ll be requesting the support of Skywalker’s unit to fill gaps to maintain our operations tempo.”

Rieekan raised an eyebrow and glanced at Wedge. “We’re beginning a training cycle,” Wedge said flatly. “We’re not available for anything less than critical operations.”

“You don’t get to decide what’s critical, Antilles,” S’man said.

Rieekan raised a hand again. “Submit requests to me and I’ll consider them on a per-operation basis,” he said. “If there’s nothing else, you’re dismissed.”

Wedge rose, gathering his datapad and empty mug. Rieekan is covering for us, yes, but for how long? How long until someone else on High Command steps in and puts us under S’man’s thumb? Will we even be able to complete a training cycle?

---

Luke sat in his quarters, late that night, Wedge’s concerns running through his brain. Luke, Rieekan wants the Rogues to succeed, but the air wing is short pilots and fighters. He has to balance what we need against what we can do, and right now, there are gaping holes the Rogues could fill. And the moment we start doing that, we give up any chance of training on the new doctrine.

He rubbed his eyes. New pilots are settled in their quarters. Both of them have finished basic combat training, but neither one is a veteran. And they definitely haven’t trained on two-ship elements.

And then his concerns about Mara, the deep-seated fear he’d seen in her eyes. Promise me.

He didn’t regret the promise. He still believed, bedrock-certain, that she belonged with Rogue Squadron.

Training. We need time to train. Not the Force, he reminded himself, though that was certainly on his mind, but pilot training. Wing pairs.

And to train, we need time and space.

He powered up his datapad, found the appropriate file he could access at his rank, and looked over the list of training facilities. There’s not enough, he told himself. Some of these bases have already been evacuated. Everything else is already running at full capacity without dropping a dozen more pilots and fighters in to do advanced training on a new doctrine. What we need is a new headquarters.

Luke snorted at that thought. Yes, I’m sure I can just trust my feelings and pick a star in the galaxy and we’ll set up shop there. He frowned as he reconsidered. Maybe that’s something a Jedi could actually do. But I’m not a Jedi.

He spent some time, then, looking through star system listings idly. The Empire’s reach was expansive but not all-encompassing, but ultimately, a fundamental problem remained: I don’t know enough about these systems and planets. And I don’t know if anyone in the Alliance does. The worlds the Rogues are from are all Imperial-occupied or monitored: Corellia, Chandrila, Tanaab, Ralltiir, Ryloth, Huulia, Bestine, Denon.

The conclusion was inevitable.

He sat down at the little prefab desk in his quarters, smaller than the one in his makeshift office, and opened a fresh new message to General Rieekan and began to write.

General Rieekan,

As previously reported, Rogue Squadron is experimenting in new fighter tactics based on a two-ship element. During the recent engagement with Imperial forces around the cruiser Independence, the new tactics showed promise, but Rogue Squadron needs time and training to work out technical and logistical issues and drill new habits into our pilots.

I propose a three-month training period to forge Rogue Squadron into the weapon the Rebellion needs.

Due to ongoing shortages of manpower and supplies, as well as security concerns after the Ralltiir incident, I also propose Rogue Squadron departs the Independence for the duration of the training window.

Necessary supplies for the training period will be sent in a separate message. In short, Rogue Squadron will need our X-wings, pilots, astromech droids, fuel, munitions, and sufficient spare parts for our training window. I request a single GR-75 medium transport for logistical use; a droid crew will suffice. We also will need temporary shelters, camouflaged netting, rations, and other personnel requirements. Additionally, any other supplies as you see fit to approve would be considered.

I propose to set up a small, temporary training base on Tatooine for the squadron’s training window.

Tatooine is remote and, while it has a small Imperial presence, is largely controlled by the Hutt syndicates. No major military or militia forces operate out of Tatooine. The squadron will maintain a low profile, and the chance of encounters with either Imperial or Hutt forces are very low for the duration of the training window.

Additionally, my personal experience with the planet will allow me to interpret any indications of Imperial interest or security compromise. The Empire will not be looking for us there, but if they do come, I will see the signs and allow us to evacuate.

I do not make this proposal lightly. I make this proposal because I believe it is necessary to build the squadron the Alliance needs.

-Commander Skywalker

Luke reread his proposal, tweaked it, and considered sending it to Wedge for review.

No. Time is short. Act. He submitted the proposal to Rieekan, turned off his light, and crawled into his bunk.

Thinking about the Force. Thinking about Rogue Squadron. Thinking about the fear in Mara Jade’s eyes.

Sleep did not come quickly.

Wedge was waiting in the Rogues’ briefing room when Luke finally walked through the door. The XO glanced over, then looked again. “What is that?”

Luke’s grin was sheepish. “Wes’s idea. He insisted, actually.” He handed one of the two bowls to Wedge.

“Of course. Wes would treat it like it’s a feature holofilm, not gun camera footage.” Wedge snorted. “Popped grains.”

“Bang-corn,” Luke corrected.

“You’re such an Outer Rim farmer.”

“Don’t forget fighter pilot.” Luke flicked one of the kernels in his mouth. “Wes had been making a whole batch of it. I don’t know what he was going to do with the rest of it.”

Wedge shuddered. “One of the many unwritten rules of command: don’t ask a question you don’t want the answer to.”

“I figured that one out already,” Luke said dryly. “Well, I’m prepared for the entertainment.”

“I’m sure you are.” Wedge started loading up the combined telemetry data he’d spent the last several hours compiling from the X-wings, his astromech, and the Independence‘s sensor telemetry from the engagement. “How are the Rogues?”

“Wes and Puck were making the bang-corn and seemed completely unperturbed by what happened today. Karie is shook up; Hobbie said she did well, but she’s never been in an engagement even close to that big before. Tycho is about as emotional as an ingot of durasteel. Zev and Cesi found a bottle of something strong and were trading shots, but neither of them seemed overly out of sorts.”

Wedge waited.

“Mara didn’t want to talk,” Luke said at last. “Med droids cleared her. I’d say she’s really rattled, but she didn’t give me anything to go on.”

“About what I would’ve expected,” Wedge said. “Though we’ll need to keep an eye on Neth and Jade both. Neth is so green, and Jade came way too close to being vaped. It may take a day or two before it really comes out.”

“Well, I’d guess we won’t have any missions for a few days after that ambush,” Luke said thoughtfully. “Not until the Independence has moved far, far away from where we got jumped.”

Wedge grunted his assent and queued up the telemetry. “Got your datapad?”

“Yes.” Luke fumbled his bowl of bang-corn, finally managing to set it down without spilling kernels and producing a small datapad from his pocket. “Let’s get started.”

Wedge zoomed in the footage, marking Hobbie and Neth’s X-wings, the playback highlighting them in green to keep them easy to track. “Okay, we’ll start here. You intentionally deployed them to cover the Independence opposite of the Imperial task force.”

“Right. Hobbie’s solid, but Karie is green, so I put them in the zone I expected to see the least action.”

“I’m not asking you to justify it,” Wedge said dryly. “Especially since I agree with it. Let’s see how they did.”

The entire engagement had been perhaps six minutes long from the moment the Star Destroyer reverted from hyperspace until the Independence withdrew. It took them twenty minutes of watching holograms, moving the recording forward and back, the overwhelming radio chatter a steady background noise as they discussed the pair’s tactics, maneuvers, and aggression. As Luke had expected, action in the Independence‘s shadow was light, though a steady trickle of three-ship TIE elements had kept up pressure there, attempting to strafe the Mon Calamari warship. It was standard tactics for fighter elements in a large-scale engagement; even light pressure would force the Independence to commit resources to defending its shadow, weakening its defenses where the real pressure from the Star Destroyer and most of the fighters were pushing. But Wedge and Luke weren’t looking at the larger battle, they were looking at how Hobbie and Neth had flown.

At the end of the playback, Wedge leaned back in his chair. “Thoughts?”

“Karie was timid,” Luke said. “At least in this engagement. And Hobbie wasn’t aggressive enough to pull her out of it. They did an adequate job of keeping TIEs off the Independence, but if I’d dropped a different pair in there – say, Wes and Cesi – they would’ve done a better job and killed at least twice the number of TIEs.” He frowned. “Though clear comms would have helped a lot. Karie was having a hard time hearing Hobbie’s calls.”

“Agreed, but all of us were having that issue,” Wedge pointed out. “Right now, they’re not a good pairing. Timid paired with conservative flying meant they stayed alive, took little damage, but also didn’t do much.”

“Training will help with the timidity,” Luke commented.

“Maybe. Experience will probably do more.”

They continued on to Naeco and Senesca. The engagements around the Independence‘s engines were more intense than Wedge and Luke had understood during the battle, and reviewing the footage took more than thirty minutes, with slowdowns, repeated viewing, and both men taking notes quietly before Wedge finally asked for Luke’s conclusions.

“Better than I would have guessed,” Luke commented. “But neither of them was talking much.”

“No, Puck was damn near silent,” Wedge agreed. “The maneuvering was interesting.”

“Zev was flying mostly textbook. Puck was using him as an anchor and floating all over the place.” Luke shook his head. “I don’t think that’s what you had in mind for this wingpair doctrine, was it?”

“Not exactly. It’s sort of got the shape, but not the discipline.” Wedge frowned. “One pilot should be acting as lead, the other as cover, and they can switch positions as needed on the fly. But here, it was more like two pilots flying unattached. Except Puck kept coming back to support him.”

Luke nodded. “If the TIEs had been focused on them instead of trying to cripple the Independence‘s engines, I think they would have been in a lot of trouble. Neither was really in position to cover the other.”

“More things to work on in training,” Wedge muttered, making appropriate notes. “We can’t count on bad Imperial tactics to carry us through a fight.”

By unspoken agreement, they shifted the analysis to Eirriss and Janson next. Half an hour into review, Luke called for a five-minute break to use the refresher and get a cup of caf. Wedge was tempted to go looking for a tall mug of lum, but he needed a clear head until the review was finished. It took another fifteen minutes after they reconvened to finish the review.

This time, Wedge spoke first. “That was surprisingly good,” he admitted. “Eirriss stuck with him throughout the engagement. Janson called for bracket and cover, and she responded when she could hear him. The two of them did a lot more than any single three-ship element from the air wing or off the Battle Dog.”

Luke shook his head. “Cesi was hanging on by her fingernails,” he pointed out. “Wes took lead at the beginning of the engagement and never handed it back. Cesi stuck with him the whole time and covered him, but there were at least three times I caught that Cesi had shots that she didn’t take because she was in the wingman position and Wes wouldn’t yield.”

“It worked,” Wedge said simply.

Luke snorted. “Do you remember what you told me when we first started looking at available pilots to recruit for the squadron?” When Wedge shook his head, Luke filled it in. “You can’t build a squadron around one pilot. You were referring to me, personally. Wedge, we can’t build pairs around a single pilot, either. Cesi wasn’t contributing much, just covering. The difference in performance during the fight between Wes and Cesi, and Hobbie and Karie, is that Wes was more aggressive.”

Wedge leaned back in his chair and frowned. “You might be right.”

“So, what do we review next? Our footage? Or Tycho and Mara and that disaster?”

“I wouldn’t bother reviewing our footage,” Wedge said, a bit of irritation creeping into his voice in spite of his best effort.

“Why?” Luke was genuinely curious.

“Because I hate looking at your flight telemetry.”

“But…why?”

Wedge sighed, clearing the Independence telemetry and calling up a different file he’d compiled – the engagement at Ralltiir, where Luke had escorted the Bright Wake through swarms of TIEs while Jade had chased Sarkli. “It’s easier to show you here.”

“Ralltiir,” Luke said.

“Yeah. It’s really obvious here. I’m sure I’ll see it in the Independence engagement, but this one’s obvious.” Wedge searched for words that wouldn’t sound bitter. “Luke, you fly like a big holofilm star.”

Luke blinked several times. “I don’t follow.”

Wedge highlighted Luke’s X-wing in green and a trio of TIEs in red. “These TIEs are four klicks out from the Bright Wake,” Wedge said. “At that range, they’ve still got options on how they’re going to attack.  They could stay together and break port, starboard, climb, or dive, all to get a different angle on the corvette you’re escorting, right? Or they could break formation so they attack from multiple angles simultaneously.”

“I follow you so far,” Luke said, frowning.

Wedge advanced the telemetry a few seconds. “Here, you dip your nose and bank to starboard. You move from high cover to hanging off the Bright Wake‘s starboard side.”

“Right.”

A few more seconds advanced, and the TIEs broke formation – one climbing, one breaking port, one breaking starboard. Wedge allowed the playback to continue in slow motion. Luke’s X-wing fired, hitting the TIE directly in front of him, then swept into a broad barrel roll, picking off the climbing TIE, then finally the TIE attacking the Bright Wake from port, three kills in eight seconds, all in one smooth maneuver.

“Like that,” Wedge said, trying but failing to keep complaint from his tone. “That’s probably the worst offender I’ve ever seen looking at your telemetry.”

“Because…I picked up the kills so quickly?” Luke was genuinely confused.

“You had no reason to move to the starboard position on the Bright Wake. The TIEs hadn’t committed to a maneuver yet, and they were too far away for you to get any sensor or visual indication of what they were going to do. And when they did begin their attack, you were perfectly positioned to pick off all three of them in a row.” Wedge shook his head. “That sort of coincidence happens in holofilms, not in real starfighter combat.”

Luke was studying the footage. “I’m always doing that?”

“Not always, not even usually. But when things get bad, yes, you do. It’s not usually this blatant, but it’s like you sometimes can see how a TIE formation is going to attack before they actually commit to it.” Wedge stared at him. “You didn’t know you did this?”

The younger man shook his head wordlessly.

“I’ve been assuming it’s a Jedi thing,” Wedge admitted.

“I’m not a Jedi yet,” Luke protested. “I barely know anything.”

“Then a Force thing,” Wedge said impatiently. “I’ve been studying fighter combat telemetry since I was at Skystrike, and I’ve only ever seen it show up with you, and even then, it’s rare.”

“Just when things get bad.”

Wedge nodded. “Right. So let’s look at Celchu and Jade’s telemetry.” He queued up the Independence telemetry again and began the playback.

The first ninety seconds of the engagement were, as Wedge remembered, almost textbook smooth. Celchu took the lead as they hit the first element, then called for Jade to take lead as she had the better angle on the next three TIEs. Wedge ignored his own small unease with Celchu’s flying. It’s too stiff. Almost like a droid flying, except I’ve never seen a droid that could fly that well. Then additional fighters poured out of the Independence and the Battle Dog, and confusion began to interfere. On the perfect playback, Wedge could see where Celchu called for a lead change and Jade didn’t take it because she didn’t hear it, costing them seconds and angles, with a flight element of TIEs slipping past them. Only interception by a trio of the Battle Dog‘s A-wings kept the Imperial fighters from executing a strafing run on the Independence.

And then the critical moment played out in slow motion, with Jade flying as lead and Celchu on wing. Jade called for a diving break to angle on another cluster of TIEs rising toward the Independence, and Celchu missing the call this time in the comm chatter. Suddenly they were separated, too far apart for mutual protection, and neither Jade nor Celchu realized it for a few critical moments, until Celchu’s X-wing was hammered by attacking TIEs. Luke and Wedge responding, their X-wings diving down to drive the TIEs away. Celchu looping to the Independence‘s hangar, Luke’s bad order to Jade to maintain her position.

“They were good right up until the comms failure,” Wedge said, letting the battle continue to play in slow motion as he turned to Luke. “Smooth, almost as smooth as you and I and without several months of flying together.”

Luke was still watching the playback, tracking Jade’s X-wing as she was isolated by TIEs. “It feels brittle to me.”

“Feels?”

There was hesitation before he answered. “I thought that all the way back to the practice skirmishes right before the ambush hit us,” Luke said slowly. “I think it works right now, but it won’t work later.”

Wedge frowned. “How’s that?”

“Tycho’s flying like everything is preprogrammed,” Luke said, eyes tracing the slowly-moving battle hologram. “Wedge, I think he’s still so wrapped up in grief over Alderaan that everything he does in the cockpit is by rote and muscle memory. He’s good, but I don’t think he’s himself. And I don’t know what Tycho will look like when he’s himself.”

Wedge opened his mouth to respond, then stopped and shut it as movement on the telemetry caught his eye. Wait, that was…

Luke was already rewinding the playback.

The subject of Celchu on hold, Wedge turned his full attention to the telemetry. Luke set the hologram into motion again, and Wedge watched as Mara’s X-wing, damaged, aft shield gone, fired into empty space, hitting nothing but committing to her next maneuver. A gap appeared in the TIE formation in front of her, and her damaged fighter slipped through, taking hits but continuing on.

Luke reset the playback, and they watched it again.

She maneuvered before the gap appeared.

Luke reset the playback a third time, this time magnifying the TIE formation. There’s no gap, Wedge thought, not until after she’s already committed to it. The gap appears after she’s already flying for it.

Ice formed in his stomach, a hard pit. I really wish I’d gone for the mug of lum, he thought.

“Wedge,” Luke said quietly, “tell me what I’m looking at.”

“She should have died,” Wedge said, closing his eyes. “There was no reason that gap would appear. And she shouldn’t have known it would.”

“But she did know. She committed to it before it was there.”

“Yes. She was flying like you.” The implications of his own observation began slotting into place rapidly. She was part of the Ghost crew. They had a couple Jedi. General Syndulla was always so protective of Mara, even more so than the other survivors of her crew. I thought she was going to flay Hobbie and me alive when she found out we were training Mara as a fighter pilot, but I thought it was about putting her in danger.

Syndulla knew. Mara’s a Jedi, or something like it. He stole a glance at Luke. Like Skywalker. A Force-user. Oh, kriff me.

“The lightsaber,” Luke said aloud, breaking Wedge’s reverie.

“What?” Wedge managed.

“The lightsaber.” Luke rubbed his forehead with his hand. “When I met with Rieekan, during the security review. He made a comment about me using a BlasTech DL-18 as my service weapon. I told him I didn’t; I use that Merr-Sonn Model 57 that Han gave me a few days after the Death Star battle. He said someone must’ve made a mistake when they were inventorying the Rogues’ personal weapons.”

“And Mara carries a DL-18,” Wedge finished. “She has a lightsaber? I’ve never seen that.”

“Neither have I,” Luke said. “But if she’s a Jedi, she’s been keeping it a secret.”

Syndulla is going to throw us all out an airlock without pressure suits, Wedge thought. “We’re missing pieces here. We have to be.”

“What do you know about her, Wedge? About before you and Hobbie started training her?” Luke was curious now.

“Not a lot.” Wedge frowned. “What do you know about the Phoenix cell?”

“A little,” Luke said cautiously. “I know you and Hobbie were both part of the group after you deserted from Skystrike.”

“Commander Jun Sato ran the group,” Wedge said, tracing memories. “He’d built up quite a task force. They had some Corellian CR90 corvettes, some Sphyrna corvettes, an R-22 Spearhead squadron, and a stolen Quasar Fire carrier, plus the usual mix of freighters and transports. Nothing like a Mon Calamari cruiser, of course, but it was big enough that the Empire was actively hunting them. Us. Hobbie and I flew as part of the Spearhead group.”

Luke nodded, silently listening.

“The fighter group was officially led by Hera Syndulla. She was a captain, back then. But she spent a lot of her time flying the Ghost and running non-fighter ops with her crew.” Wedge shook his head. “I didn’t know any of them well except for Hera, but she had a Jedi on her crew, a human named Kanan Jarrus. He was probably ten years older than either of us and completely blind.”

“Blind?”

“Blind,” Wedge confirmed. “His face was scarred up from whatever did it, so he usually wore a mask of sorts over half his face. I think the scarring bothered Syndulla. It didn’t slow him down much, though. And he had an apprentice, a kid maybe your age.”

“What happened to them?”

“I wasn’t there for it,” Wedge admitted, “but I heard afterwards that Jarrus died when the Empire blew up its own fuel depot on Lothal to kill him. And then his apprentice died a few weeks after that fighting Grand Admiral Thrawn.”

Luke considered the information for a moment. “And Mara was part of the Ghost crew during all this?”

“She was part of the crew when Hobbie and I jumped ship. We’d see her occasionally on the hidden base on Atollon, but she wasn’t the social type. And I never got the impression Jarrus was training her like he did his apprentice. They both carried lightsabers openly. Mara didn’t.” He shuddered. “After Thrawn wiped out Atollon, Hobbie and I transferred to Massassi Group. It was shortly after that when we caught Mara moping around the hangars on Yavin 4 and decided to teach her how to fly. She looked so lost at the time.” He met Luke’s gaze. “I didn’t know. I wouldn’t have even guessed.”

“Does General Syndulla know?”

Wedge grimaced. “It would explain why Hera’s so protective of her.”

“Because Syndulla has been trying to keep Mara invisible,” Luke agreed. “Well, there’s one way to find out for sure.”

“Long-range comms are down,” Wedge reminded him. “So you’ll need to put together a message for the next courier ship.”

“No. I’m going to ask Mara.”

The training astromech’s warning shriek saved her life for the third time in thirty seconds.

Mara inverted her X-wing and jerked back on the stick, a crude, brutal maneuver that Wedge and Hobbie would’ve scolded her for in flight training. Green laserfire flashed through the space she’d just vacated, close enough she swore she could feel the heat of the blast even through vacuum, shields, and transparisteel.

She glimpsed her scopes, a frantic look, and then she juked the X-wing hard to port, reversed to starboard, fully defensive and with only a single objective in mind: stay alive.

Kilometers away, red laserfire met green, an exchange punctuated by an explosion. Skywalker and Wedge, trying to get to me.She spared a half-second to look at her scope, saw their signals vectoring, turning away, trying to find a seam to slip through the swarms of TIEs.

But the tactical situation was ugly, and Mara knew it. The TIEs were largely still focused on attacking the Independence and her support ships, waves of TIEs steadily eroding the Rebel starfighter screen, inflicting kills and forcing the air wing elements out of position. The Independence was preparing to escape, and the Empire’s fighter wings were responding with focused, concentrated attacks in overwhelming numbers. A-wings and X-wings that slipped too far out of position were swamped and destroyed; even if the Independence escaped, the air wing would feel the casualties of today’s desperate fight for months to come.

“…ay alive, Jade,” she heard Wedge’s voice in her ear.

It was no small miracle that Mara was still alive. And then she had no more time for thought, another element of TIEs diving on her, lasers flashing. She sent the X-wing into a looping spiral, throwing off their aim, but bleeding velocity as she did, the vicious maneuvering eating away at her speed. And when I’m too slow, I won’t be able to evade anymore.

Another warning shriek, and this time Mara responded by hauling the stick back. This time the lasers glanced her rear deflectors and the overstressed generator whined and died. No aft shields.

The temptation hung in her mind, the option she never chose. She spared one more glance at her scopes; two X-wings fighting brutally through a vermin’s nest of TIEs, the sort of impossible dogfight that should kill Skywalker and Wedge, too, but somehow wouldn’t.

“…almost there…” Skywalker’s voice, straining from the pressure of combat or g-forces or both.

Don’t reach out. Don’t flare. Don’t listen. Visibility is death, Mara.

Another blast kissed her X-wing’s tail, and the fighter shuddered with the hit. A pair of red lights flashed on her console, but she could spare no concentration to see what systems had failed. Fear bubbled up from her chest, but it couldn’t find purchase; she was too focused on trying to stay alive.

Yes, visibility is death. But visibility is death later. This is death now. I’ll deal with visibility later.

And for the first time in nearly four years, Mara cracked the dam in her mind and listened.

The Force whispered. Mara reacted. Her laser cannons fired as if of their own accord, and a TIE she hadn’t seen ran into the blasts and shattered. She hauled the X-wing’s stick back and to the right, a spiraling, climbing bank to starboard. Six TIEs off her nose, all firing, a glancing blow on her forward shields, but she didn’t hesitate. A TIE broke formation where it should have held, and she slipped through the gap. Another shot at her tail, but it didn’t catch the fuselage; it caught her upper port s-foil, and then her X-wing was tumbling, almost out of control as microthrusters misfired. The R5 trainer was screaming, but she couldn’t afford to break her focus.

She listened.

The X-wing stabilized, and she fired again; only three lasers now, the laser cannon on the tip of the damaged s-foil no longer responding. Another TIE she hadn’t seen, grazed, spiraling out of control, not dead but out of position.

Mara could feel the TIEs at her back, turning impossibly quickly, trying to line her up again. And there were TIEs in front of her as well. She stomped the etheric rudder pedal, swinging the X-wing’s nose hard to starboard, the fighter slewing viciously.

She felt the gap in the swarm of TIEs between her and Skywalker and Wedge, a crack she could slip the X-wing through. It didn’t exist, but in four seconds it was going to exist.

Laser cannons flashed as she wrenched the fighter’s nose back around to where it needed to be. The red fire hit nothing, plasma spent in vain into the void of space.

But in the swarm of TIEs, a pilot flinched, and the crack opened.

Mara hurled her X-wing into the crack; the TIEs at her back fired, green bolts clawing at her tail.

---

“Deflectors double forward,” Luke managed through gritted teeth. The Arfive whistled a protest, no doubt because of the tactical situation; Luke didn’t care. “Just do it. Full throttle. Wedge?”

“Right with you, boss,” was Wedge’s grim reply.

“We’re punching through. Don’t stop.” And then Luke was firing, sometimes when the targeting computer chimed – though it was cycling through lock indications so fast it was almost impossible to keep up as TIEs flashed in and out of his sights – and sometimes by instinct.

Luke, trust your feelings. Obi-Wan Kenobi’s voice, the way he’d heard his mentor during the Death Star battle. Luke didn’t know at this moment if it was memory or if Ben was trying to guide him right now, trying to keep his wayward student alive in a very ugly fighter engagement.

It didn’t matter.

A pair of TIEs exploded, one under Luke’s guns, the other to Wedge’s precise fire. The hole was big enough for them to slip through, and Luke led the charge, ignoring a pair of shots that ricocheted off his front deflectors.

“Independence to all fighters,” Colonel S’man’s voice called, strong and clear and drowning out the constant combat chatter, “forty-five seconds until jump. Nav data incoming in thirty seconds.”

Luke was in the flow of it, and he could feel the Force. He could feel Wedge on his wing, grim and focused and determined. He could feel the rest of the Rogues, still clustered around the Independence and growing more distant, alive and terrified and determined and focused and jubilant, all at once. And ahead of him, he could feel Mara, desperate and clinging to life and shining in his senses like a star.

Wedge whooped, a jubilant shout over the comm. “She’s through!”

He could see her X-wing, battered, smoking, half a dozen TIEs pursuing her. She was slipping through a gap in the formation facing her, and then the TIEs behind her and the TIEs around her dissolved into an undisciplined mess as the Imperial pilots were forced to evade, scattering to prevent collisions. Two TIEs smashed into each other, head-to-head, exploding in a spectacular fireball, and then Mara was racing toward them.

“Reverse,” Luke ordered. Wedge was on his starboard wing, and Luke banked to starboard. Wedge banked to port. They crossed vectors, splitting and reforming now pointed back at the Independence, settling in on either side of Mara’s X-wing.

“Jade, are you okay?” Wedge asked.

Two heartbeats passed. “Still alive.”

“Is your hyperdrive still functional?” Luke asked, glancing over at the smoke pouring out of the X-wing’s tail, noted the charring on her s-foil.

“Yes. Need nav data.”

As if on cue, Luke’s R5 whistled the receipt of nav data from the Independence. “There it is.”

The TIEs between the three Rogues and the Independence milled, their forward momentum blunted by Luke and Wedge’s attack a moment before. Now, some of them were turning back to face the trio of X-wings, but it wasn’t a unified attack. “Punch back through,” Luke said, “and as soon as we’re clear, we jump.”

I will never agree to a training mission without torpedoes again, he thought ruefully. Then he opened fire, twitching the X-wing’s stick left and right, spraying laserfire inaccurately into the cloud of TIEs.

Engines burned brightly all around the Independence. All three CR90 corvettes jumped together. The medical frigate jumped next, then the Quasar Fire carrier, then the combat frigate. One of the Sphyrna corvettes jumped immediately after; the other was burning wreckage, falling behind.

Too small to see at this distance, Rebel fighters began blinking out on the scope as they made their own jumps. “Boss?” Hobbie’s voice called.

“Don’t wait for us, just jump,” Luke ordered. “We’ll see you at the rendezvous.”

Then the three of them were punching through the cloud of TIEs one more time. By instinct he threw power to his aft shields and dropped throttle a fraction; Mara and Wedge both accelerated out in front of him, and a blast that would’ve hulled Mara’s tail instead hammered his rear deflectors. Another TIE exploded, though Luke couldn’t tell which of them had scored the kill. It didn’t matter. Survival mattered.

And then they were through. The Independence‘s powerful engines flared brightly, the massive Mon Calamari ship flickered with pseudomotion, and then vanished into hyperspace.

“Jump, jump, jump,” Luke ordered rhythmically, hesitating for an extra two seconds until Wedge and Mara both made the jump before engaging his own hyperdrive.

Stars stretched into lines, and then he was safe in the ethereal swirl of hyperspace.

---

The first hyperspace jump was only three minutes in duration; just far enough to carry the Independence and her task force out of immediate danger. Wedge knew the task force would only stay at the rendezvous point for a few minutes at most, just long enough to recover starfighters, before they’d execute a second jump of short duration, and then a third, longer jump to ensure no Imperial pursuit remained.

Nonetheless, the relief he felt was as warm as a blanket when his X-wing emerged back into realspace and he could see the task force for himself. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. If something had gone wrong, we’d be stranded. I know why Luke agreed to these training astromechs, but that was a very bad decision in hindsight. At least he and I should have been flying with our regular droids.

“Rogue Squadron, report in,” Luke ordered calmly, shaking Wedge out of his internal monologue. “And keep flying while you do it. I want us all tucked in Aux Two before the Independence jumps again.”

“Senesca and Naeco here,” Zev reported in. “Minor damage, but we’re fine.”

“Janson and Eirriss,” Wes was next, “and may I say, we’re the best-looking element in the squadron.”

“Klivian here with Neth,” Hobbie reported, and Wedge couldn’t decide if his tone was annoyed or amused. “That was more exciting than training usually is.”

“Tell me about it,” Luke said dryly. “Wedge?”

“All green,” Wedge said, only bending the truth a bit. Several warning indicators were flickering yellow on his system status board, but they weren’t red.

“Mara?”

A heartbeat passed before she answered. “I can land it. The mechanics are going to hate me.”

“We’ll take it.” Luke’s voice was sober now. “Mara and Wedge in first, then Hobbie’s element, then Zev’s element, then Wes.”

“On my wing, Jade,” Wedge said briskly, slowly throttling up and wondering just how badly damaged Mara’s X-wing actually was.

Whatever the damage was, she still handled the T-65B with the quiet precision he normally expected of her. The rest of the squadron strung out in pairs behind them, Luke falling to the very back of the formation.

Independence flight control offered no protest or complaint at the Rogues’ approach, clearing them immediately for landing in Aux Two. Wedge led the way, Mara as steady on his wing as if she’d been welded there. Two by two, the Rogues breached the magcon field and set down in their assigned slots, some rougher than others. Everyone’s dealing with the adrenaline crash, Wedge thought as he powered down the X-wing’s engines and ran through an abbreviated post-flight checklist. Went for a training mission and survived one hell of a firefight.

Ground crews swarmed over the X-wings. Wedge noted, with something between amusement and alarm, several men and a droid were equipped with firefighting equipment, all clustered around Mara’s still-smoking X-wing. He waited until one of the support staff rolled a ladder to his fighter, offered a thanks, and climbed down.

Luke met him at the base of the ladder, hair matted and soaked with sweat, tired, but blue eyes still shining. “We all made it, Wedge.”

Wedge allowed himself a small smile. “We made a lot of mistakes,” he pointed out, but it didn’t kill his smile. “But yes, we all made it. All the Rogues, anyway. The air wing took losses.”

Luke’s smile faded. “They did. That was an ugly fight.” He looked away for a moment, then met Wedge’s gaze again. “The Empire knew exactly where we were. The Independence, I mean.”

“Noticed that, too, did you?”

“Yes. That Star Destroyer came in exactly on the Independence‘s heading. They forced us to redirect and calculate a new jump. If they’d come in almost any other way, the task force would’ve had a clean escape. But by blocking the vector, we had to calculate new jumps, execute new maneuvers, and actually fight a battle.”

“Exactly,” Wedge said with something approaching grim satisfaction. Luke is learning to look at the bigger picture, too.

“Okay, immediate needs. Tell me if I’m missing anything.” Luke started ticking off items by fingertip. “First, we run all the Rogues through medical and make sure no one’s picked up an injury they’re not aware of. Second, we make sure all the maintenance is covered on the X-wings. Third, we write up our after-action report to Rieekan.” He paused for a moment. “And somewhere in there, I suppose we need to make sure everyone eats and sleeps, too. That ambush took a lot out of us.”

“The after-action report can wait,” Wedge contradicted. “It needs to get written, yes, but it’s not urgent. Before we write our official reports, I want to pull all the telemetry from our X-wings. Gun camera holos, astromech recordings, maybe anything I can pull from the Independence‘s recording of the battle, too.”

Luke looked at him dubiously. “I suppose you can do that while I shepherd the Rogues through medical and mess hall. But why the telemetry?”

“Because you and I are going to look through every second of it,” Wedge said dryly. “Our training run today was meant to test and train our new two-ship element doctrine, right? We just fought our way out of an ambush using that with training loadouts. We should pull the data now and review it while it’s still fresh in our heads so we can figure out what works, what didn’t, what we need to change, and where the gaps are.” He grimaced. “There are going to be a lot of gaps. We were still thinking in three-ship elements.”

Luke’s face was stone. “You mean the part where I almost got Mara killed.”

“Not just you,” Wedge cautioned. “I heard you give the order and didn’t think the implications through. That’s on both of us.”

“Alright. Pilots first, then X-wings, then telemetry.” Luke rubbed his face wearily. “Is there a part in there where you and I sleep?”

“Not today.”

---

Luke was on his way back from medical when he saw a familiar silhouette in the corridor, heading away from him, toward a bank of turbolifts. He picked up his pace, bumping into several ship officers before he could reach her. “Leia!” he called.

The Princess of Alderaan paused at the sound of her name and turned. “Luke!”

He finally reached her. “I didn’t know you were on the Independence,” he said, a bit out of breath. “How long have you been here?”

“I arrived late last night on a courier ship,” she said with a smile. “I came from Mako-Ta.”

“Are you staying here long?”

Leia shook her head. “I came here to meet with Captain Verrack and General Rieekan, along with the courier packet.” Her lips twisted into a frown. “We’re going to be relying on couriers for longer than I’d hoped.”

Now it was Luke’s turn to frown. “Couriers?”

“We lost our long-range communications network during the evacuation of Yavin,” she explained. “It’s made coordination impossible. All data exchanges right now are being done by fast courier ships. The information we brought last night included new protocols for establishing secure long-range comms for our task forces by using the Empire’s own Holonet relays.” Leia shook her head. “Just over twelve hours after we brought the long-range comms online, a Star Destroyer task force appears knowing exactly where we were.”

“So the comms aren’t just down, they’re compromised,” Luke said grimly, the implications settling in.

Leia nodded. “We broke the link when the ambush hit. We had a channel open with the Defiance at the time. So now we’re scattering couriers to warn everyone off from using the new protocols.”

“This is why I’m a fighter pilot,” Luke said wryly. “Blowing things up is much simpler.”

“A fighter pilot and a walking complaint,” Leia added dryly.

Luke winced. “Colonel S’man’s reports?”

“Oh, yes,” the Princess said with a serious nod, though there was a sparkle in her eye. “Naming your unit Rogue Squadron really didn’t help his opinion of you.”

Luke tried unsuccessfully to keep the grin off his face. “Speaking of the Rogues, you should come meet them. They’re a great group of pilots.”

“I’ll try to make time, but I’m already late for a meeting with Rieekan and Dodonna.” She offered a smile. “I’m not promising, but I’ll try.”

“That’s all I can ask,” Luke said with an accepting nod. It’s not all I can ask, but it’s all I can expect, he corrected himself silently. “It’s good to see you.”

“You, too, Luke. Stay safe, alright?” Then she was in motion again, heading to the turbolift.

Luke watched her go, regret gnawing at him. There’s never enough time. She’s an Alderaanian princess and a figurehead of the Rebellion. You’re a farmboy-turned-fighter-pilot. She already gives you more time than she can afford.

She really would like the Rogues, though.