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.

Wedge looked around the Aux Two hangar from the ladder of his X-wing. Sublight engines thrummed and shrieked in turn as pilots and ground crew conducted preflight tests. Fuel lines were being pulled back and rolled up. Astromechs whistled, with tones ranging from eager to spiteful. Support teams swarmed over ten of the twelve X-wings, preparing them for launch.

He slid down the ladder and caught Luke’s eye. Luke nodded and whistled sharply, the sound piercing through the din of a hangar in action. The Rogues responded, gathering around their commander. Wedge timed his arrival so the rest of the pilots beat him there by a few steps, closing the circle himself.

“This is a training exercise,” Luke said, his voice loud enough to carry to all the pilots but not much further. “Our X-wings are configured just for this. No proton torpedoes, limiters on the laser cannons, and R5 training astromechs.” He looked from pilot to pilot. “The astromechs have full command override capability and will take control of your fighter if your maneuver would carry you into a collision. They also have no hypernav capability.”

“Why the limitations?” Zev Senesca asked.

“Compromise,” Luke said dryly. “The last time Rogue X-wings were in space, one of our own tried to shoot up a friendly and escaped. You all ran simulations with the new wing pair doctrine yesterday; today, we’re going to do it in space. By accepting limited loadouts, the air wing commander dropped his objections to our live flight exercises. Questions?”

“We don’t have numbers yet,” Cesi Eirriss stated.

“Some of us do,” Puck said cheerfully.

Luke raised a hand to forestall further comment. “That wasn’t a question, but you’re right, we don’t have numbers yet. That’s because we’re trying a new doctrine and we’re not anywhere close to assigning permanent pairs yet. For this flight, we’ll be using last names as designation. Skywalker, Antilles, Eirriss, Neth, and so forth.”

“Who flies together?” Jade asked.

Luke looked over. “Captain?”

Wedge cleared his throat. “For this training exercise, Skywalker and I will be paired. Our normal protocol calls for command staff to be separated, but for this flight we’ll be flying together both as example and so we can break apart to observe and instruct as necessary. Like Commander Skywalker said, these aren’t permanent pairs. As for the rest of you,” he scanned the group, finding each pilot as he called their names, “Klivian and Neth. Celchu and Jade. Senesca and Naeco. Janson and Eirriss.”

“This is just a training exercise,” Luke repeated. “We’re launching, practicing basic maneuvers, and if things look good we’ll do some aggressor combat, two versus two.” He smiled. “I know all of you are missing real flight as much as I am.”

Damn straight, Wedge thought. I haven’t been back out into space since we left Yavin. Stars, I’ve missed it.

“Any more questions? Great. Mount up and prepare to launch. I’ll call pair order when we have clearance from Independence traffic control. Let’s go!”

The Rogues scattered to their X-wings. Wedge saw Janson say something to Eirriss, but over the growing cacophony of engines, he couldn’t make it out; Eirriss’s eye-roll was obvious, though. Wedge lingered long enough to have a moment to talk to Luke.

Wedge offered a smile. “It’ll be good to fly something other than a desk.”

Luke’s blue eyes sparkled. “Wedge, Wedge, you’re so good at flying the desk.”

“No one should be irreplaceable,” Wedge said dryly, “which means you need to learn it, too.”

“Maybe we should save the work for Janson and Naeco. It might inspire them to rein in their instincts,” Luke joked, then sobered. “Are you ready for this? First real flight with the new doctrine?”

Wedge nodded slowly. “It’s just a training flight, Luke. But it’s the first step toward something better.” He clapped the younger man on the shoulder. “Let’s get into space and show the newcomers that we both deserve our reputations.”

---

“Break port!” Luke called, albeit too slow; Wedge was already rolling out to the left, spoiling Tycho’s shot before the low-powered training lasers could connect. Got you now, Luke thought as he rolled in tandem with Wedge’s maneuver, anticipating Tycho’s own maneuver to latch back onto Wedge’s tail.

The training astromech socketed behind him where Artoo should have been warbled a warning. Luke spared a glance at his rear scope and the corner of his lips turned upward. Mara was sliding in behind him, going for the kill. The four of them were strung into a line that Wedge was even now dragging into a spiral: Wedge at the front, Tycho latched on his tail, Luke aiming at Tycho, and now Mara at the back trying to get a solid lock on Luke.

“Pincer!” Luke called, pulling back hard on the stick and swinging it back to the right. Wedge continued his port spiral, Luke now turning to starboard. Luke pulled back harder, cheating the turn, shedding speed but tightening the loop too hard for Mara to get a clean shot. And then, as he had intended, Wedge’s X-wing was two hundred meters out in front of his, facing him, leveling out of his turn. Luke squeezed, the laser cannons firing anemically toward his wingman; Wedge was firing as well, his own blasts slipping just past Luke in turn.

Tycho ran into Luke’s lasers and his shields lit up brightly. On targeting display, his X-wing changed to a kill marker, Tycho’s astromech having registered the fire as lethal damage. He glanced back and was rewarded with his own rear shields taking a hit before Mara broke off, taking hits from Wedge in return. Luke pulled back on the stick, his fighter’s nose coming up and over as he reversed to slide into position off Wedge’s wing.

Mara had her X-wing dancing, but deprived of her wingman and fully on the defensive against Wedge Antilles, the outcome wasn’t in doubt. She evaded for an extra handful of seconds before the glancing hits finally added up enough for her astromech to flag her as dead.

“You make that look easy,” Wes commented, his voice crackling over the comm.

“Janson, if you spent half the time training that you spend preening in front of a mirror, you’d be that good, too,” Cesi deadpanned.

“End of exercise,” Wedge said, all professional. “We have enough fuel for a few more engagements. Klivian and Neth, you’re up next. Senesca and Naeco, you’re aggressor. Pull out to four kilometers and prepare to engage.”

Acknowledgements echoed, and Luke watched as the pairs of X-wings maneuvered away to create enough distance. It’s working, he thought, as he mentally reviewed the paired engagements in his head. Though we need to rotate pairings and see who works together well. This is a really solid foundation.

Luke had known from the familiarization sims that Neth tended toward uncertainty in the cockpit. Some of it was honestly earned; she was still learning the timing and distance estimate differences between the Headhunter she’d trained on and a T-65B, but with veteran Hobbie as her wingman, she’d done well, anchoring off his combat instincts to guide her own. Puck was chaos in person but only a bit too aggressive in the cockpit; pairing him with Zev took a bit of edge off Puck’s flying but also pushed Zev into more aggressive flying than the older man would normally default to, making them both the better for it. Wes’s jokes and sloppy flying turned lethally efficient when hard light started flying, and it forced Cesi to focus to keep up with him, pushing her harder than she’d push herself.

Tycho and Mara were eerily smooth together, a pairing that looked machine-like in precision and had proven to be the best of the eight Rogues running through paired exercises. In private comms, Wedge had told him that they were the best example of the new doctrine, but to Luke it felt wrong – brittle in some way he couldn’t define. I’ll figure out why it looks wrong later, he told himself. This is just the first exercise.

The four Rogues had spread themselves out and were circling at four kilometers, waiting for Wedge to call the beginning of the engagement, when Luke’s comm board lit up with a signal from the Independence, twenty kilometers away.

“…Cronau radiation event,” a distant officer said tightly. “Signals emerging from hyperspace.”

“Hold exercise!” Luke snapped.

“It’s an Imperial Star Destroyer and support ships!” the comm officer called, an edge of panic in his voice. “Star Destroyer reverting from hyperspace on our vector! All ships, battle stations!”

“Wedge, did you hear that?” Luke asked tightly, turning the nose of his X-wing toward the distant Independence.

“I heard it. Rogues, form up by pairs.” Wedge was already sliding into the wingman position off Luke’s starboard wing.

Distant contacts blizzarded onto Luke’s tactical display. “Artoo, give me…” he paused for a moment, shook his head. “Arfive, give me a breakdown of the Imperial task force.”

The training R5 whistled, and a listing of ship classes scrolled over the display. Luke bit back annoyance, assembling the tactical picture in his head. Artoo would know exactly how I wanted to see this.

The biggest ship of the task force was an Imperial II-class Star Destroyer, designation unknown, and it had reverted from hyperspace precisely on the Independence‘s vector. Had it come in virtually any other way, the Independence could have executed a short hyperspace leap of a few lightyears on its current heading to escape, gather its forces, and change vectors for its next jump with relative impunity; but the Star Destroyer’s arrival had been precisely calculated to force them to re-vector and thus require calculating an entirely new jump.

They knew exactly where we were.

Smaller Imperial ships also were listed on the readout: a pair of Imperial Nebulon-B class frigates, heavily armed and armored and each carrying a squadron of TIEs; six Raider corvettes, likely with a three-fighter element of TIE fighters in their small internal hangar; an Arquitens-class light cruiser, fast and maneuverable but lightly armed; and worse yet, a pair of boxy Ton Falk-class carriers, each capable of carrying a full wing of TIE fighters.

The Independence wasn’t alone, of course; its own task force boasted a trio of Corellian CR90 corvettes, one of which was the battered Bright Wake that Luke and Mara had escorted back from Ralltiir; a pair of Sphyrna corvettes; two Rebel-refit Nebulon-B frigates, vessels that traded the armor and fighter complement of the Imperial originals for speed, maneuverability, and endurance, though one of the Rebel frigates was outfitted for medical support, not war; and finally, a single Quasar Fire-class light carrier, which could carry half the fighters of a single Ton Falk.

Luke ran the math in his head, and the answer was grim. The Independence could outfight any Star Destroyer in the Imperial navy, but the sheer number of TIEs the Imperial task force had brought to bear was staggering – over twenty squadrons’ worth, more than a single Star Destroyer task force could usually field. If Colonel S’man can get every single fighter in the air, we’re still looking at three-to-one odds at best.

And Rogue Squadron isn’t armed for this fight, he concluded, his heart sinking. With no torpedoes, we don’t have the punch to fight anything heavier than TIEs. And with these training droids, we can’t jump to hyperspace unless someone feeds us nav data or we dock with the Independence.

“Arfive,” he called, “disable the limiters. Full power to the guns. Override code Skywalker-One-Nine. Broadcast override to the squadron.”

The systems display blinked, the laser cannon icon changing from yellow to green.

“Luke, we’re not ready for this fight,” Wedge said tightly.

“I agree, but it came to us. We have to fight our way out.” Luke toggled his broadcast over to the Independence channel. “Independence control, this is Rogue Leader. I’ve got five X-wing elements, limited loadout, no long-range nav. Don’t leave us behind when you jump. Where do you need us?”

“Rogue Leader, I’m handing you over to fighter tactical,” the comms officer said. “We’re scrambling alert fighters, but it’ll take two or three minutes to get everyone else into space.”

Luke grimaced, but it was hardly unexpected. If S’man didn’t have standing orders to keep all fighters fueled and armed, it’d be worse, he told himself as he switched back to broadcast to the squadron. “Alright, Rogues, listen up. We don’t have the firepower to go after anything big, so we’re going to screen the Independence. No matter what happens, stay with your wingman. Call for help when you need it.” The X-wings were accelerating now, and distantly Luke could make out the flashes of distant turbolaser blasts exchanged between the Independence and the Star Destroyer. “Colonel S’man is scrambling his people. We keep the TIEs away, we don’t chase, and we support each other.” He considered for a moment. “Until we’re vectored somewhere else, we’ll protect the Independence in zones. Celchu and Jade cover the bow, Eirriss and Janson cover port, Klivian and Neth cover starboard, Senesca and Naeco cover the engines.”

Distantly, the Independence was vectoring to starboard. The hardest attacks would likely come against the cruiser’s bow and port side. “Wedge and I will stay dorsal and support wherever the TIEs come in thickest.” There were a hundred things he wanted to say. None of them would help. “May the Force be with us,” he said grimly.

Ahead, the task force’s alert fighters were already engaging the attacking TIEs. Imperial squadrons were bleeding into space from the Ton Falks and the Star Destroyer. Buy time, Luke told himself. Keep your people alive and buy time.

---

The pair doctrine stood up well for the first ninety seconds of the engagement.

Wedge had understood Luke’s tactical choices immediately. The strongest pairs from the training skirmishes – Celchu and Jade, Eirriss and Janson – were assigned to the zones of the Independence likely to come under the heaviest attack. Hobbie and Neth were skirmishing with stray TIEs, but nothing like the concentrated hammer of TIEs hitting the bow and port, both exposed to the Star Destroyer task force’s vector. Zev and Puck were fighting a steady-but-small flow of TIEs attempting to cripple the cruiser’s engines. Luke had kept the two of them dancing back and forth between the bow and starboard zones, supporting whichever pair was suffering more focused fire.

The comms stayed alive with chatter: Celchu, clipped and precise and trained; Jade, terse and controlled; Janson, his usual jolly demeanor replaced by ice and fury; Eirriss, brutal and fearless. Hobbie’s tones were unchanged, Neth was clearly nervous but keeping it under control, Senesca sounding nearly bored, and Naeco stressed in a way Wedge hadn’t expected. He didn’t have time to worry about it, though, because the Imperial onslaught was relentless. Luke kept his comms restrained, calling warnings when he saw danger and orders when an element drifted out of position, but he barely spoke at all to his own wingman, apparently unconcerned with Wedge’s ability to keep up.

TIEs attacked in waves, three-ship elements – three, six, a dozen at a time. Rogue pairs met them, forced them apart, claimed kills, denied them momentum. The Independence‘s alert fighters – three-ship elements of X-wings, A-wings, and old Z-95 Headhunters – fought ferociously, throwing themselves into the path of TIE units to force them to vector away, scoring few kills but taking no losses, either.

Then, just over a minute and a half of combat time later, the Independence and the task force’s carrier, the Battle Dog, began launching more fighters. A-wing interceptors rocketed into space and were quickly joined by new flight elements of X-wings, turning the odds the Rogues faced from impossible to merely horrific. The pressure eased as the waves of TIEs that had been crashing through and over the defending Rebels suddenly had twice as many enemies to fight. The comms crackled with new voices: cries of triumph, screams of loss, curt orders.

For all his planning, Wedge hadn’t reckoned on the sheer amount of comm traffic during an engagement involving more than Rogue Squadron.

“…ter vectoring toward…” Luke’s comm was clear for just a moment.

Then a sea of voices washed him out.

“…break port and you should…”

“…celerate to full throttle!”

“…all over me, give me cov…”

“…break, break, break!”

“…take the wingman, I’m on…”

Wedge bit back a curse. Comm discipline. We need a private channel for the squadron, and we need to filter our comms. The new doctrine requires more coordination, at least right now. But I can’t solve that now.

And then a voice, barely familiar but strained: “Celchu, Skywalker. I’m hit. Lower port engine is offline.”

Luke’s X-wing immediately rolled and cut down, diving from their position over the Independence‘s dorsal hull. Wedge accelerated, staying with him, barely.

“Celchu, withdraw to the Independence hangar,” Luke ordered. “Right now. Land in the main bay. They have emergency crews ready.” His X-wing was already firing at a throng of TIEs pursuing Celchu and Jade’s fighters; one TIE erupted in a burst of fire and light. Wedge opened up a heartbeat later, another TIE dissolving under his focused fire.

“Jade…ere…you want me?” Mara’s voice came next as the TIE formation lost cohesion, scattering out and letting Tycho’s crippled X-wing go.

“Stay…” Luke managed before his voice disappeared into the din of other pilots calling success and failure and maneuvers.

Luke and Wedge flashed through the engagement, guns firing continuously. Wedge glanced back and saw Tycho’s fighter, smoke and flame pouring from the damaged engine, vanish into the Independence‘s primary hangar. He’s safe at least. Or will be, as soon as the Independence jumps out.

Y-wing fighter-bombers finally emerged from the Independence, adding even more voices to the channel. “…pairing for attack run on…”

Wedge shook his head, following Luke in a climb back to their high position, looking for the next trouble spot. Janson and Eirriss were engaged and, to Wedge’s critical eye, separated wider than he’d like, but the Battle Dog‘s Headhunter squadron was in the midst of the furball with them, providing enough concentrated firepower to keep the two Rogues from being overwhelmed.

“All fighters,” Colonel S’man’s voice boomed over the comm, “Independence has revectored and is calculating jump. We need two minutes. If you’re damaged, fall back to a carrier. If you’re hyperspace-capable, prepare for nav data.”

Two minutes. We can do two minutes. “All pairs, report in,” Luke called, but the responses were almost impossible to hear in the mix of chatter from the air wing.

“…need help…” slipped into Wedge’s ear, and his heart stopped.

Pairs. Tycho’s aboard the Independence. Which means Mara is alone. Instantly, he saw his own blind spot, Luke’s blind spot: the new organization, the new strategy was two-ship elements. Wingpairs. Tycho had taken crippling damage, been ordered to withdraw, which was the only reasonable course of action.

But Luke and Wedge were both thinking in three-ship elements. Tycho’s withdrawal should have been a red flag, an immediate warning to pull Mara back, have her join up with another element, but neither one of the squadron’s leaders had registered a single fighter’s loss as leaving a pilot isolated, because in a three-ship element, she wouldn’t have been. Instead, Luke had ordered her to maintain position, unsupported, and neither he nor Wedge had registered the danger.

“Hang on, Mara,” Luke was already saying, voice tight, having apparently run the same calculations and come to the same conclusion. “We’re coming.” His X-wing was heeling over and accelerating, throttle wide open, and Wedge was a quarter-second behind.

Wedge stared at his scope for a moment. Mara’s X-wing had been forced out of position, at least one Imperial commander having seen the vulnerability and pounced. “Stay alive,” he muttered. “Stay alive.“

General Rieekan himself escorted Tycho Celchu to Rogue Squadron.

Remember, these are the people who pulled you off Dantooine, Tycho told himself as he followed the general through the corridors of the Mon Calamari cruiser. Make a good impression.

He didn’t find his own direction to be convincing, most likely because he didn’t really feel anything at all. Not anger, not rage, not despair, not sorrow – just an all-consuming numbness with a touch of unreality.

Tycho’s surreal feeling wasn’t helped by the flimsiplast sign posted at the end of a corridor with handwritten block letters: ROGUE TERRITORY, with a smaller add-on in a different set of handwriting underneath it scrawled Trespassers will be mocked.

He stopped for a moment and re-read the sign. What sort of unit am I signing up for? he wondered, then caught a hint of a smile on Rieekan’s face.

“At this point, the air wing commander is trying to keep Skywalker’s unit quarantined away from his pilots,” Rieekan said dryly.

“I can only imagine,” Tycho said, shaking his head. “If someone had put up a sign like this on the Accuser, he’d be on report before the day was over.”

“You’ll find we do things differently. Though how much of that is Commander Skywalker’s idea, and how much of it is Lieutenant Naeco and Lieutenant Janson, remains to be seen.” He gestured to Tycho. “Let’s meet your squadron.”

The corridor had four doors on either side of it, with handwritten nametags, a clear indication that the rooms beyond were quarters for members of the squadron. The doors nearest the flimsiplast sign showed Skywalker and Antilles. Next in line was a tag that had been blacked out; across the corridor from it was Klivian. Further down, Jade and Naeco, then Janson and Eirriss. Then the corridor ended in a much larger room with a jumble of furniture: an overstuffed sofa, mismatched chairs and tables, an entertainment holoprojector, and a caf maker clearly labeled Property of Independence Air Wing space-taped to the wall. Three more corridors branched away from the common room, running in different directions; one clearly terminated in a hangar, with the nose of a starfighter visible perhaps fifty meters away through an open hatch.

A handful of Rogue pilots were present in the common area: a Twi’lek woman glued to a datapad but engaged in a barbed exchange with a handsome, loudmouthed pilot whose dark hair was too shaggy for Imperial regulations; beyond them, sitting at a table with an unmistakable smirk, was a third dark-haired man watching the pair with clear interest. The dark-blond pilot from the U-wing – Hobbie, he wanted to be called Hobbie – sat on the sofa with a cup of caf in hand and an exasperated look on his face. Next to him, her expression focused as she reassembled a blaster currently lying in pieces on a side table, was a girl with red-gold hair and green eyes. No, not a girl. Young woman. She’s the one from Dantooine, he realized belatedly.

The shaggy-haired man and the Twi’lek were arguing. “No, I did not replace your political treatise with Fifty Shades of Ryloth. Yes, it’s funny, but I don’t have a copy!”

General Rieekan cleared his throat.

Pilots turned, jumped to their feet, snapped salutes.

Rieekan gravely returned the salute. “Where are Skywalker and Antilles?”

Hobbie spoke, his tone flat. “Hangar.”

Rieekan frowned and continued through the Rogues’ lounge, Tycho in tow.

Skywalker and Antilles were indeed in the hangar, standing over a green-and-white R5 astromech. A blue-and-white R2 unit was nearby, its whistling completely indecipherable to Tycho but carrying a tone that he’d swear was unhappy. Nearby were two more pilots Tycho didn’t recognize: a woman perhaps a year or two older than the young woman on Dantooine, and an older man with salt-and-pepper hair and the weight of at least a decade of flying on his shoulders.

All four of the pilots snapped to attention when they spotted Rieekan. 

“Commander. Captain.” Rieekan nodded at each in turn. “Lieutenant Tycho Celchu, formerly of the Imperial TIE corps.”

The younger of the two men, tanned, blond, slim, blue-eyed, but with the sort of muscular physique visible even under the loose uniform that spoke of hard manual labor, stepped forward and offered a handshake instead of a salute. “Luke Skywalker,” he identified himself. “I’m glad to finally meet you. I didn’t get a chance to introduce myself when we got you back to the Independence.”

Tycho took the offered handshake. “The pleasure is mine, Commander. I owe you for getting me off Dantooine.”

Skywalker shook his head. “The information you brought was more than enough payment for that.” He met Tycho’s gaze evenly. “TIE pilot? Have you flown anything Incom?”

“Not much,” Tycho admitted. “We trained and flew Z-95 Headhunters in the simulators on Prefsbelt IV, but that was part of a familiarization exercise so we understood how our opponents flew and maneuvered. I haven’t sat in a real Incom cockpit.”

“We’ll have some familiarization work to do, then,” the other young man said, his accent Corellian. Tycho studied him for a moment, and the Corellian caught him looking. “Do I look like the wanted holos?”

Tycho snorted. “I wouldn’t know. I heard your name, and Klivian’s, plenty of times after you jumped ship at Skystrike. I used to think you took the coward’s way out.” His expression hardened, but no ache surfaced, just the all-consuming numbness. “Then Alderaan happened.”

Antilles nodded. “Sometimes the truth is hard to swallow because you’re too invested in the lie,” he said quietly, no condemnation in his tone. “I had no real love for the Empire when I signed up, and the few people left in my life told me it was a bad idea. I get it.”

“You want to fly with Rogue Squadron?” Skywalker asked, a quietly hopeful note audible in the question.

“I’d like to fly,” Tycho said, “and General Rieekan thought I would fit here.”

“We’ll need to get you checked out on the sims and run you through an X-wing familiarization program,” Antilles noted, “but we could use you. We’re still building the squadron out to full strength, and a veteran pilot would be a great help.”

Tycho hesitated a moment. “My Imperial background isn’t going to be a problem, is it?”

Antilles snorted. “Hardly. Don’t misunderstand; most of the pilots in the squadron have personal reasons to dislike the Empire, but they’re not going to take it out on you.”

“You’re fighting for your own ideals now,” Skywalker added. “It will feel different. It will take time. But we’re glad to have you.”

Tycho nodded slowly. “I guess we’d better get me assigned quarters and introduce me to the rest of the squadron.”

Rieekan looked at the green-and-white astromech, then back at Skywalker. “This is a training droid, isn’t it?” he asked. “Are you having trouble getting proper astromechs requisitioned for your squadron?”

Skywalker shook his head. “The Rogues have been grounded for a week,” he said. “Yes, we’re short on droids, but Wedge and I were discussing a training flight. Live flight, not simulators,” he clarified. “Given the security review and what happened with Sarkli, Colonel S’man was unhappy with the first training plan we filed with the Independence traffic controllers. We were looking at restricting our X-wings to a training setup for our first exercise – laser cannons on low power, no torpedoes, and training astromechs without long-range nav capability.”

Rieekan grunted. “That would prevent just about anything short of a pilot trying to ram someone with their X-wing.”

“Simulators are all well and good, but the Rogues are climbing the bulkheads,” Skywalker said with a small smile.

Rieekan frowned. “You don’t answer to S’man, Commander.”

“No, but we’re operating off the ship where he’s responsible for ensuring traffic safety,” Skywalker pointed out. “A little compromise here won’t hurt us and maybe earn us some goodwill. Colonel S’man isn’t our enemy, General, not really.”

Tycho felt a small pang of confusion. I can’t imagine a squadron commander in the TIE corps making changes to his training plans to accommodate someone completely outside his own chain of command. How does the Rebellion fight like this?

“Proceed as you see fit, Commander Skywalker, but if you need me to push back to ensure your squadron can train, let me know,” Rieekan said at last. “The new tactics you and Antilles are suggesting look promising. I’m not convinced your squadron can actually fight this way, but I do think it’s worth the attempt.”

“Thank you, General,” Skywalker said. “Wedge, do you want to get Tycho set up with quarters? I’m going to take Zev and Karie over to the simulator bay.”

Antilles nodded. “Come with me, Lieutenant,” he said. “We’ll get you settled in and sweep your quarters for sabotage.”

Tycho raised an eyebrow. “Sabotage?”

“Naeco,” Antilles said dryly, as if the name explained everything. “I’ll catch you up on what you need to know about your new squadron before we run you through X-wing orientation tomorrow.”

---

The simulator pod was convincing enough that Karie Neth felt like she was really strapped into the cockpit of a T-65 X-wing.

“This is the last mission in your familiarization sequence,” Commander Skywalker’s voice said calmly in her ear as the displays lit, surrounding her with a simulacrum of hyperspace. “Zev, are you online?”

“Waiting, sir,” Zev drawled calmly.

“Your final mission for the familiarization run is the three-to-one odds dogfight against TIE fighters,” the commander’s voice continued. “But with Rogue Squadron modifications. You’ll be flying as a two-ship element instead of a three-ship. You’ll be engaged by six TIE fighters. Destroy both TIE elements and survive. You have command of your element.”

Karie swallowed. “Why not a three-ship element?”

Commander Skywalker sounded amused. “Life is change, Karie. You’ve got thirty seconds before reversion.” The channel clicked and the commander was gone.

I have command. She swallowed again. “Blue Leader, Blue Two, report status,” she said with only a bit of waver.

“Blue Two, Blue Leader. Fully armed and ready. Shields green. Weapons green. What’s our play?”

Karie watched the seconds tick down on her in-flight clock. “This sim throws the TIEs at us in waves, not all six at once. Proton torpedoes for the first wave,” she decided. “I break left, you break right. We target the TIE on our side of the formation. Whoever the middle TIE turns toward turns away. The unthreatened X-wing goes for the kill.”

“Copy, Blue Leader.” Zev’s tone was unflappable.

Karie closed her eyes and willed some of her wingmate’s steadiness into her own brain.

The timer hit zero, and hyperspace dissolved into star lines, then small, pinprick stars. Her astromech whistled a warning, painting TIEs on her HUD. “First wave, twenty seconds out,” Karie warned. “S-foils to attack position. Remember, break and bracket their formation.” Her actions followed her words, her X-wing cutting to port for several seconds even as Zev broke to starboard, putting hundreds of meters between them before they reoriented on the TIEs.

The TIE formation had shifted, all three of the fighters orienting on Zev. Karie shifted her weapons control over to proton torpedoes, the targeting computer flickering and beeping as it tried to lock onto her selected TIE. The reticle finally turned red and she fired, loosing one warhead toward the TIE formation.

A split-second later, Zev also fired a proton torpedo, then turned, his engines flaring brightly as he firewalled his throttle. The TIEs banked after him, their formation losing some of its cohesion through the maneuver.

Karie’s torpedo caught her target squarely in the middle of its right solar array, the panel shattering before the explosion consumed the fighter. Zev’s torpedo, unfortunately, overshot its target, banking around as it tried to maneuver back into a collision.

She glanced at her rangefinder and allowed herself a wince. Bracketed too wide. This shot is going to be long. With no better option available, she settled her target pipper on the lead TIE and squeezed the trigger. The X-wing’s guns fired in rapid staccato sequence, unleashing an intimidating hail of red laserfire. The lead TIE broke away, off of Zev’s tail; his wingman followed, still holding formation.

“Zev, reverse,” Karie called. “They’re coming around.”

“Twenty seconds to next wave,” Zev said tightly, his X-wing banking hard, shedding speed to bring the nose around more quickly.

The lead TIE settled in for a head-to-head with Karie. “Shields double-front,” she ordered her droid, nudging her sights onto the TIE. At maximum range, she started firing again, a steady-but-inaccurate rain of deadly plasma.

Return fire from the TIEs splashed against her shields, but the doubled-up protection deflected it away long enough for Zev’s tardy torpedo to finally catch up with the wingman. The TIE exploded in an argent ball of fire, and the third TIE, buffeted by the blast, tried to break away. Karie pounced, closing to nearly point-blank range as the TIE tried to slip past her but instead got a full burst from her X-wing’s guns at eighty meters away.

“Second element is on us!” Zev called, strain in his voice.

Karie banked after him, saw his X-wing dancing among an emerald firestorm as all three of the TIEs opened fire on him. Karie firewalled her throttle, X-wing leaping forward, closing fast.

Too fast.

She managed a snap shot on one of the TIEs, the blast shearing through a strut and sending the Imperial fighter spiraling away, out of control and out of the fight, but then she was past them. Both TIEs broke off of Zev and latched onto her tail. “Zev!” she called tightly, a cry for help in only one word, as she banked her X-wing port and starboard, trying to force the TIEs to overshoot.

A stray blast caught her X-wing, and a whine ran through the spaceframe, more felt than heard. “Shields double aft,” she bit out. Stupid, didn’t correct them before I engaged. A red light blinked on her board; the lower starboard laser cannon showed a fire control malfunction. No time for that.

One of the TIEs finally overshot, but it was in and out of her gunsights too fast for Karie to squeeze the trigger. The other exploded; Zev came up behind her, settling in on her wing.

The last TIE ran.

Karie stared at the retreating dot for a long moment. “Let it go,” she decided. “Arfive, give me our return hyperspace nav.” She brought the X-wing around, Zev on her wing, onto the appropriate course and engaged the hyperdrive. Instead of stars stretching into starlines, however, the canopy went black and, a moment later, rose to admit the harsh light of the sim bay.

“Sim complete,” Commander Skywalker said with a smile. “Good improvisation. And good instincts not to chase.”

“Did I pass?” Karie asked.

The commander laughed. “Yes, I’d say you passed. You did a great job adapting when I changed the parameters of the mission.” He offered her a sunny smile, and it occurred to Karie that he was no older than she was. “We’ll be going out in the real thing in a day or two. You’re ready for it.”

“Commander, why the change from a three-ship element to two-ship?” Zev asked from the next pod over.

“You saw the work Wedge was doing during lockdown,” Commander Skywalker said. “The X-wing versus TIE scenarios on the table? We’re going to train in two-ship elements, not three-ship.”

Karie frowned. “That’s not standard.”

“No, it’s not,” the commander admitted. “But Rogue Squadron isn’t a standard unit. We’re going to try new tactics and doctrine, figure out what works and what doesn’t, and hit the Empire with new strategy that they’re not ready for.” He smiled broadly. “Being able to think on your feet and adapt quickly will keep you and your squadron alive.”

---

Carlist Rieekan leaned back in his chair, fingers laced together, hands in his lap. “What do you think?”

The officers’ mess was nearly empty at the late hour, offering the two generals a modicum of privacy. Jan Dodonna was still studying the proposal intently. “Skywalker and Antilles continue to surprise,” he grunted, finally looking up. “After the battle of Yavin, I figured Skywalker could put together a decent squadron if he had Antilles to ground him in the procedure and paperwork that militaries run on. But I wasn’t expecting this.”

“The history portion of the proposal is definitely Antilles,” Carlist said. “That sort of military analysis looks more like Skystrike Academy than Tatooine farmer.”

“Agreed,” Jan said, “but some of the notes on this are definitely Skywalker. Antilles is a by-the-book pilot, even if that means he’s rewriting the book. This section on the trust requirements between pilots, and the importance of putting complementary pilots together is Skywalker. He’s got more of an eye for people than Antilles does.”

“Captain Antilles is learning that,” Carlist said.

“Oh, I’m aware. Antilles is under the impression that the only reason I assigned him as Skywalker’s executive officer is because Skywalker is inept at records and requisitions. But Skywalker inspires his people to do their best, and Antilles is learning that from Skywalker while Skywalker is learning structure and discipline from Antilles.” Jan offered him a smile. “I’m sure General Merrick wouldn’t be happy with this proposal.”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t. But Antilles is persuasive.”

“So, you’re going to let them proceed with this experiment?” Jan asked.

“With your approval, yes.”

“You hardly need my approval.”

“Technically, no. But you know both Skywalker and Antilles better than I do, and you were the one who authorized the creation of this Rogue Squadron.”

Jan laughed, finally setting the datapad down. “Is Colonel S’man still fuming?”

“He’s filed three separate complaints about the unit since his first encounter with them.” Carlist smirked. “Insubordination, threatening a superior officer, immediate harm to discipline and morale.”

“Is that all?” Jan asked with a twinkle in his eye.

“Oh, no, that was just the first complaint. The second was quite a bit meatier after the debacle with Lieutenant Sarkli and the disaster at Ralltiir.” Carlist rubbed his eyes wearily. “The security review cleared Skywalker’s unit without me having to put a thumb on the scale, though some of Skywalker’s command decisions have been unorthodox.”

“Unorthodox?” Jan asked.

“The oddest was during the evacuation of Massassi Base. When he landed to come back into the Great Temple to get you out, he took Flight Officer Jade with him instead of Lieutenant Sarkli.”

“After what happened on Ralltiir, that hardly seems odd.”

“But how did he know?” Carlist asked. “Sarkli’s record was as a Pathfinder. Skywalker had no reason not to take him – he was right on Skywalker’s wing opposite Jade. Hell, he could’ve taken both of them.”

Jan studied his glass, swirling the contents idly. “He’s a Skywalker, but he’s not a Jedi. At least not yet. But maybe…”

“The Force?” Carlist asked with raised eyebrow. “I’ve considered it. And maybe he did know at some level. But I don’t know how that works.”

Jan studied his glass longer, taking a drink before answering. “I knew some Jedi during the Clone Wars. They issued orders that didn’t make sense sometimes. But afterward, when the smoke cleared, we could see that the Jedi made the right call.”

“So what? We trust Skywalker’s judgement blindly?”

“No,” Jan said immediately. “It won’t come to that. Antilles will keep him in line.” He smiled again. “So yes, I’d say you authorize their experiment. Their arguments aren’t without merit, but we won’t know for sure until it’s tried in combat.”

Carlist nodded. “I’ll approve their training exercises, then.” He yawned. “Tomorrow they’ll be running Celchu through an X-wing familiarization course. The day after they’ll likely be running exercises in real space. Skywalker and Antilles are both eager to get back in the real cockpit.”

Jan snorted. “They’re pilots. That’s hardly surprising.”

“Skywalker signed off on the two pilots I recommended, so they’re en route now. They’ll be here in less than a week.”

“They’re going to need time to train,” Jan pointed out.

“I’ll give them what I can afford,” Carlist answered. “But the Alliance needed them active a week ago already.”

“They’re forging a new blade. If you don’t give them time to temper it properly, it’ll shatter when stressed.”

Carlist frowned. “A pretty metaphor, but we’re also fighting a war. I need them combat-ready.”

“Then give them time to become the weapon you need,” Jan urged.

“I’ll consider it.” He took the datapad back from Jan, affixed his signature, and transmitted the approval.

Luke and Wedge stood shoulder-to-shoulder just inside Auxiliary Two.

Two rows of six X-wings, a full twelve for a squadron. Gone were Luke and Wedge’s old Red Squadron markings, though the new red stripes were reminiscent of the Yavin group’s livery. The remains of other squadrons, of mismatched hull plates, all had been replaced by clean off-white paint with carefully applied red stripes up the fuselage and markings on the wings.

Luke sipped at the cup of caf, an unfortunate decision; it had cooled enough that now he could taste it. Still, the bitter taste did nothing to dispel the small but growing sense of admiration. We actually look like a squadron. Surprise warred with an unexpected pinprick of loss. My kill markings. He took another sip of the caf. I can always paint those back on.

“So when did it happen?” he asked conversationally.

“Last night, sometime after Hobbie left the hangar at 2200.” Wedge rubbed his jaw as he looked at the fighters.

“And you don’t know who did it?”

“Well, after I finally convinced S’man to check work orders for me to eliminate any of the maintenance crews, I narrowed it down to the squadron.” Wedge shook his head. “None of the astromechs had any knowledge of it. Or if they did, they’re keeping it to themselves.” He shot Luke a glance. “Your Artoo unit was not chatty.”

“I’m not sure if Artoo is trying to protect me or the X-wing,” Luke said dryly.

“Hobbie said he went to sleep, and I believe him. This is also far too much work for him to do on a whim; if he were going to paint the fighters, he’d recruit help.” Wedge’s recitation was clearly from memory. 

He already worked all this out, Luke thought. Let’s see if he drew the same conclusion I did.

“Puck and Janson are both out,” Wedge continued. “If they had done it, at least one, if not all, of the X-wings would’ve been painted something ridiculous. Pink and green candy striping, maybe. Or bright orange from nose to tail.”

“That makes sense to me,” Luke agreed.

“Also not Eirriss’s style. She could give us an impromptu twenty-minute lecture on the symbolism of the squadron and particular markings, but she’s not going to sacrifice a night of sleep to make it happen just because she thinks it’s a good idea. Neth is too new. She’d be worried about how you and I would react to it, even if she thought it was a great idea. And Senesca isn’t the sort who’s worried about appearances. If he thought paint would keep one of our pilots alive, he’d be first in line with a brush and masking tape, but he’s too seasoned for that.” Wedge glanced at him again. “It wasn’t me. And it wasn’t you.”

“You’re sure?” Luke asked, hiding his smile behind the caf.

“Luke, your concerns are the pilots and the missions and the people we’ve saved. I think you like the squadron’s new paint, but you weren’t the one who did it.”

His grin didn’t fade. “Sometimes, Wedge, I’d swear you’ve known me for years, not months.”

“You’re not much for subtle or symbolic, Luke,” Wedge said dryly. “So that leaves…”

“Mara,” Luke finished. “That was my immediate thought when you told me someone had done unauthorized maintenance on the X-wings.” He raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t put that on any report, did you?”

Wedge snorted. “Like I’d want to give Colonel S’man another concussion missile to fire at us.” He hesitated for a moment. “She painted over your kill markers. Including the Death Star marker.”

“I noticed.”

“And you’re okay with it?”

Luke hesitated before answering, marshalling his conflicted feelings and thoughts. “Every pilot who walked by my fighter saw that marker, Wedge, and knew exactly who and what it meant. The Hero of Yavin.” He made the epithet sound like a curse. “But Rogue Squadron doesn’t need the Hero of Yavin. We’re not trying to build a vanity project or a parade unit. And my X-wing doesn’t look like Red Five, the fighter that killed the Death Star; it’s Rogue Leader, and it belongs with the squadron. I’m a part of the squadron, not the whole thing.” He gestured broadly. “And these X-wings, including mine, all look the part now. We need the squadron, not the symbol.”

Several of the Rogues walked into the hangar, past Luke and Wedge – Hobbie, Mara, Cesi, and Wes.

“Mara,” Wedge said aloud. All four of them stopped. Wedge gestured with one finger, and Mara walked over while the other three continued further into the hangar, to the X-wings.

“Yes, Captain? Commander?” Mara said, tone both polite and questioning.

Wedge raised an eyebrow, looked at the X-wings, and back at Mara.

Mara looked at him guilelessly.

“You?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Why?”

“They looked unfinished.”

Luke tried to hide his smile.

“How many maintenance lockers did you raid for supplies for this little unauthorized art project?”

Mara’s expression was hard to read. “Two. First one didn’t have enough pigment.”

Wedge looked past her at the X-wings for long seconds, long enough for the silence to stretch into discomfort. Finally, his eyes came back to Mara. “They look good. Professional. Next time, requisition the supplies first.”

“The paint and tape were both already in the Aux Two maintenance lockers,” she had the gall to say.

Luke had to turn away and cough to keep from laughing. He could feel Wedge glaring at him while trying not to laugh himself.

“All right,” Wedge said after a moment. “One more thing, Flight Officer.” He leaned toward her, voice dropping. “You’ve still got a little red paint on your left hand. Clean up better after yourself. And next time, ask permission. Commander Skywalker would have given it to you.”

“Yes, sir,” Mara said, her tone uncertain. 

She’s not sure whether she’s being praised or disciplined, Luke thought, doing his best to keep his face unperturbed and knowing he was likely failing.

“Dismissed,” Wedge said. When Mara had moved out of earshot, he shook his head and a chuckle escaped.

“We deserve this, Wedge,” Luke said, his mouth finally curving up at the corners. “We did name the unit Rogue Squadron.”

---

Immediately after the security lockdown lifted, a runner had delivered a datacard to Mara in Rogue Territory. She’d slipped it in her pocket and it had sat there like a ten-kilo stone. She’d tried to ignore it while doing some basic work on her X-wing and astromech, just a systems check to make sure no new problems had arisen during the week the T-65Bs had been parked. In the cockpit, she was tempted to pull it out and examine the contents, but she resisted. I already know what’s on this.

She decided not to put it off any longer and, when Wes started in on a story about the Tierfon Yellow Aces, she slipped back to her quarters.

In the Rogues’ common area, the lockboxes they’d used for personal effects and weapons were stacked up on a table. Mara snagged the one she had sealed herself and retreated into her quarters. Inside, she locked the door before setting the lockbox on her bunk and opening it with her thumbprint.

Her DL-18 blaster came out first, holstered and wrapped in her belt. She checked to make sure the blaster would slide free, checked the charge, and finally tucked the bundle under her bunk within easy reach if she were lying down.

The only other item in the box was the lightsaber. I expected questions about this. What does General Rieekan know? she wondered uneasily. Or Skywalker?

She bit her lip. Sooner or later, someone is going to start asking questions. Or someone will come looking. She opened a drawer, pulled out her pilot duffel, found the oiled cloth, wrapped the hilt, and tucked it all away again. I don’t know why I keep this. It’s nothing but trouble.

Mara shook her head. You know exactly why you haven’t gotten rid of it, or even given it to Hera to hold onto. 

Her effects resecured, she finally pulled the datacard out of her pocket, slotted it into her datapad and found exactly what she’d expected: a holographic message, hidden behind an encryption code. It didn’t take long for Hera to find me. I’m surprised she hasn’t parked the Ghost in Aux Two.

Mara keyed in the decryption key shared by the Ghost crew and, a few moments later, the hologram hummed to life over her datapad.

Exactly as she expected, the image was of Twi’lek hero, Rebel general, resistance pilot, and self-appointed guardian, Hera Syndulla. “Mara,” the pre-recorded hologram greeted her warmly. “I’m sorry I lost track of you during the Yavin evacuation. I was even more surprised when I heard your voice on the fighter comms, flying with Wedge’s new squadron.” Her voice hardened. “I expect he and Hobbie are still holding to the terms we agreed on for training you.”

The Twi’lek hesitated for a long moment. “General Rieekan sent me a message asking for details about you and your service with the Rebellion and Phoenix. I gave him what he needed, and I personally vouched for you.” A smile touched her lips. “I doubt any of this surprises you.” The smile faded. “I understand you’re flying with Luke Skywalker. He’s a good man. Kanan would have liked him. But Mara, if the new squadron is too much, too…visible…” Hera’s voice trailed for a moment, “just say the word and I’ll accept your transfer to the Liberty‘s air wing. You can fly here, too, if you’d like. You can be closer to family.”

Visible, the word echoed in Mara’s mind. A memory, unbidden, floated up from the vaults she tried to keep locked. On Atollon, at Chopper Base, the Imperial blockade, the ground assault, and Grand Admiral Thrawn himself walking into the command center with a blaster trained on them as he’d looked at the gathered Rebels. “A pity Commander Sato did not survive for this moment. He was a worthy adversary.” His eyes flicked between them. “General Jan Dodonna. One of Commenor’s finest.” To Kanan. “The Jedi who has caused much consternation.” His eyes flickered past Mara, then back, with something like recognition in those alien red eyes. “The lost asset.” Finally, he looked to Hera herself. “And now, Captain Syndulla, I will accept your formal surrender. Or you will watch your friends perish, one by one, beginning with the Jedi.”

The lost asset.

Visibility is death, Mara.

“It’s your decision, Mara, but we’re here if you need us,” Hera finished. “I’ll be in touch when I can. I hope I hear from you soon.”

The image flickered and vanished.

Mara breathed, low and slow, eyes closed. “I’ll reply later,” she told herself quietly. “Not now.”

It was easier to tell herself later than maybe.

---

The afternoon was growing late when the four pilots gathered in the Rogues’ makeshift briefing room.

The chairs were uncomfortable, decoration was lacking entirely, but most importantly for Wedge’s purposes, the room featured a large holoprojector. Centered in the middle of a loose half-circle of chairs, the unit was likely older than any of the Rogues except Zev Senesca, but it was a high-resolution model suitable for detailed imaging.

The discussion was Wedge’s brainchild. He already knew the conclusions he had drawn, but this was about the squadron, not just himself.

Luke Skywalker was sitting closest to the holoprojector, unsurprisingly. He’s the unit commander and one of the best pilots I’ve ever met. He’s the most important person to convince, Wedge told himself. Skywalker is more instinctive than methodical. If I’m right, he’ll grasp this immediately and see the benefit.

Next to Luke was Derek Klivian. Hobbie’s been through the thick of it with me. He also trained at Skystrike with me. If there’s a weakness I’ve missed, he’ll see it.

And finally, next to Hobbie, was Mara Jade. And she’s here because of Ralltiir.

“What’s this about, Wedge?” Luke asked informally.

Wedge smiled. “Always good to have a shill in the audience.” He flicked the holoprojector on, the unit humming, image distorted as it warmed. “I’m pretty sure you can get credits for that in the civilian job market.”

“Not on my homeworld,” Luke deadpanned.

“We’re here to talk about fighter doctrine. Squadron doctrine. Engagement doctrine.” Wedge forced himself to focus and pace his words. Make the case. Don’t rush it. 

The hologram finally settled into coherence, almost laughably simple: three simple triangles, arranged as a three-ship element. Wedge glanced down, tapped a button on his datapad, and three more elements appeared, twelve triangles in all, arranged line abreast. “Standard starfighter combat doctrine,” Wedge said. “A standard squadron size for the Rebel Alliance and the Empire alike is twelve fighters. During the Clone Wars, it actually varied depending on the unit, anywhere from nine to twenty-one fighters. The Separatists liked larger squadron sizes.” He looked from the hologram to the pilots. “This is the basic doctrine all pilots train, Imperial and Rebel alike. Hobbie and I have gone through both.”

Hobbie grunted an assent.

Wedge zoomed in on a single three-ship element again. “The basics are simple. An element leader at the point, one wingman to port, one wingman to starboard. The leader picks a target, all three fighters fire on it. It’s proven, it’s standard, and it’s horrible for our purposes.” He didn’t give it time to sink in. “Ralltiir showed us how fragile it is.”

He looked straight at Mara, who had gone motionless.

The image shifted, a larger cylinder added with the triangles. “On Ralltiir, because of the limited number of fighters available, Commander Skywalker bent the doctrine a bit. Instead of a proper focused fire, he assigned both wingmen a zone to protect on the run out of atmosphere. It was a clever solution for the problems imposed by the limitations of only having a single element. But it broke because one of the wingmen turned traitor.”

He looked at Mara again. “The Bright Wake should’ve been hit and forced down. As a wingman in the element, what was your job?”

“To keep position and take targets as assigned,” Mara said flatly.

“Yes. That was Sarkli’s job, too. And Luke’s job was to position the entire element appropriately and issue orders.” Wedge shook his head. “And no one had the responsibility of keeping an eye on the wingmen. They should call for help as needed, but no one’s actively covering them.”

“I saw Sarkli’s nose turn in,” Mara commented. “It looked wrong, and I was already reacting when he fired the torpedoes.”

“Right,” Wedge agreed, “but that wasn’t your job. I’m grateful you caught it, and everyone on the Bright Wake owes you their lives because you saw it in time. But that was chance, and we can’t build a squadron out of chance.”

“If the three-ship element is so bad,” Hobbie said slowly, “why does everyone use it?”

Wedge snorted. “The fourth day of working on this was when I figured that out. From the history I learned at Skystrike, I had assumed it went back to the Clone Wars. Turns out, it was maybe fifteen years before that.” He looked down at his datapad but didn’t manipulate the hologram. “Back in the last few decades of the Old Republic, some of the biggest corporations and trade guilds and unions were running their own private militaries. Droid starfighters were extremely popular at the time because they didn’t require paying pilots. The whole system was designed around central computer control.”

Luke frowned. “So it was…what? Easier?”

“More efficient. I found a surviving manual on it in the Independence‘s databanks. Running three droid starfighters in a three-ship formation required something like fifty percent less processing power than running them as three separate fighters. Plus, a three-droid element was enough firepower to bring to bear on targets of the era to ensure a quick kill.” Wedge shook his head. “Corporate efficiency built the fighter doctrine everyone is still using.”

“And it survived the Clone Wars?” Luke asked, some interest bleeding into his voice.

Wedge couldn’t help his own smile. Get the farmer talking about fighter combat and he’s all-in. “The Separatists were relying on droid starfighters and never adjusted the programming. The Republic built its flight elements the same way. For almost all of the Clone Wars, fighters were used as force multipliers in fleet engagements. The focus was on warships and dreadnoughts, not fighter-scale engagements.”

“But that’s not how the Alliance fights,” Mara said slowly. “Rogue Squadron has been flying unsupported missions. The only time the Rebellion has brought capital ships to a brawl was at Scarif, and that was a disaster.”

“Right,” Wedge agreed. “We only have a handful of Mon Calamari cruisers, and they’re almost impossible to replace. We don’t bring them to an engagement unless we have no other choice.” He looked down at his datapad again. “Which means we’re still flying a doctrine for the last war, not the war we’re actually trying to fight.”

“What’s the alternative?” Luke said, more than a bit of eagerness in his voice.

Wedge smiled and tapped a button. The image shifted, all twelve triangles on display again. Another button press later, the twelve rearranged themselves; instead of four three-ship elements, they resolved into six two-ship elements. The elements themselves paired off; two elements, or four ships, at each point of a triangular formation.

“At Skystrike we studied fighter deployment theory,” Wedge continued. “Before the Clone Wars, starfighters were considered a dead-end for waging open warfare, but they were the best tool available for planetary militia and defense dealing with marauders and pirates and smugglers. The second-most common deployment for pre-war militia was the two-ship element. A leader and a wingman.” He tapped another button, and the image zoomed in on one of the four-ship groups. “The wingman is responsible for the leader, but the leader is also responsible for the wingman. The actual role of leader and wingman can shift in combat, based on positioning and situation.” He looked from the hologram to the pilots. “In a two-ship element, the wingman is far more active and looser than in a three-ship element. The wingman is unlikely to be shooting at the same target as the leader.”

“Which reduces firepower on target,” Hobbie commented.

“Right, but we’re focusing on fighter-to-fighter combat,” Luke said slowly. “We don’t need more than one X-wing’s worth of guns pointed at a TIE fighter. Even if the wingman isn’t shooting at all, a twelve-ship squadron flying three-ship elements means it has four tactical units on the board. A twelve-ship squadron flying two-ship elements has six.” 

“And the wingman is looser,” Wedge agreed, “which means, with practice, you can do a lot more combined maneuvers. We’ve practiced basic tactics like bracketing an enemy element with two of our own to force them to commit; under two-ship elements, a single element would do the same thing with just two fighters instead of six.”

Hobbie frowned. “What’s to stop an Imperial from splitting up his three-ship group to focus two fighters on one of ours and one on the other?”

“In theory, nothing.” Wedge acknowledged it with a nod. “The difference is that we’re actually training for this, not improvising it.”

Luke rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “And you put two flight elements together?”

“For mutual support, yes, and for combining fire when we need to hit bigger targets: freighters, corvettes, space stations.”

“And if leader and wingman are responsible for each other,” Mara said slowly, “someone attempting what Sarkli did at Ralltiir would be caught out without luck.”

“That’s the idea. I hope we never have to test that in practice.”

“Still twelve fighters. Just arranged differently.” Luke was clearly intrigued. “This is a big break from standard Alliance Starfighter Command doctrine.”

“General Merrick and Commander Dreis put the standard doctrine in place, but they were doing what almost everyone does. Preparing to fight the last war.” Wedge shrugged. “I won’t pretend this is straightforward or necessarily better. But I’m not asking Colonel S’man for permission.” He locked eyes with Luke. “Commander, I’m asking your permission.”

“You can train it?” Luke asked cautiously.

“I’ve been working through the basics of how I think it should work,” Wedge hedged, “but yes, I think we can train it.”

“If we do this, how long is it going to take? And how do we pair pilots?”

That question brought Hobbie and Mara’s attention squarely on Wedge. “I don’t know how long it will take,” he admitted. “The more time we can carve out, the better, but this is experimental. Weeks, minimum. Months, more likely, if we’re going to do it properly. And even then, we’re going to make mistakes and have to adjust.” He shrugged. “As far as pairing pilots, that’s what training is for. We’re going to need to cycle pilots together to see who flies well with whom. I don’t even have a tentative roster on that right now.”

Luke’s eyes were bright. “Then let’s experiment. How long will it take to finish familiarization with our newer pilots on the X-wings?”

Wedge shrugged. “Probably two days of intensive sims for everyone currently on the roster. I’ll have a better idea on Celchu once we’ve had time to run him through a sim tomorrow.”

“Not tomorrow. Tonight,” Luke corrected.

“What’s the rush?” Hobbie asked.

“Rieekan is desperate for pilots, and we’re racing against the clock to build something new.” A smile touched Luke’s lips. “And a week of being stuck on the Independence has been enough to make me want to volunteer to fly patrols for S’man. I want to get back in my X-wing, not just a simulator, but if we’re doing that we’ll want to take everyone on the roster.”

Wedge nodded. “Familiarization, then the real thing.”

“Exactly.”

Mara was studying the formation closely. “I like this,” she said at last. “Mutual support and accountability.”

No more missions like Ralltiir, Wedge interpreted.

“I’ll write something up for Rieekan,” Luke said. “It’ll tide him over until we have this built and tested.” His smile now was broad. “Great work, Wedge.”

“Thanks, Luke,” Wedge said with a dip of his head and relief unclenching his chest. This is the tool Rogue Squadron needs, he told himself. The tool for the war we’re fighting.

Wedge Antilles was seldom surprised by the antics of his pilots.

He had grown up on Corellia. His parents had owned a fueling depot on the Gus Treta station in the Corellian system. His family had maintained quiet business relationships with a number of smugglers, like Booster Terrik and his daughter Mirax, and his formative years were spent hearing stories of the ridiculous misadventures of miscreants operating outside the law.

Later, his brief stint in the Imperial academy had adequately demonstrated that, outside of a uniform, plenty of the Empire’s own pilots were no different; only fear of official recognition and punishment for misdeeds kept most of his fellow pilot cadets in line. And later still, after defecting to the nascent Rebel Alliance, Wedge had seen plenty of fellow Rebel pilots and soldiers get into trouble for ill-considered actions while on leave. Wes Janson, in particular, had twin reputations as a joker and a cantina brawler that would’ve gotten him drummed out of Imperial service, but the Rebellion needed good fighters more than they needed perfect discipline.

And yet, as Wedge sat in the Rogues’ common area with a bowl of mystery grain porridge, Puck Naeco’s question took him completely off guard.

“So, Captain, who snapped and painted the X-wings?”

Wedge blinked, reached for his caf, and took a swallow while he tried to assemble Naeco’s words into a question that made sense. He failed. “What?”

Puck grinned. “I need to know who won the betting pool.”

That statement made more sense. “What was the bet?”

“Who was going to snap first under the security lockdown.” Puck reached for Wedge’s caf, saw Wedge’s expression, and decided he was better off getting his own mug. “Hobbie’s running the ‘who gets cleared first?’ pool, but all the smart money is on Skywalker.”

Wedge shook his head. “Back up. What do you mean, painted the X-wings?”

“You know, X-wings. The starfighters we fly. Built by Incom.” Puck considered. “Well, not anymore, since the Empire nationalized Incom. Designed by Incom and built elsewhere.”

“Painted the X-wings,” Wedge repeated, enunciating slowly. “Painted. What are you talking about?”

“All of them,” Puck said, nodding. “Brand new, matching paint on all twelve. Even painted over the kill markers. I wanted to see Commander Skywalker’s reaction first, but I found you and not him.” Puck’s face was merry. “No more Death Star kill marker.”

Wedge took another drink of caf, trying to decide if he was still asleep. Unfortunately, I’m pretty sure I’m awake. “What does it look like?” he asked, hoping irrationally that Puck was making some sort of joke that he didn’t understand.

“Professional. White base, red striping. Matching all the way down. They actually look like a squadron now.”

Wedge shook his head. “If they look that good, it had to be the ground crew. Any of you jokers would have either vandalized two or three of them, not done a professional job on all twelve. Maybe Rieekan ordered it.”

“You really think the ground crew would’ve painted over the kill markers?” Puck snorted.

He blearily rubbed his face with one hand and looked around at the present Rogues. As Puck had noted, Luke was absent, as were Janson and Karie Neth. The rest were scattered around, sitting in various poses with caf, breakfast bowls, or both. Given the security lockdown, the mess in Pilot Country had been delivering a cart with food three times a day, and this morning’s selection had been the porridge or a reconstituted protein bake that could probably double as crash padding. He looked past Cesi Eirriss, engrossed in her reading as usual, and Mara Jade, who looked half asleep, until he finally caught Hobbie’s attention. “Klivian!” he called. “Is Puck trying to pull something over on me?”

Hobbie offered a dour look. “My kill markers are gone, too. I have to repaint them all.”

“This time you can paint as many as you want and no one can argue with you about the tally!” Puck said cheerfully.

Wedge thought for a moment, drinking more caf. This caf is probably a war crime itself. He shook his head, turning it over. Would Luke have had the X-wings painted without telling me? Honestly, that sort of job seems like something he’d ask me to schedule with a maintenance crew. Though he’s probably going as stir-crazy as the rest of us and just hides it better.

“You know anything about it?” he directed at Hobbie.

The other man shook his head. “Happened during the night. I was in the hangar with my astromech before I turned in last night. Everything was normal at 2200 when I left.” He offered a sarcastic smile. “Maybe Colonel S’man had them painted as a gesture of goodwill.”

“Not unless he thinks we’re getting assigned to the air wing,” Wedge groused. He gave up on the porridge, pushing the bowl away.

Puck grinned. “You’d think if we’re in a security lockdown there’d be a lot less access to our hangar, wouldn’t you?”

Wedge shook his head. “This mystery can wait until I’m awake enough to deal with your nonsense.”

“But I need to know who won the pool!” Puck’s tone was far more amused than concerned.

“Keep it up, and the first pilot who snapped will be me.” Wedge crossed to the caf maker, shook his head at the Property of Independence Air Wing text that none of the Rogues had bothered to obscure, and refilled his mug. “I’m twenty-one,” he muttered, “and somehow I feel like I’m the father figure half these idiots should have had.”

---

Luke’s quarters in Rogue Territory were sparse. He had left Tatooine with two droids and the clothes on his back, and in the months since he had hardly accumulated much. The civilian clothes he’d worn back then were laundered and tucked away, and here on the Independence he’d acquired a few sets of shipboard greys that were uniforms in all but name. A flight jacket and his flightsuit hung from a hook in the corner. He had a pair of static holograms on top of the heavy, squat dresser: one featuring Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru on Tatooine, the other an image of Luke himself with Princess Leia, Han Solo, and Chewbacca after the award ceremony on Yavin IV. The medal from the award ceremony was tucked away as well; Luke didn’t care to look at it. A mass-manufactured chair, lightweight and cheap, was tucked under the desk attached to the wall. The only other notable furniture in the room was a heavy shipboard bunk, hauled in while he was on a mission and magnetically clamped to the floor.

He’d fashioned a stand for his lightsaber, but his father’s weapon, along with his service blaster, were currently in the hands of Alliance Security. The training remote he’d been using to practice with the lightsaber and the Force had also been confiscated.

The security lockdown, now in its seventh day and hopefully ending soon, was the longest Luke had gone without trying to train. And without the lightsaber and training remote, his options were limited.

Which led to him now sitting cross-legged on the floor in his quarters, his back against the bunk.

Ben understood me even better than I realized at the time, Luke thought as he closed his eyes. He saw that the best way for me to connect to the Force was through action. That’s why he started me with a lightsaber on the Millennium Falcon. He told me about meditation, but he knew that wouldn’t be my first choice.

But now, I don’t have other options.

He calmed his breathing, counting seconds as he breathed in, held it, and breathed out his stresses. Slowly, the worries about the security review, the concerns for his pilots, the nagging worry that he wasn’t worthy of the trust the Alliance had invested in him with Rogue Squadron, calmed into background noise. Stretch out with your feelings, he heard Kenobi’s voice.

It felt, at first, like the faint tingle he remembered from a malfunctioning moisture vaporator with its plating removed. The hair on his arms stood up, but Luke didn’t open his eyes. Trust your feelings.

He tried, he pushed, trying to sense things beyond his quarters. It was an odd sensation, like he was squinting to see through the gloom on Tatooine after the twin suns set, but it felt…murky. Was there someone moving past his quarters in the corridor? Maybe? I’m not sure, he thought. Frustration threatened to overwhelm him, but he pushed it back down.

Luke thought back on Ben’s words to him on Tatooine. It’s an energy field created by all living things. It surrounds us, it penetrates us, it binds the galaxy together.

“The Force is everywhere,” he murmured, eyes never opening. It binds the galaxy together. Does that mean it connects us, then? 

He frowned as he considered that idea, the faint staticky hum of the Force in the back of his mind, a persistent tingle across his skin. It’s worth a try. 

Luke relaxed, breathing out the distractions again, and the tingle, the hum grew stronger. This time, instead of trying to just stretch out his senses, he focused in one particular direction. Wedge, he thought, focusing on the Force and on his friend.

It wasn’t like a flare lighting in the dark, but as he focused on his friend, and as the Force grew stronger around him, he realized he had a sense of where Wedge was. Not far, in all honesty, and if Luke had to put the sensation to words he’d have described Wedge as probably being in the small room he’d claimed as an office, perhaps forty meters away. Of even more interest, as Luke focused, he could feel that Wedge was concentrating on something, with a mix of uncertainty and determination. He’s…trying to figure something out? Something with the security review? But the sensation didn’t become any clearer, and the Force didn’t offer him any further insights.

Luke let the connection ebb. That was…something new. I bet if I practice, it’ll get stronger. Maybe.

Yet again he wished wholeheartedly that Ben had not died on the Death Star at Darth Vader’s blade.

Buoyed by the success, he tried stretching out again. Hobbie. He didn’t know the Ralltiir pilot as well as he knew Wedge, of course, but they’d flown together under intense conditions and Luke had no doubt that Hobbie considered him a friend – or as much of a friend as his commanding officer could be. He focused, and slowly, his sense of Hobbie clarified.

In the hangar again, Luke decided. He’s focused on…something. Something with his hands. Working on his X-wing again? Underneath Hobbie’s focus was a tangle of emotions Luke took a moment to sort through. Concern. Worry. Some of it is here, but some of it is far away.

Ralltiir. The name came not from the sensations in the Force but from Luke’s own head making the connection. Hobbie’s from Ralltiir. He asked me what the city looked like from the sky after we got back. I didn’t know why until Wedge told me later. He’s worried about the people at home.

Luke let the sensation fade, choosing to turn his focus elsewhere. Zev, he told himself, stretching out.

He found the older man, he was fairly certain, but the sensation was muted and muddied. Like a poor radio transmission. Or a poor connection. I barely know Zev, so it’s harder to connect to him. He tried to get a sense of what the man was doing, where he was, but the sense was so vague he could’ve been doing anything, anywhere within a hundred meters.

Abandoning the effort, a bit discouraged and vaguely aware he was tiring, he decided to try once more. Mara. He stretched out again, the tingle stronger this time as he poured more focus and strength into the effort.

For a long moment, Luke sensed nothing, not even the vague and indecipherable impressions he’d gotten from Zev Senesca. It wasn’t at all what he expected, given the missions they’d flown together – Yavin, Dantooine, Ralltiir. The nothing was concerning enough he had a brief, irrational pang of worry that Alliance Security had arrested Mara during the night and dragged her to a holding cell elsewhere. Mara? he wondered, still searching and pushing in the Force.

And then he finally found her, not far away; his impression was that she was less than thirty meters away, probably closer, most likely in her quarters. But where he had a bright sense of Wedge, a dimmer but still vivid sense of Hobbie, and a hazy sense of Zev, from Mara he got…

He fumbled for an adequate description, and finally settled on an eclipse. He almost couldn’t perceive her at all, but bits of light leaked around the proverbial moon between Mara and himself. From those bits he could sense weariness and fear and determination.

Luke finally let the Force connection go, the tingle fading from his skin and the hum from his mind. Did I do something wrong? Maybe I don’t know her well enough to connect.

I wish Ben were here to explain this to me. To teach me.

Darth Vader had many crimes to pay for.

---

It was early afternoon when Rieekan summoned Luke and Wedge for a meeting.

The summons were terse, but Wedge had no doubt the meeting was about the security review.

It was the first time he’d left Rogue Territory in a week, and being escorted by Alliance Security was somehow both comforting and ominous at the same time. I feel like we’re being walked to an execution, as ridiculous as that sounds.

Luke looked completely unbothered.

General Rieekan’s office was three decks up, with an antechamber as big as the Rogues’ common room. Three different desks crowded the room, all of them occupied by analysts in fleet uniforms. Two R3 astromech droids were plugged into computer terminals as well, no doubt providing extra analytic capability for Rieekan’s people. Wedge took in the details at a glance and then focused on keeping pace with Luke.

There was no delay at Rieekan’s office door; he was clearly waiting for them.

Luke and Wedge both came to a halt in front of his desk and offered salutes. Rieekan returned it. “Sit down,” he said, though his tone was more casual than strict.

When the Rogue pilots had settled in their chairs, Rieekan picked up his datapad and glanced at the content. No doubt he already knows everything on his pad, Wedge thought.

“Your security review is complete,” Rieekan said without preamble. “The short version is that everyone in your squadron has been cleared. You’ll be returned to active duty tomorrow.”

“The long version, sir?” Luke asked.

Rieekan grimaced. “Let’s start with Lieutenant Sarkli, Commander,” he said grimly. “Security swept his quarters, your squadron’s berthing, your hangar, his computer access, everything. Ultimately, we found nothing.”

Luke’s lips compressed into a tight line. “So he wasn’t an infiltrator.”

“We don’t actually know that,” Rieekan cautioned. “There’s reason to think he might have been. Did Sarkli disclose to either of you that his uncle is an Imperial fleet captain?”

Wedge’s eyes bulged. “No,” he and Luke said together. They exchanged glances, then back at Rieekan. “No,” Wedge said again, “Sarkli never mentioned any family connections at all.”

Rieekan’s smile was faint and humorless. “Captain Firmus Piett, commanding officer of the Imperial Star Destroyer Accuser.”

“The Star Destroyer over Ralltiir,” Luke said.

Rieekan nodded. “And the Star Destroyer that Celchu served on before his defection.”

“That’s circumstantial evidence,” Wedge felt the need to point out. “Sarkli might not have mentioned it because he knew what sort of attention it’d bring. He had every reason to believe the Rebellion wouldn’t trust him if we knew he had ranking Imperial fleet officers in his family.”

Rieekan nodded. “Though the alternative isn’t really a better look for him,” the general said. “Commander Skywalker, I’ve been over all the reports about your squadron from when you and Antilles were putting together a squadron. Some of your command decisions have been highly questionable.” He held up a hand to forestall comment. “That said, the proper response to concerns about a superior officer isn’t to try to sabotage a mission and defect to the Empire.” Rieekan’s expression hardened into stone. “Given the implication that Sarkli was highly unstable, I’m even more concerned about Alliance screening practices. I don’t blame you two for accepting him into your squadron, but if he wasn’t an infiltrator and really was that volatile, I would’ve expected someone to flag him before it exploded.”

“So you think he was an Imperial plant?” Wedge persisted.

“I would like to. I don’t have enough hard evidence to stamp it as such.” Rieekan looked tired. “Sarkli had been with the Rebellion long enough that he might never have been properly screened. I sent a message to General Cracken, to see if Alliance Intelligence can give me something more firm, but with long-range comms down the request went by courier and I’ve had no reply yet.”

“What about the rest of the squadron?” Wedge asked. “Anything concerning?”

“Most of your pilots are concerning,” Rieekan said dryly. “If you weren’t, you probably wouldn’t be flying starfighters for a rebel insurgency. Some of you have serious holes in your files that can’t really be accounted for, like Commander Skywalker.” He nodded at Luke. “But in your case, you blew up the Death Star. Senesca had a couple different officers in Supply vouch for him as a long-time smuggler before he joined the starfighter corps. General Syndulla vouched for Jade in spite of her file being almost completely empty and threatened me for even asking about her. Cesi Eirriss’s university files were purged by the Empire, but one of our officers talked to her doctoral advisor and a few of her university roommates.” He shook his head. “But we didn’t find any unexpected Imperial connections, nothing we didn’t already know about.”

Wedge settled back into his chair. “So what happens now?”

“Now, we tighten security around your unit,” Rieekan said. “We’re implementing improved screening practices. Celchu is being transferred to your unit tonight, though Intelligence isn’t happy that I’m turning him over to you this quickly. That should put your unit back at ten pilots, and I took the liberty of reviewing several more candidates for your unit.”

“You want us back in action,” Luke said.

“Yes,” Rieekan said simply. “Your squadron did three missions in three days that saved a number of lives.”

“It also broke us,” Luke pointed out. “We need time to train.”

“I know you need some time to run basics,” Rieekan said with a frown. “Celchu will need to be checked out in an X-wing, and you’ll need to complete familiarization with several of your later additions. But you’ve been getting trained pilots for your squadron, not rookies.”

Wedge leaned forward, shaking his head. “General, we need time to train because we’re going to try something experimental.”

“Experimental?” Rieekan’s eyebrows raised. “I don’t need experimental. I need a functioning squadron. What does this experiment look like?”

Wedge and Luke exchanged looks. “Give us a week, General,” Wedge said. “We’re still working out details. But give us a week to try it. We’ve been in lockdown with no access to simulators.”

“A week,” the Alderaanian repeated, clearly considering. “Alright. A week. It’ll take that long to finish filling your roster, even if you approve the candidates I’m suggesting for your squadron.” He offered a wry smile. “If I gave you any more of Colonel S’man’s pilots, he’d probably approve of Sarkli’s actions on Ralltiir.” He nodded at Luke and Wedge. “We’ll talk in a week. In the meantime, start using the mess hall in Pilot Country. They’re not a delivery service. And don’t antagonize S’man more than you have to.”

Luke and Wedge rose to their feet, recognizing the dismissal. A week, Wedge thought. A week to build a new doctrine that doesn’t break like the three-ship element broke on Ralltiir.

I wonder what tastes worse: the fuel we put in our X-wings, or this caf? Luke wondered. Serves the same purpose, I guess. He glanced at the caf maker, which still bore the handwritten text “Property of Independence Air Wing”. Good thing no one is allowed in here right now during the security review. Colonel S’man would be even more unhappy if he knew Hobbie and Sarkli had made off with their caf maker.

The thought soured his mood even more than the lack of sleep and the bad caf.

Resigned to the fact that he couldn’t put it off any longer, he headed to his makeshift office in Rogue Territory where Rieekan awaited.

The makeshift desk of crates had been replaced while he was on the Ralltiir mission with a basic premanufactured plastoid desk that, Luke suspected, predated the Clone Wars. Three mismatched chairs rounded out the furniture; one was a Headhunter ejection seat, the second a seat from a passenger shuttle, and the third (and most comfortable) was clearly a public seat from any one of a thousand starports, a ubiquitous dirty orange adjustable chair that somehow managed to be moderately comfortable.

Rieekan was sitting in the starport chair, behind the desk; Luke took the Headhunter ejection seat.

“General,” Luke said.

“Commander.” Rieekan quirked a smile. “Glad you could join me. I wanted to talk about the security review.” He held up a flimsiplast sheet.

Luke frowned. “It’s barely started, hasn’t it? It’s been, what, twelve whole hours since we called you in?”

“Not about the results. You’re right, we’re still in the early stages.” He grimaced. “It doesn’t help that secure long-range communications are still down. I sent couriers this morning to the Defiance and the Liberty and the Mako-Ta shipyards where Home One is undergoing refit, but it’ll take days to get data back. This sheet is the inventory of personal effects that your unit turned in.”

“So we’re stuck waiting,” Luke said.

“Essentially, yes. Some of your pilots have full records here in the Independence‘s computer systems, but some of them don’t. I was hoping Antilles’ records would help, and they do, but a few pilots are basically empty files.” Rieekan leaned back in his chair, his hands folded in his lap. “And after what happened with Lieutenant Sarkli, I can’t take any chances, even if I know what the results will look like.”

“Sir?”

Rieekan shook his head. “Never mind that for now. That’s a battle at my pay grade, not yours.” He shifted in his seat. “I need to know something, Commander. Are you still committed to this?”

“To Rogue Squadron?” Luke asked, eyebrows raised. “Of course I am.”

“There are members of High Command who think you would be more useful elsewhere. Destroying the Death Star has made you a symbol. Princess Leia trusts you.” He glanced at the flimsiplast sheet on the desk and offered a small smile. “And there aren’t many people running around with a lightsaber on one hip and a DL-18 blaster on the other.”

“General, I’m not a symbol,” Luke said, shaking his head. “I’m not a diplomat. I certainly don’t belong in High Command. And I’m not a Jedi, sir, or at least not yet. I’m a starfighter pilot, and a good one. It’s the one place I can do something that matters to the Rebellion.” He frowned. “DL-18? I carry a Merr-Sonn Model 57.”

Rieekan glanced at the flimsiplast and frowned. “One of the new security transfers must have made an inventory mistake. Do you remember the conversation we had after you retrieved Lieutenant Celchu, Commander?”

Now it was Luke’s turn to shift in his seat uncomfortably. “You proposed attaching Rogue Squadron to High Command.”

“Yes. And I’m telling you now that if you’re committed to this fighter squadron, it needs to happen.”

“Sir?”

“Skywalker, Colonel S’man is already calling for your unit to be disbanded.” Rieekan leaned forward, elbows resting on the desk. “If we attach Rogue Squadron to High Command directly, you are removed from the immediate political danger, though I have no doubt S’man will do his best to make you uncomfortable. I can also start feeding you the resources you are going to need to fight the war ahead.”

Luke’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.

“If you’re committed to it, I will back it,” Rieekan continued. “I can get you X-wings, supplies, pilots. And frankly, your unit flew three missions in three days with little time to rest and rebuild, completing all three missions. I want to help you succeed, Commander, but you have to let me.”

“And if I don’t agree?”

“Rogue Squadron continues to exist in limbo,” the general said bluntly. “Which lasts until Captain Verrack gets tired of Colonel S’man’s complaints and moves you over to the air wing. And then…”

“S’man picks us apart,” Luke finished. He shook his head. “Not much of a choice.”

“Not if you want to keep your squadron together.” Rieekan looked haggard for a moment. “And if you can continue to provide results like these, it’s worth keeping your squadron together.”

Luke nodded slowly. “Then I accept. Let’s attach Rogue Squadron to High Command.” He smiled faintly. “I guess that means we’re your personal fighter squadron now, General.”

“I’m not the only one who will want to use your unit,” Rieekan said wryly, “but I do have plans for you. Before we can worry about that, we need to get your squadron through this security review, get you properly outfitted, and finish filling out your roster.”

Luke rose, offering a salute. “If we’re done, sir, I need to check on my people.”

Rieekan returned the salute. “Take care of your squadron, Commander. I’ll take care of High Command.”

---

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you study a hydrospanner that hard. Well, not when you’re sober, anyway. Have you been holding out on us?”

Wedge glanced over his shoulder at Wes Janson and rolled his eyes, then turned back to the table in the Rogues’ common area. “Do you need something, Janson? Besides kitchen duty?”

“Entertainment,” Wes said cheerfully, flopping down on a stool nearby. “What is this?”

A number of objects rested on the table. An oversized hydrospanner was the largest, and a set of three empty shot glasses were off to the left. Across the table from Wedge sat Zev Senesca; in front of Zev were nine droid restraining bolts, arranged in three triangles of three bolts apiece. Karie Neth sat next to and a bit behind Zev, studying the table intently with wide eyes.

“Training,” Wedge said with a frown.

“I know everyone’s going a little crazy after two days of lockdown, but I’m not following,” Wes said, his tone turning curious.

“Ralltiir,” Zev grunted.

Wedge nodded. “We’ve been going over Skywalker and Jade’s reports from the mission.” He picked up the hydrospanner. “The Bright Wake. The goal is to get it out.” He pointed at the trio of shot glasses. “A standard three-ship element. Zev is running standard Imperial TIE doctrine on the other side, with the goal of shooting down the Bright Wake.”

“So you’re running a tactical simulation with a hydrospanner, shot glasses, and restraining bolts,” Wes said dubiously.

“Mostly our brains. These are just to make sure we both understand what’s happening.” Wedge’s frown deepened. “Okay, Wes, you tell me. How does a standard engagement play out?”

The Taanab native hesitated for a moment. “The Rebel flight leader picks a target. Wingmen focus on keeping flank position so they can cover him on the attack.” He gestured across the table. “The Imperials do the same.”

“Or the flight leader releases the wingmen to hit targets,” Wedge murmured. “And you have three pilots going after three targets.”

“But then they’re unsupported,” Wes said. “And if you’re focusing on a target, it’s easy to get fixated until someone is on your tail lighting up your shields.”

“Right.” Wedge slid all three shot glasses forward together. “So the formation stays together.”

Zev responded, sliding a trio of restraining bolts forward, but separating them well apart. “But the Imperial formation doesn’t. And now you’ve got three TIEs shooting at your formation. And they’re spread out far enough your formation can’t stay together and fire back at all three.”

“So my formation has to split, too,” Wedge murmured, spreading the shot glasses in turn. “And now instead of any element cohesion, it’s turned into three separate one-on-one dogfights.”

“Until one of the TIEs goes down,” Wes argued. “Then you’ve got a floating X-wing to help one of the other fighters in his element.”

Wedge reached out and flipped one of the shot glasses over. “Unless the TIEs score the first kill. Now it’s three TIEs against two X-wings, stuck in two different engagements and not mutually supporting each other.” He glanced at Wes, then across to Zev. “Why a three-ship element?”

“Because that’s the standard,” Zev said. “That was what the Republic found worked during the Clone Wars. General Merrick wrote it into our doctrine when he was made the head of Alliance Starfighter Command.”

Wedge’s lips compressed into a line. “We’re not fighting the Clone Wars.” He could feel Wes’s eyes on him. “Yes?”

“You don’t like it.”

“Because it breaks.” He reset his side of the table, moving the three glasses back together and setting the flipped one upright again. “Commander Skywalker, Sarkli, and Jade. Sarkli,” he said slowly, flipping a glass over again, “turns traitor and fires on the corvette. Skywalker doesn’t see it in time to do anything about it. Why not?”

“He doesn’t see it because it’s not his job,” Karie spoke up for the first time. “He’s supposed to be looking at the wider tactical situation. His wingmen were supposed to be covering him.”

“And the only reason Sarkli didn’t put the Bright Wake down was because Jade caught him turning in,” Wedge murmured. “She got a glance that looked wrong, and that wasn’t even her job.” He looked around. “Who’s supposed to be watching the wingmen?” His eyes darted from Karie to Zev and finally to Wes, but none of them answered. “Well?”

Zev finally answered. “No one. Wingmen are supposed to be communicating by comm. Calling out if something is wrong.”

“And that’s where it’s fragile,” Wedge said with grim satisfaction. “Sarkli stabbed us in the back, yes, but he damn near got away with it because there’s a blind spot in the flight.”

“Captain, if we can’t trust the other pilots in our element, we’re in all kinds of trouble,” Wes protested. “And besides…what’s the alternative?”

“I’m still figuring that out.”

---

Luke found Mara standing just inside the entrance of the Rogues’ hangar, studying the X-wings.

Nine days ago, six Massassi Red Group pilots had flown X-wings off Yavin IV and ended up in the Independence‘s Auxiliary Two hangar. Four pilots had joined, one pilot and his X-wing were gone. Rieekan had promised Luke that morning that Tycho Celchu would be added to the Rogue Squadron roster when the security review was completed. And now, under careful instruction from the Independence‘s ground support staff, seven more X-wings were ferried into the hangar.

“Security review will be over soon,” Luke said. “Then we can get back to building the squadron.”

Mara didn’t startle; she’d clearly been aware of his approach. “They look wrong,” she said.

Luke frowned and looked at the X-wings. “How so?”

The younger pilot shook her head. “You and Captain Antilles? You’re still flying with Red Squadron markings. My X-wing is striped for Blue Squadron. Hobbie and Naeco’s X-wings are painted for one of the Defiance‘s squadrons. These other X-wings? They look like they came off a bone pile somewhere and got patched back together.” She gestured at the nearest new addition, which had just been settled in place, the tug now moving back toward the magcon field and open space. “Take that one. There are at least three hull plates from three different fighters. I bet they pieced that together from four or five different wrecks.”

“That’s the Rebel Alliance,” Luke said ruefully, rubbing his neck. “Sort of how we’re building Rogue Squadron, too.”

“Are you going to put me on report?” Mara asked abruptly.

“For what?” Luke said, confused by the sudden change in subject.

“I disobeyed orders. Sarkli took the shot and I went after him. You ordered me back.” Her voice went monotone as she recalled the fight. “I ignored your order. I chased Sarkli and didn’t even kill him.”

Luke shrugged uneasily. “You did disobey orders,” he said slowly. “And maybe I should. But I’m not going to.”

“Why not?” Mara still stood with her back to him, watching the busy hangar. “Seems straightforward. I screwed up.”

“Because we were both thrust into a situation we weren’t prepared for and weren’t trained for. It was the third mission you and I had flown in three days, and then our third pilot betrayed us in the middle of the fight.” He shook his head. “Are you going to do it again?”

“No, because you’re going to put me on report and then I’ll be out of your squadron.”

He frowned. “I’m not following.”

She gestured at the hangar. “I don’t belong here. I proved it over Ralltiir.”

Luke snorted. “Hardly. You also helped me get Dodonna out of Massassi Base. You and Hobbie got Celchu off Dantooine. You survived that dogfight with Sarkli and made it back alive. I’m not going to drum you out of the squadron because you made a bad call.”

“I disobeyed orders,” she said, her tone reminding Luke of Aunt Beru explaining simple logic to him as a child.

“Look at me,” Luke said quietly, waiting until she finally turned to face him. He couldn’t read her expression at all, and her brilliant green eyes were full of…something. “Sarkli hit you with everything he could think of to make you react. Yes, you reacted. You also survived the fight, you came back, and we succeeded. I lost one pilot at Ralltiir. I’m not losing two.” He locked gazes with her. “I saw how you flew both at Yavin and at Ralltiir. You belong here.”

Mara broke the stare first, looking back into the hangar. “Hera’s going to come looking for me, after all this.”

“Good thing Rogue Squadron is attached to High Command, then,” Luke said dryly.

She spun back on him. “What?”

“Rogue Squadron is attached directly to High Command now,” he said. “We’re being tasked by General Rieekan, but we’re mostly outside of regular Alliance Starfighter Command now.” He smiled briefly, but it faded. “Mara, do you want to transfer out?”

She hesitated for a long moment, and Luke tried to read her face, but it was a complicated mix of hope and fear and determination and pain. “No,” she said at last. “No, I don’t want to transfer.”

“Then you’re a Rogue.” Luke looked out at the hangar. “And when this security review is done, we’re going to have a lot more work to do.”

---

By 2300 hours, Rogue Territory had gone nearly silent. Eight pilots had retreated into their quarters and were asleep or pretending to be.

Mara Jade was not.

There was something she needed to do.

The idea had been born after her discussion with Skywalker that morning. She’d done her best to discard it, but the idea had festered and grown.

Better to ask forgiveness than permission.

Twelve X-wings now filled Auxiliary Two. A mismatched collection of Incom T-65s, drawn from broken squadrons and refurbished from scrapped wrecks, pieced back together and now assigned to a squadron led by an Outer Rim farmboy and a Corellian who had entirely too much faith in paperwork.

Mara crossed the hangar briskly, heading to the maintenance lockers, knowing exactly what she was looking for and where it should be. She was not disappointed in the efficiency of the Independence‘s maintenance crews.

There was really only one place to start, and that thought intimidated her as she moved down the line of X-wings to the fighter nearest the magcon field protecting the hangar from vacuum. Any other choice would show something less than full commitment to the task she was about to undertake.

Sabine would have seen these X-wings as blank canvases. She’d have freehanded all of this with the aerosols she almost always carried. They’d have been twelve unique works of art, beautiful and horrifying with all sorts of meaning I don’t understand.

Mara started with a roll of painter’s tape. A meter and a half strip, the end torn off neatly, positioned on the fuselage of Luke’s X-wing. She stepped back, evaluated. Moved back in and adjusted it a centimeter downward, evaluated again. That will do. Then she shook the can of paint she’d taken from the maintenance locker and started to work, Alliance white as a base, and then proud red stripes up the fuselage.

She hesitated under the cockpit canopy. Skywalker’s kill markers were there, including the unmistakable rounded, grey-and-black Death Star. I can’t believe I’m doing this. And then she did it anyway, laying on fresh paint straight over the kill markers, obliterating them entirely.

She patterned the s-foils with a pair of red stripes parallel to the fuselage out near the laser cannons, a diagonal stripe running from the sublight engine intake to the end of the wingtip laser cannon, and a single stripe running alongside but not on the trailing edge of the wings, leaving room for numbered markings. There was little doubt that Luke’s X-wing would be marked with a single stripe as Rogue Leader or Rogue One, but for now, she left it blank. Strips of marking tape, carefully sprayed paint, tape removed, she worked a meter and a half at a time.

When Mara had finished, she stood back and studied the effect. A bit like Red Squadron, but it’s definitely not. Perfect.

She checked her chronometer. It had taken her an hour to set up and paint Skywalker’s fighter, but now she knew exactly how she was going to do the rest.

Her own X-wing was next. Then Captain Antilles’ fighter, then Naeco’s, then Hobbie’s. And then down the row she worked, moving quickly but precisely, positioning tape, painting confidently, and peeling the tape back when she was done.

At 0520, she was done.

The remaining paint went back to the maintenance lockers, as did the pitiful remains of the roll of masking tape. The used tape went in a waste disposal, and Mara found some solvent to get the splatter from her hands and forearms, though she suspected the shipboard tunic she wore would be a complete loss.

Her mind finally quiet, she stopped one last time at the hangar entrance to look back at the X-wings. Rogue Squadron. We’re Rogue Squadron, and those X-wings are ours.

And when Mara finally fell into her bunk, sleep came quick and dreamless.