Star Wars: Escape To The Rebellion

CHAPTER 1

I can feel the warmth already, Admiral Ozzel thought to himself as he surveyed the Imperial command ship’s bridge. He had requested heat control to be increased only three minutes ago and its effects had enveloped the expansive room in record time. This is the Empire, the middle-aged Ozzel marveled—superior technology.

But not only technological dominance, he realized at once—dominance in fire power, in political matters, in controlling worlds, in leadership… Yes, the Empire was where a staunchly ambitious, power driven man such as Ozzel felt right at home. He deserved his position. Never mind that his family was long in aristocracy and their political connections lifted him to his current rank and status. That was semantics; he belonged here at the command of this Super Star Destroyer (and damn the whisperings of dissent from other officers). And perhaps with enough successful missions under his belt, he might one day (when Governor Tarkin eventually passed) command the most feared weapon in the galaxy—the Death St—

Admiral!

Ozzel’s revelry broken, he turned to the lieutenant who called out his name and was fast approaching. Yes, lieutenant? Ozzel responded evenly.

I’m afraid I have very serious news to report, admiral, the young lieutenant stammered.

Then out with it, report. Ozzel could see genuine fear and apprehension in the officer’s eyes. Did the lieutenant fail at some crucial task, something that could have serious reprec—?

Sir, the Death Star has been destroyed, the lieutenant finally breathed out.

Ozzel’s eyes tightened. The rest of his face followed suit. The Death Star destroyed?! That simply wasn’t possible!

Young man… Ozzel started with a thin and falsely smile. …do you dare disrespect me with folly, with juvenile jokes—

Please, admiral, the petrified lieutenant interrupted quickly. What I have to tell you is the complete truth— he handed Ozzel a pen-shaped device. —this is proof of its destruction…

Taking the device in hand, Ozzel’s eyes narrowed as he stared at it, then at the jittery lieutenant. Could this madness possibly be true? One thing was for certain in Ozzel’s mind: if the recording wand had some sort of salacious, derogatory message meant to supremely embarrass his authority, our tender lieutenant here was going to have a four-hour session with an interrogation droid (all safeties removed of course).

Ozzel turned and walked a few steps to the console, leaned over, and inserted the wand. Shortly after he pressed a button, a speaker grill built into the long console became active with static. This was brief, however, as a man’s voice came through: Good God, what was that?! and then in an instant another man’s: Oh no, no, NO! The core is going supernova! Even more disturbing to hear was the next voice; so calm, so official: Stand by… Stand by… A hideous rocking noise followed only a second later… then static returned.

Ozzel could only stand there, mentally frozen. But only briefly. How... how could this have happened? When she had just proved her might with Alderaan? he wondered in horror (and a quickly dissolving disbelief).

The lieutenant stepped forth abruptly. There’s more, sir. This is a transmission picked up shortly after… He adjusted the controls on the console and a rather excited, highly charged voice erupted from the speaker: Great shot, kid! That was one in a million! Static made its last aural bid and then silence claimed it as the lieutenant switched to off.

Ozzel made a few steps away from the other officers, staring off into nowhere it seemed. His face was of a little boy who had been given a supposedly complex riddle, and was about to be enraged at the ease of its answer. A kid, he mumbled, his back to the men. A boy… annihilated our most advanced, most powerful creation… He turned and faced his subordinates with eyes of white heat. A BOY!!!

As Ozzel barked this, the lieutenant flinched. Hard.

And for aristocratic Ozzel, it was over now. Dreaming of the ultimate post (command of the Death Star) was a waste of so much mental glory-seeking. Tarkin had retired, that was certain, but it mattered not in the least. The manner of his retirement saw to that.

And although the entire massive space of the command center was now quite comfortably warm, Ozzel felt a deep and gnawing chill.

CHAPTER 2

The boy in question, who had so recently sent ripples of shock and crushed ambitions throughout the Imperial fleet, Lieutenant Commander Luke Skywalker stood respectfully over four rudimentary headstones. Luke had found them as extra slabs that would be used for barricades in heavy weather. There were no names engraved with care (or even pasted on with some fancy laminate) on the rectangular stones. Luke supposed in the end that it didn’t matter—there were four people with whom he had lost with ripping abruptness—so four stones to show his number of loss. Was it appropriate enough to honor their lives, their accomplishments to him and to others? The answer of course was not by any stretch of anyone’s imagination. But time and resources were short and these makeshift monuments would have to do.

For now.

Luke! Hey Luke!

Luke knew that voice and didn’t need to turn around to identify its source. He’d heard it enough in one of the most harrowing experiences of his life—the Death Star assault. Only a week ago…

"I can’t shake him!"

"Hold on, Luke! I’ll be right there!"

"Blast it, Biggs, where are you?!"

But Biggs couldn’t come and only Wedge Antilles was free up to save Luke’s hide from an experienced TIE fighter pilot. Wedge had come at the enemy fighter head on and blasted it into oblivion.

And here was Luke’s last minute savior fast approaching to stand beside him. Hey Boss, we’ve haven’t much time… Wedge got out between labored breaths. What is this, who’s buried here?

Luke still hadn’t faced Wedge. This wasn’t out of disrespect for his new friend, Luke was simply caught up in the beauty of the scenery before him. And the odd enrapture of bitter remembrance. No one, actually. They’re just for those I can’t bury—Biggs, my aunt and uncle… and Ben.

Wedge wasn’t quite sure what to say at that point. How could he get Luke to better spirits? There had been almost nothing but jubilant celebrations in the last few days that this somber moment had caught him off guard. All he could think of to say was: Luke, I never told you how sorry I was for bailing out when I did—

No, don’t Wedge, Luke finally turned to eye his unnecessarily penitent friend. Don’t do that to yourself. You and I know your ship was losing lateral control. You might have run into either Biggs or me, and the Death Star might have survived to blow up all of us. You did absolutely the right thing.

I know in my head you’re right… but in my gut it felt wrong.

Luke lifted his eyebrows like a father would trying to encourage his son. Wedge, try not to forget, you saved my life with one of the gutsiest maneuvers I’ve ever seen. That makes you a hero in my book.

This brought a grin to Wedge’s face and a zigzag to his eyes. That’s true. I guess you owe me one, don’t you, boss… His grin broadened. You know… I’ve never owned a lightsaber before—

Don’t even think about it Luke barked protectively. He knew Wedge was pulling his proverbial chain. Still.

They chuckled in unison for a moment, then returned serious gazes to the four stones. Wedge began, You know, Biggs had just joined us not long before you did… but from what I knew of him he was a stand up guy.

Now a grin of pride came to Luke’s face. He was one of the best friends I ever had; always looking out for me… even at the end.

Look, I hate to rush you, boss—

I know, we have to go.

Sooner than we hoped. Lookouts have spotted two Star Destroyers in nearby sectors. We have a few hours at most.

Luke pursed his lips. He’d hoped for more time for certain things—talking some sense into a certain smuggler, for one… Wonderful, he mumbled as he turned, patting a hand on Wedge’s shoulder. Let’s get moving then, lieutenant.

Yes sir, Wedge replied with pilot enthusiasm as they both sprinted back to base.

CHAPTER 3

The planet Coruscant.

The heart of the Empire, from which it sprung and spread, possessively nurtured by its power-saturated leader, Palpatine.

Running intricately towards every blur of the Coruscant horizon were thousands of massive and jutting structures that sprouted from her granite and metallic surfaces. Each rise pridefully boasted its own individualistic design befitting the beings who inhabited them. And yet, paradoxically, the architectures seemed to coalesce together like some massive family portrait—varied yet related.

And like levitating decorations for these designs, a flying ballet of fuel-propulsioned iron insects swarmed the smog-laddened sky as far as the eye would allow. The aerial bugs appeared to be in psychic connectivity with each other, uniting their coasting formations in straight lines and curves, ascents and descents.

Of course these mechanized flyers were far from true insects considering their organic hosts possessed vastly superior brain power over your average tiny, feeler-featured life form.

Yet even with their heightened intellects, their abilities to achieve beyond what a mere bug would instinctually wish to accomplish, their capacities to create art, music, and commerce, their abilities to strive and to love, they were still considered pathetic and lowly insects by their leader.

Insects. Pawns. Tools. Devices to be operated with one grand purpose in mind—to fill the well of power that Emperor Palpatine would so generously drink from every day of his already much-prolonged life.

The Emperor’s genius was in making the insects believe that what they were doing on a daily basis was for themselves and their cherished ones. And not for the greater lecherous gain of their glorious ruler. Subterfuge and distraction, plans within plans were his long mastered strategies, which had elevated him to his current status as absolute controller of the wide-reaching Galactic Empire.

Naturally, difficulties were always abound when governing such an enormous and diverse net of systems, with all their unique demands and cultural stipulations. But Palpatine had been preparing himself for the rigors of singular rule since he was a promising young delegate from Naboo (and simultaneously a Sith apprentice stealing tutelage from the wizened Darth Plageus). Palpatine was well versed in political wrangling and knew the proper course of action to any galactic conflict or disagreement. Typically, it could be handled with a good number of Star Destroyers swinging their proverbial military hammer at an errant system or two. But if more delicate factors were involved, then Palpatine utilized his masterful skills of psychological and emotional manipulation. On occasion, he even resorted to out and out bribery, money being the slickest grease.

Despite these tribulations of emperor-hood, however, Palpatine was predominantly a contented wretch of a man. Pale, deformed, and sunken to be sure, but satisfied that his prestigious throne had been his to sit upon for the past thirty-odd years (twenty as the self-appointed Emperor). His very own. Unchallenged even with the threat of this so-called Rebel Alliance buzzing around his periphery, like some unnerving airborne insect.

Meddlesome and mindless bugs, Palpatine mused with a fair measure of superiority and its resulting air of detachment. Bugs, miniscule and insignificant—the Rebellion and his own followers. Yet ironically, some of them were necessary to his precious Empire. And some of them he had to work quite closely with… in the very office he now stood—his personal office at the top floor of the central government building. As he stood, he gazed out at the dizzying stretch of cityscapes mired by the opposing flows of air traffic. And thought to himself, Today I sense that my contentedness will be dampened considerably. Or at the very least, greatly challenged. By what I will soon discover as one of my personal aides ascends the elevator lift to this very level. One more minute and the necessary bug will enter the office and, with a nerve-wrecking stammer, offer forth the immensely troubling revelation.

The minute had passed and the aide stood twitching-faced before his ruler and breathed, It is c-confirmed, the Death Star has been destroyed, b-blown apart by the Rebel forces.

Eyes darting around with restrained manic frenzy, the Emperor, after a brief instant, turned away from the sickened aide and back to the crowded view of the city. But he noticed none of what he glared at, his poisoned mind still absorbing the disturbing news, the alarming turn of fortune.

You’re absolutely certain? the Emperor croaked.

Yes. Once the core of the station became unstable, the emergency protocols launched its flight recorder, which then transmitted its final reports to the nearest fleet patrol. Before he went on, he attempted a bracing gulp—which did not go so well. He felt as if his throat had bulged shut. My apologies, my lord. I know that you had high hopes for the station. And that it was to usher in a new level of order and regulation throughout the galaxy.

Not your doing, the Emperor said flatly. There is only one I hold accountable for this obvious debacle. Vader.

The aide blinked slowly as his chest heaved out a cleansing, relieving breath. Though he was careful not to make a sound.

The Emperor continued to stare dumbly out the window as he elaborated, My rash apprentice was charged with the safety and performance of the Death Star… and it appears he has failed me yet again.

The aide blinked once more (but quicker) as his brow drew in. Again, sir?

Yes. He allowed the specs for the station to get out in the open.

Eyes lifting leftward, the aide nodded once. Ah.

And now it seems one failure has led to another. Has he attempted contact with the fleet?

No, my lord. No word on whether he even escaped alive. But… I gather you would be able to sense one way or the other.

The Emperor let his top lids float down to meet his lowers as he drifted into a minor, searching trance… and then his eyes snapped open once more. Yes… he did survive the blast… though he is reticent to contact me or anyone else in the fleet…

…Well… it may be possible that he is gathering himself, determining how to salvage the situation… how best to serve you, my lord.

Let us hope, for his sake, that your assessment is correct. Then the Emperor turned from the window to face the aide again. In any event, we now have a situation on our hands which could prove volatile in a matter of days or even hours.

The aide’s eyes shot away in contemplation. Yes, the senate dissolution.

Precisely. Once they discover that the Death Star has been obliterated, the various senators of the systems will be angling and plotting their bids to wheedle back into my good graces, calling for reinstatement.

And, unfortunately, they would have good ammunition for the cause, what with these greedy, inept regional governors taking the reigns.

The Emperor spit a breath. Those fools…none of them could find a resourceful plan of action if it were gift wrapped and shoved under their nose.

Yet you know you cannot backpedal now, sir. The political ramifications would be—

Disastrous, I know… The Emperor turned away once more, slowly and carefully trotting a few steps over towards the other end of his office. Leave me. I must meditate on this further.

The aide, with equal grace, bowed and made for the doors as he complied with, As you wish, my lord.

And the Emperor was left alone to do what he so often did best…

…plans within plans…

CHAPTER 4

The cursed thing is gone! Senator of Marshol Minor and acting leader of The Alliance, Mon Mothma cried as she entered the conference room of the Rebel cruiser. The jubilance in her eyes was unmistakable to everyone whose presence had been requested.

The Death Star, you mean? a Rebel captain asked with rising hope.

Yes! Blown to a billion particles, nothing left of it! Thanks to Leia and the pilots of the main base!

Deep and powerful cheers rocked the spacious room.

Then she succeeded, escaped and succeeded, a towering figure breathed with showering relief.

Well now, did you really have any doubts? Mothma playfully threw the figure’s way.

The figure, the olive-skinned man smiled quiveringly and replied, No… I suppose I didn’t… and his smile broadened, euphoria rolling out of his facial expressions. Soon, however, the senatorial animal in him took over. But now we must consider the opportunity we now have to act.

Quite right, Mothma agreed as she glanced about the room, her comrades spread around it. With the station’s destruction and the end of the senate, the Emperor will be put in a very precarious position.

Not to mention the eventual fallout from— The figure visually tightened, blinking twice in rapid succession. —the destruction of my home planet.

Mothma paused before adding, Yes… when all systems and their representatives learn of what the Empire… did to Alderaan, it is likely Palpatine will have a revolt on his hands. Of what scale I can only guess at this point.

The Rebel captain entered in with, Whatever its size, it will be sure to complicate his already strained standing with the populace. He faced the figure and said, I agree with you, the time to strike is now, when he is most vulnerable.

He has been vulnerable before. Do not underestimate him because he looks old, feeble, and diseased, Mothma warned. The man is cunning and more powerful than most see. If we are to strike then it must be with a plan that is airtight and nothing left to chance.

Mothma, the figure began, As far as we know, you are still in good standing with Palpatine… If you can arrange a meeting with him, get him to confide in you and convince him that you are sympathetic to his plight… then maybe we will be able to draw him out.

"I’ve been thinking of that very thing—we know he is under pressure now not only from the majority of foolish and greedy regional governors, but the restless senators who will be crying give us the floor once more. My plan is to get him to temporarily reform the senate structure to address the present concerns. Since the senate room has been torn down, I will suggest