Yavin 4
Alex stood in the command center of the base on Yavin 4, observing the final preparations for the attack. In a few days, his life had changed drastically. First, the destruction of Scarif – the planet turned into a cloud of debris from a single shot from an unknown weapon. Then an urgent call from Garrek, a flight to Yavin, analysis of stolen blueprints. His program "Star Architect" discovered a vulnerability in the Death Star's construction – a small technical channel leading directly to the main reactor.
Now, a gray sphere the size of the moon was slowly approaching them, ready to erase another world from the face of the galaxy. Alderaan was already gone – two billion lives turned into cosmic dust. Soon it would be their turn.
Alex watched the monitor screens showing the station's trajectory. The calculations were ruthlessly accurate – in forty minutes, the Death Star would enter the kill zone. Forty minutes until the green superlaser beam turned Yavin 4 into plasma.
He had done everything he could. He found the weak spot in the construction, transmitted the coordinates to the fighter computers, and checked the calculations. Now all that remained was to wait. And this waiting was the worst part.
If I die here, Alex thought, all my plans will end here and now. How pathetic! Years of research, expeditions, understanding the true nature of galactic stagnation – all of it will disappear with him in the green fire of the superlaser.
He had to do something, somehow take fate into his own hands. But what could he do?
Three hundred pilots gathered in the main hangar of the base – the entire combat strength of the Alliance on Yavin 4. The fighters were on combat alert, their engines already warming up. Alex saw the pilots' faces through the surveillance cameras – young, determined, ready to die for a cause they believed in. Should he join them? For some reason, he felt it was pointless.
General Dodonna began an inspiring speech.
Alex listened to the words, but his attention was drawn to something else. On the pilots' heads, he noticed familiar devices. A military modification, he recognized the characteristic outlines of the device, a sketch of which Professor Well had shown him. They were used for controlling fighters and targeting systems. There was nothing surprising about this, as many modern weapon systems were developed during the Clone Wars.
So, the military had finally refined and implemented the developments of Well's group. Even here, among the rebels fighting for freedom, these technologies were being used.
Behind the general's inspiring words, Alex saw the cruel truth. These people, heroes going to their deaths – they were unlikely to succeed. The forces were too unequal. But this was their only chance.
Among the rebel formation, Alex felt something unusual. Like a slight tingling in the back of his head, a barely perceptible sensation of the presence of something... special. He looked around, trying to understand the source of this feeling, and his gaze stopped on a young pilot in an orange jumpsuit.
The guy was short, fair-haired, with an open face. He exuded potential – not technical or military, but something deeper. Something that set him apart from the others.
"Brothers, into battle for our chance!" Dodonna's voice boomed.
The pilots began to disperse to their fighters. Fifteen minutes remained until they took their positions. He heard only snippets of radio conversations, individual commands from dispatchers. Activity buzzed around him – people preparing for battle, coordinating actions, checking communication systems.
And he stood aside. Superfluous. His work was done, his knowledge no longer needed. He felt like a hostage of circumstances, a man who could only wait while others decided his fate. He understood that he couldn't even escape. Hyperspace was blocked.
Alex was not used to feeling useless. All his life, he had been the one who found solutions, who controlled the situation. And now he could only watch as the fighters prepared for a suicidal attack on a moon-sized station.
He was extremely uncomfortable with this feeling of helplessness.
The first fighters began to take off. Alex watched through the command center's windows as the fighters rose into the night sky of Yavin, their engines leaving ionized trails in the darkness. The air currents from their movement made the jungle foliage tremble. One by one, they disappeared into the starry darkness, heading towards their possible death.
Alex looked at the monitor screens, at the faces of the communication operators, at the bustling officers. They were all busy with important work, all playing their part in this final battle. Except him.
He turned and headed for the exit of the command center. His steps sounded muffled on the metal floor of the base corridors. Most of the personnel were busy coordinating the attack or hiding in protected sectors. The corridors seemed empty and gloomy.
Alex reached the main hangar. The huge space, full of people and equipment an hour ago, now gaped empty. The fighters had flown away, the technicians had dispersed to their posts, the pilots were rushing towards death. Only traces of their presence remained – abandoned tools, the smell of fuel and hot metal.
His steps echoed in the empty hangar. The sound seemed lonely and lost in this vast space. Alex stopped in the middle of the hangar and looked around. It felt like everyone had gone on an important mission, and he had been left behind as useless. Like ballast, of no benefit.
He couldn't stand it anymore and headed for the far corner of the hangar, where his ship was parked. He climbed the ramp into his cabin and went to the container.
The Rakatan neurointerface lay in soft packaging – a hoop of unknown metal with crystalline nodes. He put the hoop on his head and activated the system.
The world exploded with information.
Suddenly, he could feel every neurointerface within a light-hour radius. The communication network opened up before him like a three-dimensional map, pulsating with data streams. His ship's computing cluster automatically connected to the interface, beginning to process the vast arrays of information.
The cluster read data from dozens of sources – the neurointerfaces of rebel pilots, the targeting systems of fighters, even signals from Imperial fighters. But only information from two sources was clearly received.
The first was that same young fair-haired pilot from the hangar. His signal was bright and clear, as if his consciousness resonated with the Rakatan technologies at a special frequency.
The second source was from the other side – an Imperial pilot hunting rebels. His signal was dark and cold, but equally powerful. It conveyed disciplined fury, honed killer's skill.
Alex watched the battle unfold through multiple data channels. The first wave of the attack was repelled – rebel fighters could not break through the station's defenses. The Death Star's turbolaser batteries methodically shot down the slow bombers. One by one, the neurointerface signals went out, pilots died in fiery flashes.
The second wave also failed to reach its target. Imperial fighters swarmed around the rebel ships like predatory insects. Alex felt every death through the network – short flashes of pain and horror, then emptiness.
Only a few dozen fighters remained, including the fair-haired guy's ship. They were going for a final, desperate attack down the trench on the Death Star's surface.
Alex made a decision. Using the cluster's computing power, he began calculating optimal trajectories for the remaining pilots. Data flowed in real-time – enemy fighter positions, turbolaser battery firing angles, speeds and accelerations of all objects in the combat zone.
He tried to transmit the information through the neurointerface network, but most channels did not receive data. Only the connection with the fair-haired pilot remained open – the guy was receptive to data transmission at a level inaccessible to ordinary people.
Alex focused on his neurointerface and sent a connection request. A moment of hesitation – and the channel opened. A stream of tactical data began to flow into the young pilot's consciousness. Not as orders or suggestions, but as additional information, expanding his perception of the combat situation.
Now Alex could observe the flight in real-time. The cluster continuously processed data from all sources – rebel and Imperial neurointerfaces – and transmitted tactical calculations.
The guy's fighter entered the trench on the Death Star's surface. A narrow canyon between towers and batteries, leading to the thermal exhaust port. Turbolasers fired from all sides.
And then Alex noticed something strange.
His computing cluster made predictions ten to fifteen seconds ahead with high accuracy. The trajectories of ordinary pilots, Imperial and rebel, were calculated almost perfectly. The system predicted their maneuvers, reactions, even mistakes.
But two signals stood out from all calculations.
The fair-haired pilot and the Imperial pursuing him were anomalies in the mathematically precise combat model. Every time the cluster calculated their actions, reality diverged from the prediction. A turbolaser salvo that should have hit missed by a millimeter. A piece of debris flying on an ideal interception trajectory suddenly deviated. An Imperial fighter that should have taken an optimal firing position was a fraction of a second late.
It was as if unforeseen factors were constantly interfering with the calculations. Micro-fluctuations, random occurrences, coincidences – too many to be simple luck.
Alex looked at the holographic projection of the battle, and understanding slowly dawned on him. It was the Force. The very phenomenon that Kreia had spoken of. The distortion of probabilities, the influence on reality through intention and will.
Both pilots possessed this ability. The fair-haired guy – unconsciously, intuitively. The Imperial – with the cold, honed precision of a master.
And the Imperial pilot was stronger.
Alex saw it in the data stream. Events were unfolding not in favor of the rebel fighter. Despite all the tactical hints, despite the guy's skill, the dark signal of the Imperial pressed down, distorting probabilities in his favor. One by one, the fair-haired pilot's comrades died. A little longer – and he would be alone against three Imperial fighters in a narrow trench, with no room to maneuver.
Alex felt his muscles tense. The lives of everyone on the base depended on this guy. Hyperspace was jammed – calculating a jump to hyperspace was impossible. If the Death Star destroyed the base, no one could evacuate.
He looked at the holographic projection, where the glowing dot of the fighter rushed down the trench towards its almost inevitable demise, and something inside him clenched.
No.
It wasn't a thought, not a decision – rather a deep rejection of the wrong outcome. The guy shouldn't die. He can't. Not after everything the rebels had been through, not after so many sacrifices.
Let him be lucky. Let everything work out in his favor.
Alex didn't know exactly what he was doing. There was no technique, no conscious application of abilities. Only a passionate, all-consuming desire for reality to unfold differently.
And something changed.
He couldn't say exactly what. But in the data stream, in the endless probability calculations, a barely perceptible shift occurred. As if scales, leaning to one side, trembled and began to even out.
The Imperial fighter, which should have taken an optimal firing position, suddenly hit turbulence from an explosion. A piece of debris flying directly at the fair-haired pilot deviated by a few degrees. The turbolaser battery, aiming at the rebel fighter, had a targeting malfunction for a fraction of a second.
Trifles. Coincidences. But there were too many of them.
Alex looked at the data, not believing his eyes. Two sources of the Force in the trench seemed to collide in an invisible confrontation. And now their forces were balancing out. No, even more – the balance began to shift in favor of the fair-haired guy.
Is it me? Or just a coincidence?
He didn't know. He couldn't know. But he continued to watch the projection, continued to wish for the guy to survive, for the torpedoes to hit their target, for this nightmare to end.
The last covering fighter was shot down. The fair-haired pilot was left alone. Three Imperial fighters were chasing him down the trench – a perfect hunting formation, with no chance of missing.
And suddenly, a new signal appeared on the holographic projection.
Alex blinked, not believing the sensor readings. Out of nowhere, from the direction of the planet, a battered YT-1300 entered the battle at maximum speed. The silhouette was recognizable even at a distance – a modified light freighter, clearly having seen many battles.
The Millennium Falcon.
The ship opened fire from its turrets, and one of the Imperial fighters exploded. The second tried to evade and crashed into the trench wall. The third – that dark signal, the Imperial ace – was forced to sharply deviate from its course to avoid a collision.
The fair-haired pilot was left one-on-one with the target.
Alex felt the guy disengage the neurointerface, relying on intuition.
The proton torpedoes hit their target.
Alex saw their trajectory through multiple sensors – they flew at an impossible angle, as if guided by an invisible mind. The torpedoes slipped through the exhaust port and went deep into the station's interior.
A few dozen seconds later, space itself shuddered. The explosion was blinding. A chain reaction spread throughout the station, turning metal into plasma. In a few seconds, only an expanding fireball remained of the monstrous station.
Alex removed the neurointerface and leaned back in his chair. His hands trembled from overexertion.
The base erupted in jubilation, but the celebration was short-lived. General Dodonna quickly restored order and reminded everyone of the reality of their situation.
He made an announcement throughout the base:
"We were very lucky that Tarkin was so overconfident," he announced over the communication system. "That fool didn't wait for the escort fleet and came here alone. But Imperial reinforcements are surely on their way. We have a maximum of a few hours until their arrival."
"All ships, immediate evacuation!" the order sounded. "I repeat, all ships, immediate evacuation! Take only the essentials!"
The base turned into an anthill. People grabbed critical data and equipment, loaded onto transports and escort ships. Technicians dismantled valuable equipment, destroying classified materials that could not be taken. Everyone understood – when the Imperial fleet arrived, nothing useful for the enemy should remain of the base on Yavin 4.
Alex quickly prepared his ship for departure. Through the porthole, he saw rebel ships taking off one after another – from small fighters to large transports. The Alliance fleet scattered across the galaxy to gather at a predetermined point.
The assembly point was the dreadnought "Redemption," drifting in interstellar space far from the main hyperspace lanes. Alex arrived there a few hours later, when most of the ships had already gathered around the white hull of the dreadnought. He had come for one reason only. He wanted to know who this guy was.
The ship's main hangar was overcrowded. Pilots, technicians, officers – all mixed into one noisy crowd. Despite the victory, the mood was somber. Too many had not returned from that attack, the price of triumph was too high.
One of Dodonna's aides stood at the hangar entrance, noting arrivals. When he saw Alex, he approached him.
"Alex, welcome! Garrek hasn't arrived yet, but I want to introduce you to our heroes," he said, leading him to a small group in the center of the hangar. "This is the engineer who discovered the vulnerability in the Death Star," he addressed a company of four sentient beings. "Alex Corren."
Alex saw the young fair-haired pilot he already knew – Luke, as the general's aide called him. Next to him stood a short girl in a white dress with a strange hairstyle – two buns of hair on the sides of her head. She carried herself with regal dignity, but her face was sad.
The third was a tall man in his thirties with carelessly combed dark hair and a confident smile. He wore a sleeveless vest over a white shirt, and a blaster in a quick-draw holster hung at his side. A smuggler, Alex identified him to himself.
But the fourth member of the group attracted the most attention. A creature over two meters tall, covered in brown fur. Massive shoulders, long arms with clawed fingers, a fanged muzzle. It exuded an aura of primal power and barely contained danger. Alex tensed involuntarily – his instincts warned him of a predator's presence.
For what purpose did the ancients create this species? His databases contained no information about the origin of this race, but their appearance alone suggested they were designed as warriors or guards. However, it didn't matter now. Ancient history was irrelevant – the present was important.
"And these are our heroes," the aide continued. "Luke Skywalker – the pilot who destroyed the station. Princess Leia Organa. Han Solo and Chewbacca."
Luke shook Alex's hand.
"I saw you before the attack, you were looking at everyone," he said. "Thanks again for the technical assistance."
The princess nodded with regal politeness, but Alex could see she hadn't recovered from the shock yet. The loss of her home planet was too fresh a wound.
Han Solo looked Alex up and down and extended his hand.
"Solo," he introduced himself. "Heard you were the one who found the weak spot in that piece of junk."
"Alex Corren," Alex replied, shaking the smuggler's firm hand. "Corellian?"
"Yeah," Han grinned. "Guessed from the accent?"
"From your demeanor. Plus the name. Han is typically Corellian."
"And where are you from? Corellian too?"
"Born there. But I left at the end of the Clone Wars after the Separatist raid. Couldn't stay there, too many bad memories."
Han's face darkened.
"I remember that too. I was orphaned then."
An understanding between people who had survived the same tragedy was established between them.
"By the way, I think I've heard of you before," Alex said. "We seem to have a mutual acquaintance. Jack Tolcho."
Han raised his eyebrows in surprise.
"Old Jack? How do you know him?"
"He once taught me the basics of free trade."
Han burst out laughing.
"Tolcho taught someone? I doubt it. That old fart can barely figure out left from right himself."
The Wookiee let out a low growl, which, judging by the intonation, was approving.
"He's really declined a lot now. But I met him over twenty years ago. A very sharp guy. And the best proof is that he lived to old age doing such a dangerous job."
"That's said with love!" Han smiled. "He's a legend!"
Alex looked at the Wookiee.
"Impressive partner," Alex said, studying Chewbacca's massive figure. The creature was one and a half times taller and much wider than an ordinary human. Muscles rippled under its fur with every movement, and its deep-set eyes showed sharp intelligence. It exuded an aura of strength and danger, yet at the same time, there was a restraint of a sentient being.
"Chewie is the best pilot and mechanic I know," Han said proudly. "And a loyal friend."
The Wookiee growled again, this time with clear pleasure.
They talked for some time longer, exchanging stories about Corellia and mutual acquaintances. Alex found a kindred spirit in Han – another person who relied only on himself and didn't trust systems. True, the smuggler was more cynical and mercenary, but their worldviews were based on similar principles.
Princess Leia remained silent for most of the time, lost in her thoughts. Luke wasn't very talkative either – the loss of friends in battle still weighed on him.
"Listen," Alex said, "how about we celebrate the victory? I have some good Corellian whiskey on my ship."
Han perked up.
"I wouldn't refuse. Haven't had anything decent in a while."
"I'm not against it either," Luke added, still impressed by what had happened.
Leia politely declined, citing fatigue, perhaps she wanted to be alone. Chewbacca, however, headed for Han's ship to fix something.
The three of them headed through the hangar towards Alex's ship. As they got closer, Han stopped, looking the vessel over appraisingly.
"Wait a minute," he squinted, studying the silhouette. "Is that a YT-1300? Like the Falcon?"
"A modified version," Alex confirmed, climbing the ramp. "Good ships. Reliable."
He didn't mention that he had once worked on modifying Han's ship.
"Reliable isn't the word I'd use. But fast, that's for sure." He examined the outer hull with professional interest. "Nice modifications. Changed the engines?"
"Among other things."
As they entered, Han whistled, assessing the interior. The ship was much better equipped than the Millennium Falcon – newer electronics, neat finishing, no exposed wires or temporary patches.
"Wow," Han muttered. "You've got it better here than I do." He turned to Alex with his characteristic smirk. "Listen, do you play sabacc?"
Alex chuckled, walking to a small table in the common cabin and taking out a bottle of whiskey.
"I'm not playing for the ship, if that's what you mean."
"Oh, come on, I was just asking," Han raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture, but mischievous sparks danced in his eyes.
"And anyway," Alex continued, pouring the amber liquid into three glasses, "I don't play with people as cunning as you, Solo. Too great a risk of being left without pants."
Han laughed and plopped into a chair.
"Smart approach. Although I'm a completely honest player."
"Of course, of course," Alex handed over the glasses and raised his. "To victory."
"To the fallen," Luke added grimly, and the atmosphere immediately became more serious.
"To the fact that we're still alive," Han finished.
They drank in silence. The whiskey was indeed good – smooth, with a long aftertaste and a light nutty hint. Han smacked his lips approvingly.
"Not bad. Where did you get it?"
"Private stock," Alex replied. "Tolcho brings it from Corellia. He knows a manufacturer who only sells to his own."
Alex took out a small plate of crackers and put it on the table. Luke took only a small sip, clearly not used to strong alcohol, and stared thoughtfully into his glass. Alex watched him, seeing the young man process the day's events. The loss of comrades, the incredible tension of the battle, the realization of the scale of what they had done – all of it was written on his face.
"You know what's strange?" Luke finally said, without looking up. "Everything was going badly. I felt like I was being cornered. Like luck had abandoned me. And then something changed. At the last moment, I turned off the targeting computer. I just felt I had to rely on... I don't know what to call it. Intuition, maybe."
"Intuition is good," Han took a cracker and looked at it thoughtfully. "But luck is better."
Solo paused, twirled the cracker in his fingers, then smirked.
"You know, at first I thought it would be right to just fly away. Got the money, job done, why hang around? I'm not some fool to sacrifice myself for someone else's interests."
He turned to Luke and corrected himself:
"That's not about you, of course."
Luke grabbed a cracker and threw it at him. Han caught it in mid-air with a grin.
"But then I thought," Han continued more seriously, "that it would be a sign of weakness. Especially when I found out that the damn computer couldn't calculate a jump out of the system! The hyperspace link was jammed, the coordinates were scrambled."
Luke straightened up, his eyes widening with feigned indignation.
"So you didn't decide to help out of the goodness of your heart?!"
"Out of the goodness of what?... I decided to stay," Han leaned towards him with a serious face, "to save your stupid, fair-haired, ungrateful head!"
A tense pause hung in the air. They stared at each other intently, and it seemed like fists would fly. Alex even prepared to intervene.
And then they both burst into laughter.
"Sorry, I'm acting like an idiot," Luke exhaled, still laughing.
"That's for sure," Han retorted, but he was smiling too.
The laughter gradually subsided, and Han became more serious. He poured himself more whiskey and leaned back in his chair.
"Honestly," he said, looking into his glass, "I felt disgusted just waiting for my fate. Sitting in the ship, knowing that everyone there would die, and I couldn't do anything. And then the hunt would start for my ship too. And I was already in space, the systems were working, and I thought – why not? It couldn't get any worse."
He took a sip of whiskey.
"I flew to help. Some kind of hunch. And then I just saw a good position for a shot and took advantage of it." Han shrugged. "I didn't even know it was you at first, kid. I just saw Imperial fighters on a Rebel's tail and decided to even the odds."
"But you helped," Luke said quietly. "That's the main thing."
Han shrugged awkwardly, clearly embarrassed by the gratitude.
Luke took a cracker and thoughtfully stared into his glass again. His face became somber again.
"Still," he said quietly, "I want to think that all those guys didn't die in vain. That their deaths meant something. That it was important. But honestly..."
He looked up at Alex, and there was pain in his eyes.
"They just died. That's all. Period. Good people, with families, with dreams, with their whole lives ahead of them. And now they're gone. And no victory will bring them back."
Han nodded, his usual bravado gone.
"War is a shitty business, kid. Good people die. No justice, no meaning. Just luck and chance."
A heavy pause hung in the air. Alex looked at Luke, seeing in him an echo of himself many years ago – a young man who had encountered the brutal reality of war and was trying to find meaning in it.
He slowly poured more whiskey for all three and leaned back in his chair, contemplating the words.
"There is meaning. Do you know what I felt when I was standing there in the command center?" he finally began, his voice quiet but firm. "Helplessness. Complete, absolute helplessness."
Luke looked up.
"I wasn't participating in the attack. But my life depended on you, you understand?" Alex continued. "The station was minutes away from firing. I stood there, looking at the screens, and I couldn't do anything. Absolutely nothing. My fate, the fate of everyone on this base depended on the people in space, and I could only wait."
He paused, recalling that feeling.
"It's one of the worst feelings I've ever experienced. To know that your life is in someone else's hands, and you are absolutely powerless."
Han nodded thoughtfully.
"Familiar feeling."
"But these guys," Alex leaned forward, "they could act. And they did. You were one of them, Luke. And it's not just your merit – it's theirs too. Everyone who took to the sky today contributed. Even if only for a second to distract an enemy fighter."
Luke listened attentively.
"Maybe," he said uncertainly. "But they're still dead."
Alex silently stood up, walked to his backpack, and took out a datapad. He returned to the table and placed the device in front of Luke and Han.
"Do you want to know what you fought for?" he asked quietly. "What these guys really died for?"
Han frowned, looking at the datapad.
"What is this?"
"Records of secret meetings of the galactic elite. Plans that were developed thirty years ago. What the Empire was created for."
Alex activated the files. In the small cabin, the voices of conspirators discussing the fates of quadrillions of lives with cold calculation began to sound.
Luke and Han listened in silence. When words about "natural population adjustment" in the Delta sector were spoken, Han swore sharply, and Luke pursed his lips.
"Forty quadrillions," he whispered. "They wanted to condemn forty quadrillions of beings to starvation."
"They don't want to – they want to," Alex corrected. "The destruction of Alderaan was just the beginning. A demonstration of what awaits systems that refuse to cooperate."
Han downed the whiskey in one gulp and slammed the glass on the table.
"These bastards..." he couldn't find words. "And you're saying our guys died for this? To stop a galactic genocide?"
"Exactly for that," Alex nodded. "Imagine how many lives they saved. They halted the execution of the plan. Maybe for a year, maybe for five years, or maybe even ten. Every pilot who didn't return today saved an incalculable number of sentient beings from a slow death in a technological dark age. Not just from hunger. Imagine the chaos that will reign in those worlds. What immeasurable suffering will occur there. They gave the Alliance a little more time. And time is on our side. If the Alliance holds out long enough, the Empire will fall. After all, its support is decreasing every day, and ours is growing. Sentient beings have already seen its true nature. The Imperials talk about order, but they bring chaos. Every day, sentient beings lose faith in their tyranny."
Luke slowly raised his head, and there was no despair in his eyes anymore – only cold determination.
"So they really didn't die in vain."
"Definitely not in vain."
They were silent for a little longer, each lost in their own thoughts. Then they chatted about all sorts of nonsense. The atmosphere of the evening became more pleasant. Alex decided to end the evening on a positive note.
"Listen," Alex said finally, standing up, "I've had enough for today. I'm leaving tomorrow. I have urgent matters."
"Where are you heading?" Han asked.
"I can't say. I have a dangerous project."
Luke stood up and extended his hand.
"How can I contact you? I have a feeling our paths will cross again."
Alex smiled and handed him a coded card. And another to Han.
"Here are my coordinates. Encrypted channel, works through trade frequencies. If you need me, get in touch."
Han also took a card.
When they left, Alex remained alone in the cabin. Tomorrow he would return to Tersik, to his plans and projects. The events on Yavin showed that the galaxy was changing faster than he expected. The war was escalating, and he needed to accelerate his research.