Luke Skywalker refuses to come out of seclusion—until he discovers that Rey can see Kylo Ren in her dreams. Now, Rey must confront the dark in Kylo's heart, the truth about her family, and what it means for her dearest friends when the Force calls her to save her mortal enemy.

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STAR WARS

The Force Beckons

Alydia Rackham

Prologue

Luke's heart pounded irregularly against his breastbone as he strode down the corridors in his new orange-and-white flight suit, his boots tapping on the stone, his helmet tucked under his right arm. He'd been told that the last man to wear this had been an ace Old Republic pilot who had retired to Alderaan. The thought made Luke's blood run hot, and he ground his teeth as he charged into the hangar bay.

The scent of fuel and oil filled his lungs, and the clatter of machinery surrounded him as he glanced through the huge, electrically-lit cave filled with battered X-Wings and Y-Wings, and the pilots and artoo units that hurried between the landing gear.

Movement caught his eye off to his left, and he slowed his pace. He stopped.

The sight before him took a second to register. And when it did, he silently had to admit that he wasn't surprised—and yet a deep, bitter gall slid down into his gut.

Han Solo—that tall, handsome rogue with the crooked smile, bright eyes and a biting sense of sarcasm; who Luke had literally escaped from hell with—and his copilot, the towering Wookie Chewbacca, stood near the Millennium Falcon, noisily stacking small boxes of credits onto the loader. As they kept working, quickly and methodically, the gall transformed into a sharp pang that shot through Luke's chest, and the heat in his blood increased.

"So. You got your reward and you're just leaving, then?" The accusation fell out of his mouth, and echoed through the hangar—but he didn't regret saying it. Han looked up.

"That's right, yeah," he retorted. "I got some old debts I've gotta pay off with this stuff. Even if I didn't, you don't think I'd be fool enough to stick around here, do you?" He hefted a box up and set it to one side, then faced Luke, cocking his head. "Why don't you come with us? You're pretty good in a fight." Han shrugged. "We could use you."

Luke's eyes widened.

"Come on!" he cried, and gestured to the other ships. "Why don't you take a look around? You know what's about to happen, what they're up against! They could use a good pilot like you—you're turning your back on them."

Han raised his eyebrows.

"What good's a reward if you ain't around to use it?" he scoffed, and reached for another box. "Besides, attacking that battle station ain't my idea of courage. It's more like…suicide."

He stacked that box, then grabbed another one. Luke's hand clenched around his helmet.

"All right. Well, take care of yourself, Han," he bit out. "I guess that's what you're best at, isn't it?"

And he whirled to storm away, swallowing the pain in the back of his throat.

"Hey, Luke—" Han started—and there was something different in his voice. Luke stopped, and looked back over his shoulder, his pulse still on fire.

Han stood there, the derision gone from his face. His lopsided smile touched his brown eyes, and warmed them. And he said nothing.

Luke felt a strange ripple pass through his whole body. It cooled his blood—and he frowned. Han took a breath, and lifted his eyebrows, just slightly.

"I'm sorry, kid," he said quietly. "I really didn't mean for it to turn out like this. Leaving you holding the bag." He gestured absently to Luke. "It's my mess, and I really wish I could have cleaned it up myself. I should have. I tried. But instead, I…Well, it looks like I just went and put my foot in it." He held his hand up and dipped his head. "Yeah, yeah, I know. I never do that."

Luke frowned harder, his heartbeat accelerating in a completely different way. Han stepped toward him, and halted just a few feet in front of Luke. Luke looked up at him, searching his face—and suddenly it was very hard to breathe.

Han's brow knitted, and his smile vanished. He gazed earnestly down at Luke, his mouth tightening as it always did when he was in pain.

"You've gotta find my boy," he rasped, his voice suddenly sounding old and shaking. "You've gotta bring him home. I screwed it up, and it's my fault—I know it. But I need you to do that for me."

All of Luke's muscles broke out in terrible trembling, and he couldn't move. One side of Han's mouth twitched upward.

"And take care of Leia. You've always done a better job of that than me, anyway." He ducked his head, and swallowed hard. Luke sucked in a breath, and it hurt.

"Han?" he choked.

Han's head came up. Pain flooded his eyes. But then, he suddenly broke into a young smile—one shining with tears—and he laughed.

"Hey, kid—don't look at me like that. I'll see you soon—don't worry about it." And he stepped in and wrapped Luke up in a fierce bear hug, burying his face in Luke's neck.

Luke desperately threw his arms around him—the man who had, somehow, become his brother in all ways but blood. He took fistfuls of his vest and held onto him with all his strength, terror and denial thudding through him.

And then, all at once—

Luke opened his eyes.

His hot blood turned cold. His young body filled with age and ache.

He stared through streaming tears at the grey stone wall before him, dimly lit by the moonlight that filtered through the window.

He sat on his wooden cot, his blanket hanging half off his legs. He held out his empty arms, his hands still clenched around invisible fabric.

And teardrops trailed down his cheeks, and dripped from his graying beard.

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