Thank you everyone for all the reviews and follows. Hope you are all staying safe out there! -T.
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He stood in a close room, dull durasteel walls and floor, few furnishings, military, no-nonsense, tall viewport looking into the blackness of vast, unoccupied space. He'd been standing, rooted to this very spot for some time now, drifting, the intensity of his gaze fixed on the furled cluster of stars in the distance, the intensity of his emotions a pulsing knot of uncertainty and anger in his stomach.
The medical personnel had been hesitant in how to handle him. Never in their careers working on the same ship as the Emperor's unpredictable, quite often angry, henchman, had they had to work around Vader's intense concern that an injured soldier - much less one from the opposite side of the conflict - receive the best medical care possible. Never had they encountered their superior officer pacing in what appeared to be a state of heightened anxiety near the closed doors of the surgical bay or refuse to leave the medical unit.
He felt their burning questions, and he brushed them off. What his subordinates believed or wondered was completely irrelevant, so long as they held themselves to the highest professional standards in regard to the care of his son.
His son.
He'd commandeered a small office suite a short distance from the surgery when the shuttle had arrived and the surgical team had boarded, whisking the injured man on the medical gurney away, down the gunmetal-gray corridors, past the closed blast doors of the main medical bay. The set of three small rooms may have been used as a breakroom for the medical staff, sparse though the furnishings were. Naturally there were no objections to whatever it was Vader wished to do. The few occupants of the suite had scattered upon the dark lord's arrival.
Vader had ordered his incompetant Admiral, Ozzel, to make a short hyperspace jump from the Tintian system minutes after they had boarded. He would not give the Rebels the satisfaction of being able to bring reinforcements around to try to recapture Skywalker.
There the Super Star Destroyer drifted, in empty space, as it had for the past sixteen hours.
There the second in command of the entire Imperial navy stood, still as a statue, having informed his primary aide, waiting in the corridor, that he was not to be disturbed under any circumstances except upon news of contact from the Emperor or updates regarding the unnamed soldier taken into surgery.
He could feel the aide's confusion, could feel the crew's bafflement, their impatience at being suspended in deep space without orders or explanation. He could feel his own weariness, his agitation, noted his seeming inability to take a seat, to take leave of the small rooms and return to the greater comforts of his personal quarters.
He ignored it all.
He reached out through the Force, fumbling briefly to catch the light-infused presence of his son. That presence was familiar, more recognizable over the last several months. Normally, it felt blinding, compelling Vader's full attention, especially in such close proximity. Now, however, it remained diffuse, as it had when the boy had leapt off the building, becoming diaphanous and nearly intangible to Vader's sense in the Force.
That ghost-like whisper of his son's presence was what kept the dark lord standing in the small office, his heart gripped in an uncomfortable vice. The questions swirled in his consciousness, emotions he was not yet able to form into words or coherent thought.
It was decidedly unpleasant.
But still he could not turn away, could not pull his mind into attending to other duties until he knew the outcome, until he knew that the boy would recover, become well again.
Strangely, he could not allow his mind to begin to address the possibility that it might not be so.
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The Alliance base on the small, water-logged planet of Muundi was damp and mouldering. It started life as an old smuggler's base, long since abandoned because of the frequent flooding on the lower levels, and expensive repairs due to the water damage. Trust the Alliance to snap it up - valuable real estate that no one else could possibly have use for.
Han trudged through the lower-level corridor, cringing at the damp smell of mildew and the swinging shadows cast by worn-out sodium bulbs strung from the corrugated ceiling. His boots tracked muddy footprints on the slick, water-logged duracrete.
He'd docked the ship next to rows of snub-fighters in the open bay, camouflaged as a thick forest canopy and covered at the tops of trees by a stealth cloak that would scramble Imperial scanners at a four-hundred-foot radius. He'd watched the Princess storm out of the Falcon the moment the ramp touched the ground, Rieekan on her heels, trying in vain to reason with her.
Han had followed, after giving Chewie very specific instructions about what he could and could not do to the ship in his absence, and who he could, and could not allow on board. By then, Leia had disappeared from sight, and Han, unfamiliar with this strange new base, wasn't exactly sure where she had gone. He only knew he needed to find her and do it quickly, before she killed someone.
He was in a murderous mood himself, though, so maybe he wasn't the best candidate for the job.
He passed a crewman he thought he recognized - Issen? Ossen? - and snagged the man's sleeve. "You see the Princess come through here just a few minutes ago? Hopping mad?"
The man did a double-take at Solo, and actually back-stepped, his expression deepening into a perplexed frown. Han belatedly remembered the Falcon's spectacular exit off of Melsinor. Like it or not, it had probably made an impression on everyone who'd been on-base at the time. "Sure," the crewman answered. "She just went up the stairs there. Debriefing room is in the third corridor on the right."
Han bolted past. "Thanks pal."
"You working with the Alliance again?" the crewman called after him, but Solo didn't hear him.
He bounded up the stairs two at a time, followed the corridor around to where a lone soldier was standing guard at the door.
"I'm sorry, but this is a restricted area. Command is in the middle of a meeting - " The man's eyes widened in recognition. "Solo!"
Han knew the soldier - Dack, a rookie pilot who'd just signed on a few months ago - he'd been friends of a sort with Luke, initiated into his same squadron.
He pushed past the startled soldier. "To hell with their meeting," he hissed. "The princess is on a rampage."
He pushed open the door, taking in momentarily the long room, the overgrown green and blue foliage past the fogged window, the makeshift conference table at the center, circled by a variety of beings, seated, faces masked with calm indifference. To his right stood the rumpled figure of Rieekan and the diminutive Princess, her eyes ablaze.
No one even noticed Han had entered the room. All eyes were fixed on Leia. Her arms were folded defensively, she was stalking toward the table.
"You," she took in each of their faces individually, accusing, angry, absolutely betrayed. "You all did this to him. You are the reason he was captured - "
"Princess," Rieekan murmured in warning, his hand moving to catch her sleeve.
" - You are the reason he no has to face Vader and the Emperor, severely injured - "
"Leia - "
" - and you are all going to fix this!"
There was silence for a moment. No one moved. Gradually, Mon Mothma's cool gaze came to rest on Han.
"Is there something you require, Captain Solo?"
Han adjusted his stance, aware that all eyes were now on him, that the hot glare of the Princess was boring into his skull, daring him to say something to challenge her or make her back down.
"I'm here to support the Princess," he said full-voice. "I'm a, uh, witness to the Imperial ambush and the Alliance's assassination attempt on Luke Skywalker."
There was a low murmur among the occupants of the table. Apparently this was news to some on the council.
"Assassination attempt?" Mon Mothma asked politely, her sculpted eyebrows arching.
"He was shot by a sniper from the roof of a neighboring building," Leia's voice dripped bitterness. "By one of our people." She flattened her palms against the table and glared at the Alliance leader. "Don't seem so surprised, Mon. I know you and Madine authorized this."
There was an eruption in voices, a mixture of outrage and surprise, Dodonna and Telcarre gaining their feet. Mon Mothma continued to gaze unflinchingly at Leia. Her eyes flicked momentarily to Rieekan, who stood stone-faced, his expression fixed on the center of the conference table.
"This is unfortunate that we find ourselves in this predicament," Mon Mothma's voice cut in over the mayhem. "I can assure you that I have no idea what you are talking about. I have authorized no such assassination attempt on Luke Skywalker's life."
"If you - " Leia started, eyes still burning fire, but she was cut off by the Alliance leader.
"If though, as you say, he was shot, we should ascertain that he is even still alive and actually captured by Vader."
"That was your strategy, wasn't it?" Leia snapped hotly. "Get rid of him. Preferably before the Empire could get to him."
Mon Mothma folded her hands neatly on the table. A muscle in her cheek twitched. "It is understandably a priority that we not let a potential weapon like Luke Skywalker fall into the wrong hands."
Han felt hot anger creep over his face and down his collar. Leia suddenly lurched forward, just as Rieekan caught her arm in a vice-like grip, kept her from striking the older woman. "Luke Skywalker is not a weapon," she snarled, voice raw. Mon Mothma's words were tantamount to an admission of guilt. "He is not a tool to be used to hurt Vader. He has always ever been loyal to the Alliance. He destroyed the Death Star, he's devoted to our cause. And now you have betrayed him. You have injured him and put him in a position where he is now unable to defend himself or escape from Vader's clutches.
"Is he even still alive?" Mon's cool seemed to crack just slightly. Han realized belatedly the Alliance leader had fully expected Luke to be dead, had counted on it in fact. "You said yourself he fell from a five-story building after he was shot. I hate to be the bearer of unfortunate information, Princess, but it is highly unlikely that anyone could have survived such a fall."
"You would like to hope for that, wouldn't you?" Leia snapped. "But he is alive. I know he is still alive."
There was an uncomfortable silence in the room, a stillness during which Leia seemed to gather herself, bring all her regal training and senatorial calm to bear, her shoulders straightening. No one questioned how she knew Luke was still alive. No one else spoke. "You caused this," she said in a low voice, her gaze now taking in all the occupants at the table. "If Luke Skywalker is turned into a Sith Lord like the likes of Vader, the Alliance is finished. You know that or you wouldn't have gone so far out of your way to kill him before Vader got to him. Nevertheless, you caused this. And you are going to fix this."
There was another moment of tense silence.
"And what do you suggest, Princess?" The voice was Madine's. The general's expression was hard, impenetrable. The man didn't say it, but he could have. Another assassination attempt?
Leia speared him with her glare. Madine was clearly not to be trusted. "I need a team put together. I will choose the people on it. I need ships and equipment." She took a deep breath, decided now. "This team and I will go to Coruscant. We will station in a safehouse until the Executor arrives with Luke."
"What makes you so certain Coruscant will be their destination?" Cracken asked, the lines on his face a craggy frown.
She gave him a scornful look. "The Emperor wants Luke just as badly as Vader does."
"And once he arrives?"
Leia clenched her fist. "We get him out."
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Darth Vader felt the grim purpose in the mind of the approaching doctor long before he came through the bay doors and indicated to Vader's aide that he had news for the dark lord.
Vader was already approaching the exit as the aide entered, jumping as he nearly collided with his superior.
"You have news," the dark lord rumbled.
"Sir, the surgeon is here to speak with you."
As if on cue, a disheveled-looking middle-aged man appeared at the doorway, his green surgery apron still tied over his medical uniform. "My lord," he stood at attention.
"You may enter," Vader granted, allowing the doctor to step past the threshold, the door hissing shut behind him.
"Sir, I have news of the…" he hesitated. "The rebel soldier."
"Continue." Vader made a point to stand very still, to appear unconcerned. A small part of his mind questioned why he felt the need to make that impression…
"Sir, the Rebel - "
"His name is Luke. Luke Skywalker."
The doctor swallowed, recognition dawning in those intelligent eyes, as though he had just pieced together the last bit of the puzzle. "Yes sir," he said quickly, breaking his gaze from meeting Vader's penetrating stare. "As you know, in addition to the blaster wound and the," he hesitated again, "injury to his right hand, he has sustained a skull fracture, which resulted in an acute subdural hematoma - a brain bleed. We believe the surgery to evacuate the hemorrhage was successful, but we won't know the extent of the damage and what it means for his recovery for at least several more days."
Vader was still a few moments. "What do you mean you don't know?" he asked, hearing his voice drop dangerously in volume.
The surgeon swallowed again. Beads of sweat were beginning to form on his forehead. He was clearly nervous. "Sir, the brain is a very complicated organ. Severe trauma has resulted in hemorrhaging and more swelling. The patient arrived unresponsive, but still able to breathe on his own. That is very encouraging. But at the moment, he is still unconscious. Only time will tell if, when, and how he'll come out of the resultant coma."
This answer was less than satisfactory. Vader briefly considered choking the life out of this incompetant, but realized his usefulness was not quite at an end - at least until his son recovered. "I wish to see him."
The man flinched. "Ah, Lord Vader, that would not be advisable quite yet. He is just out of surgery and they are stabilising him - "
"I wish to see him now," Vader cut him off.
The surgeon blanched visibly, sketched a half-bow. "O-of course, my Lord. Follow me."
Vader followed behind the man, his fists clenched, hearing the pounding of his heartbeat in his ears. They walked through the starkly-lit corridors, walls and floors polished to a pewter gleam. Medical personnel and droids parted like a sea when they saw who was coming through. Vader ignored them all.
He was led through another set of blast doors, these keyed with a code from the surgeon. An old-model medic droid stood at a high counter. "Greetings, sir."
"This way," the doctor gestured, indicating a curtained-off area. Vader stepped forward, the doctor forgotten. Behind the curtain several people and a droid were moving swiftly, shuffling, muttering orders. The persistent beep and low tones of several pieces of equipment sounded over their voices. Through it all, Vader could sense that translucent, ephemeral sense of Luke's faint presence, just past the drape…
He threw open the curtain. The people behind it froze where they stood, staring at him in shock. But the dark lord did not see them, did not even notice they were there. The only thing he saw was the pale figure on the large bed, eyes closed, head wrapped in a turban of white bandages, the ventilator tube taped over his mouth. More bandages covered his left shoulder over the blaster wound. Both arms rested over the light gray coverlet that came just past his waist, the right one heavily bandaged where it ended at the stump. Cardiac leads and the IV led to a tangled nest of wires just out of sight.
The surgeon, meantime, seemed to have regained his composure. "Gentleman," he addressed the trio of frozen medics, his voice quite calm. "Lord Vader wishes to personally oversee the patient's recovery."
There was momentary silence, save for the continued beep of the heart monitor and whatever-else monitors they had that made an infernal noise. Vader appraised the curtained ward, noting the row of empty beds just past the opposite drape.
"Skywalker is to be placed in a private room," he rumbled. "Immediately,"
A delay in reaction, then the medical personnel seemed to suddenly thaw and snap back to life. "Immediately, my Lord."
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It was some four hours that had passed, Luke now ensconced in the private medical suite: glass walls looking directly out to the ICU's medic station, a small vertical viewport looking out to the black emptiness of space, a 'private fresher, and a small fold-out sofa in the corner of the room. The bed, semi-reclining, surrounded by beeping, flashing medical equipment, dominated the small room, as did its occupant, still unconscious.
"Is there anything you require, sir?" the medical droid stationed near the head of the patient's bed inquired.
"No."
"Are you sure you wouldn't prefer to sit down, sir?" the droid persisted, gesturing with slender-jointed arms to the sofa and plastene chair near the wall.
Vader felt a swell of irritation, fighting down the impulse to tear one of those arms off with the Force. "Attend to your patient and leave me in peace," he snapped.
The doctor - a new one this time, one who looked entirely too young to hold the fate of Vader's son in his hands - had come in briefly an hour or two before and explained that the boy was in a coma. With exaggerated patience, he had described the potential time-frame of such a state, as well as several possible outcomes, most of which were quite grim: he could remain in the coma for some time. He could progress to a persistent vegetative state where he might open his eyes, move, but have no real awareness. From there, if they were lucky, he could progress to a minimally conscious state with some awareness. Even if he made a recovery, the boy may suffer irreversible neurological damage.
Vader had stood, listening to the medic list the possibilities until the man had run out of words. The dark lord had kept his unmoving gaze on the still occupant of the medical bed, not turning, not answering, his thoughts in a turmoil.
Finally, hesitantly, with a quiet sigh, the medic had departed from the room, leaving him again alone with the boy.
The medical team did not understand the power of the Force; the ability of those who used it to move past the crude needs of the human body and rise again, to quickly recover their former strength. His son was a Jedi, capable of healing himself.
His son would recover.
"My Lord?" In his reverie he had almost missed the presence of his aide, approaching from the long corridor, uncharacteristically nervous, even for him.
Vader turned, coolly regarding the graying man in the olive dress-uniform. "What is it?"
"It's the Emperor, sir. He wishes to speak with you right away."
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Wedge Antilles was sprawled on a metal chair, elbows on the table, a half-empty glass in front of him and a half-empty bottle at arm's-length. He should stand up, while he was still capable of remaining vertical, walk to his bunk room and go to sleep. That was what a sensible person would do.
Instead he downed the shot of gin and poured himself another glass.
"Wedge, you look like hell." The voice, coming from his right, materialized into the form of Han Solo, sidling up on the tall stool across from him. Before the pilot could protest, Solo snatched a glass from the empty table nearby and seized the bottle.
"Hey," Wedge frowned, dismayed to hear the way he drawled the word, as though his jaw had become disconnected. "Tha's mine."
The other Correllian tossed back the alcohol. "You look like you've had enough for one night. Besides," he shifted, his own elbows on the table, leaning forward conspiratorially. "I want to make sure you understand what I'm about to ask you before you're too fall-down drunk to remember what you agreed to."
Wedge wiped the edges of his mouth. He wasn't about to agree to anything. "It's not that I don't trust you, Solo…."
"Yeah, pal, well I trust you and I want you to listen up good. It's about Luke."
Wedge froze. The whole debacle over Tintian IV was the reason he was getting drunk in the first place. Something wasn't adding up with what Command had said about Luke leaving with Han a few months ago. And now that he knew his friend had been on the shuttle he'd taken shots at, had been captured by Vader to face down a brutal interrogation….
He shook himself free, downed the remaining gin in his glass. He wanted to erase it all - this whole stupid war, remembering friends he'd lost. Wanted it all to fade away into a comfortable, alcohol-soaked oblivion.
"I don't wanna talk about Luke," he muttered, shifting, rising to leave.
Solo seized his sleeve and pulled him back down, expression intense now. "We're talking about him, okay? The kid's not dead. Leia...says she knows he's not dead, even after that fall."
Wedge sneered as his image of Han split into two. "Really?" He laughed angrily. "He's with Vader now. If he's not dead yet, he's gonna be soon."
The smuggler slapped him. Hard.
The pilot reeled, falling back into his seat, stars sparking in his vision. Solo didn't wait for him to recover. "We're getting a reconnaissance team together. We're going to get Luke out of there." His voice lowered. "We need people we trust. Are you in?"
Wedge blinked, feeling clearer for a moment, hopeful. Reconnaissance? Getting Luke Skywalker out of Vader's leather clutches? "How in the galaxy're you gonna do that, Solo?"
Han straighted, lopsided smile coming to his features. "So you're in, then?"
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The raised dais lit up in a glowing white ellipse as Vader knelt, the blue-tinged hologram appearing before him, towering above him in the air.
Emperor Palpatine appeared, semi-translucent, yellow eyes peering out from the folds of the decaying flesh on his face, framed in the black cowl of his robe.
"You have the boy." It was not a question. The voice grated through the surround sound of the room, rasping, chuckling in heady delight.
Vader winced. Some small part of him recoiled. "Yes, my Master."
That throaty chuckle. "You have done well, Lord Vader. You should be commended for your swift, efficient action."
Vader shifted on the podium. Palpatine continued. "He is to be brought here to Imperial Center. Here, he can learn the true power of serving the dark side. And become one of us." Another cackle, as the cowled face tossed back in laughter.
"My Master."
The Emperor was very serious again. "What is it, Lord Vader."
"There have been some complications regarding Skywalker's capture."
"Such as?" the voice held warning, a sneer on the aged features. Vader lowered his head.
"The boy proved himself difficult to capture." Vader paused, loathe to admit this, that he was partially to blame. "He is gravely injured."
The yellow eyes were boring into him now, even from the distance of thousands of lightyears, all air seemingly sucked out of the room.
"What has happened to my Jedi, Lord Vader?" Palpatine's voice was soft now, dangerous. He didn't wait for a reply, eyes narrowing, searing Vader with an expression of accusation.
"He is in the medical bay receiving the best possible treatment," Vader reported, uncomfortable in relaying the medics' information that he had been so unwilling to listen to a few short hours ago. "His recovery is expected to take some time. It is advised that he not be moved from the Executor until he is more stable."
There was silence. An airless, expectant pause, the heat of Palpatine's gaze burning into him.
Finally, the Emperor spoke. "Then you will transmit your coordinates to me and prepare a boarding party. I shall arrive on the Executor to survey the damage myself."
A curious feeling of dread curdled in the dark lord's stomach, a sense of repulsion that he could not quite place as he pictured the Emperor standing in that glass-walled room, leering over the comatose young man on the medical bed.
"As you wish, my Master."
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The Falcon was the only place Solo felt completely safe.
"You know you can't bring your ship," Leia said gently. They were sitting in the hold, Solo sprawled on the curved bench, the Princess sitting with straight posture in the swivel chair, two data pads spread in front of her on the holochess table. "It's on every most-wanted docket, right next to your mugshot. We'd have no hope remaining anonymous."
He scowled at her, but didn't answer. How was it that he could, in a little over a year, go from wanting to shake the Alliance free, not caring, except for the money, if any of them lived or died….to this: Willing to consider leaving the Falcon in a dockyard with a great big target on the top, team up with Her Royal Bossiness herself, and plan to infiltrate the Imperial Palace to bring back one measly Rebel soldier whose delusions of grandeur had gotten him to stay in the first place.
He must be out of his mind. "I know," he said out loud. "So you'd better find me a fast ship to replace it with."
She nodded, noting something on her datapad that he couldn't see. "I'm not sure I trust Vargas."
"Breen? Hobbie vouches for him."
"He's been part of Madine's special ops."
"So've half the Rogues," Han pointed out. "They're loyal to Luke."
She was frowning, her dark eyes haunted with...guilt? Did she take responsibility for what had happened on Third Moon? "How loyal? How do we know that's enough? How many other people has Madine gotten to?"
Han studied her for a moment, an argument flaring to the fore, which he swallowed back. "Should I take him off the list?"
Her gaze was fixed on the center of the table, clouded, uncertain. "Let me think about it. I need to meet with him, and then I'll decide if I trust him."
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The Emperor arrived twelve hours later, the shuttle coming to rest on the parade-polished floor of the Executor's main hangar bay, two rows of red guard spewing out of the shuttle's maw before the bent, crooked form of Palpatine appeared at the ramp, heavy black robes pooling at the floor, his cane striking ominously against the deck in the hangar's deferential silence.
Members of the 501st, four rows deap, gleaming white helmets polished to a shine, stood in perfect parade order as Palpatine gestured to Vader to rise, smiling coldly at the kneeling dark lord.
"Take me to Skywalker."
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The medical bay was empty, every other patient and non-essential medical worker having been rerouted and moved to an alternate bay. The remaining existed solely to care for Skywalker.
Vader was grateful for the silence of the wide corridors, the absence of curious officers and medics, and the sudden dearth of droids.
Vader smiled in satisfaction as the young doctor he'd spoken to earlier, approached, finally looking appropriately terrified as he bowed and proceeded to answer the Emperor's questions. Then he led them past the posted guards, to the darkened room, curtained against the glaring lights through the glass, to where Luke lay.
"Leave us, medic," Palpatine rasped, without turning. His gaze was fixed on Skywalker, silent and still in the dim room lit garishly by the green and red flashing lights of the monitors, the steady beeping a soundtrack to the scene.
The old man approached the high bed, reached a cloaked arm out to the boy's chest, spindly, clawed fingers resting there for a moment. Skywalker was very still, the only movement from the mechanical ventilator as it steadily pushed air in and out of his lungs, his sense in the Force faint, almost disappearing completely.
Vader shifted, suddenly uncomfortable that his master was so close to his injured, vulnerable son.
Palpatine turned on him with surprising suddenness, his expression a curious mixture of rage and open mocking. He had surely sensed the dark lord's misgivings. "How very clumsy of you, Lord Vader, to leave him in such a state. I gave you a simple assignment: bring your son to me. Instead you manage to nearly kill him."
Vader didn't answer. He couldn't. A raw self-loathing had already taken up residence in the back of his mind. His master was absolutely right. He blamed himself entirely.
Palpatine chuckled, facing Skywalker once again, fickle amusement replacing his rage. "Ah, but what's done is done." He glanced sidelong again at Vader. "I will give you the opportunity to redeem yourself, my friend."
The dark lord shifted, suddenly cold, wary at the trap he knew was being set.
"Should the boy turn out to be permanently damaged, I certainly will have no more use for him." Palpatine cackled, a grating sound against Vader's mechanized hearing. "If that happens, then I shall gift you, my friend, the task of being his executioner."