Chapter 2: The Dark Lord's Wrath
The shriek of overstressed metal filled the air as the door at the end of the hall was filled with an actinic flash. The guards stood ready to fight, and if necessary die. Finally, the door exploded with a blinding flash, and the first group of Imperial Stormtroopers entered the crossfire, guns blazing. Artoo and Threepio were caught in the middle of the two groups of combatants. They had to get across the hall to enter the escape pod bays. Red, green and blue bolts ricocheted off polished sections of wall and floor or ripped long gashes in metal surfaces. Screams of injured and dying humans - a particularly undroid like sound, Threepio thought - echoed piercingly above the inorganic destruction. Threepio waited until there was a lull in the firing, and then hurried across the hall. Artoo rolled across, giving evidence to a phlegmatic indifference to the ravenous energies filling the passageway. He was built so low that most of the beams passed over him anyway.
-----
Two meters tall. Bipedal. Flowing black robes trailing from the figure and a face forever masked by a dark and functional black metal breath mask. A Dark Lord of the Sith was an awesome, threatening shape as he strode through the corridors of the rebel ship. Fear followed the footsteps of all the Dark Lords. The cloud of evil which clung tight about this particular one was intense enough to cause hardened Imperial troops to back away, menacing enough to set them muttering nervously among themselves. Once- resolute rebel crewmembers ceased resisting, broke and ran in panic at the sight of the black armor - armor which, though black it was, was not nearly as dark as the thoughts drifting through the mind within. One purpose, one thought one obsession dominated that mind now. It burned in the brain of Darth Vader as he turned down another passageway in the rebel ship. There smoke was beginning to clear, though the sounds of faraway fighting still resounded through the hull. The battle here had ended and moved on. Only a droid was left to stir freely in the wake of the Dark Lord's passing. See Threepio finally stepped out of his hiding place. Somewhere behind him human screams could be heard, and the distinctive snap hiss of a lightsaber being ignited. It seemed that Lord Vader had joined the Imperial troops in mopping up the last remnants of rebel resistance.
-----
Threepio glanced down and saw only scarred deck. As he looked around, his voice was full of concern. "Artoo Detoo, where are you?" The smoke seemed to part just a bit more. Threepio found himself staring up the passageway. Artoo Detoo, it seemed, was there. But he wasn't looking in Threepio's direction. Instead, the little astromech appeared frozen in an attitude of attention. Leaning over him was - it was difficult for even Threepio's photoreceptors to penetrate the clinging acidic smoke - a human figure. Wearing what looked like the gray and black uniform of an Alderaanian Noble, it was young, built, and by abstruse human standards of aesthetics, Threepio mused, of a calm handsomeness. One hand seemed to be moving over the front of Artoo's dome. Threepio started toward them as the haze thickened once more. But when he reached the end of the corridor, only Artoo stood there, waiting. Threepio peered past him, uncertain, then he shrugged. "Where have you been?" he finally asked. "They'll be coming back this way! What are we going to do? We'll be sent to the spice mines of Kessel, or smashed into who knows what!" But Artoo had already turned away and was ambling quickly back down the passageway. "Wait a minute, where are you going?" Threepio complained. "Haven't you been listening to me?" Uttering curses in several languages, some purely mechanical, Threepio raced fluidly after his friend. The Artoo unit, he thought to himself, could be downright close-circuited when he wanted to.
-----
Outside the rebel ships control center the corridor was crowded with sullen prisoners gathered by Imperial troops. Some lay wounded, some dying. Several officers had been separated from the enlisted ranks and stood in a small group by themselves, bestowing belligerent looks and threats on the silent knot of troops holding them at bay.
As if on command, everyone - Imperial troops as well as rebels - became silent as a massive caped form came into view from behind a turn in the passage. Two of the heretofore resolute, obstinate rebel officers began to shake. Stopping before one of the men, the towering figure reached out wordlessly. A massive hand closed around the man's neck and lifted him off the deck. The rebel officer's eyes bulged, but he kept his silence.
An Imperial officer, his armored helmet shoved back to reveal a recent scar where an blaster bolt had nearly killed him, was shaking his head briskly. "The Death Star plans are not in the main computer."
Darth Vader acknowledged this news with a barely perceptible nod. The impenetrable mask turned to regard the officer he was torturing. Metal-clad fingers contracted. Reaching up, the prisoner desperately tried to pry them loose, but to no avail. "Where is the transmissions you intercepted?" Vader rumbled dangerously. "What have you done with those plans?"
"We - intercepted no - transmissions..." Captain Antilles gurgled, barely able to breath. From some where deep within, he dredged up a squeal of outrage. "This is a councilor ship. We're on a ... diplomatic mission."
"Chaos take your mission!" Vader growled. "Where are those plans!?" he squeezed harder, the threat in his grip implicit. When he finally replied, Antilles' voice was a bare, choked whisper. "Only... the Prince knows."
"This ship carries the system crest of Alderaan." Vader growled, the gargoyle like mask leaning close. "Is any of the royal family on board? Who are you carrying?" Thick fingers tightened further, and the officer's struggles became more and more frantic. His last words were muffled and choked past intelligibility.
Vader was not pleased. Even though the figure went limp with an awful, unquestionable finality, his hand continued to tighten, producing a chilling snapping and popping of bone. Then with a disgusted wheeze, Vader finally threw the doll-form of the dead man against a far wall. Several Imperial troops ducked out of the way just in time to avoid the grisly missile.
The massive form whirled unexpectedly, and Imperial officers shrank under that baleful sculptured stare. "Commander tear this ship apart until you find those plans, and bring me the passengers, I want them alive!"
Officers and men nearly fell over themselves in their haste to leave - not necessarily to carry out Vader's orders, but simply to retreat from his malevolent presence.