The Final Iteration
Part 4
Jacen ysalimiri Imperial interrogator droid pain humiliation sudden horror. Jacen peeling back Luke's mind without the aid of the Force, with no visions and no merging and certainly no co-operation from Luke. Peeling it back all the way to the most hidden pieces, which Luke hid even from himself, thoughts and feelings about Jacen's mother for the sake of pity STOP!
Meant to be a mind-shout, but the rooms on all sides of this windowless cube were packed with ysalimiri, and no mind-shouting was possible. "Always with you it cannot be done," the memory of Yoda sighing long ago, an echo of an echo in a mind older even that Yoda's, remembering a memory. But the Force did not exist in Jacen's torture chamber. A special prison to hold a Jedi Master, not only ringed with ysalimiri, but with heavy chains bolted to steel beams sunk deep into the Coruscanti bedrock, far, far below Jacen's fortress. The watch was kept by the never-tiring eyes of droids.
It was chill, but Lord Luke sweated in pain. Wanted to ask, what do you want? But he knew; there was only one reason for Jacen to keep coming here, week after week. For Jacen's pleasure. What Jacen wanted was to see him suffer. A thousand years ago – and about four years ago, in another timeline – Lord Luke had rocked this child to sleep in his arms, singing. Singing badly, but little Jacen had not minded.
"Jacen," Lord Luke whispered.
"I am Darth Caedus!" Jacen shrieked.
A moment later Lord Luke shrieked too, as Jacen did something to him that Luke had never even let Mara do.
Then Jacen was talking on his commlink. Lord Luke had not heard the discreet beep over his own screams. Jacen hurried away. Leaving an object wedged painfully inside Lord Luke.
Lord Luke's head swam, and he thought he was hallucinating when a group of four Imperial Stormtroopers burst into the chamber.
"Sithspit," swore one of the troopers, decidedly nonmilitary language. No trooper in Empire would ever have used an epithet that referred to the feared Darth Vader, Dark Lord of the Sith.
"Will you look at this? Let's get this thing out of him." That was a woman's voice, and the Empire had never had female stormtroopers.
Confused and weak, Lord Luke did not even try to get up when they shot through his chains. The troopers carried him into the corridor, and two full turnings later, the ysalimir field end and the Force was with him again.
He was tempted to go right into a healing trance, but his strange rescuers might need his help. He pulled the Force to him and floated, taking the burden off of the troopers. They exclaimed in startlement, but then they were suddenly busy shooting at Galactic Alliance Guard soldiers. Lord Luke wished for his lightsaber, so he could be of use in the fight.
Then he remembered that he was also a Dark Lord of the Sith. He reached out to the enemies' power packs and drained them. Their blasters ceased to fire.
He did not remember much after that until he came awake in a military bedroll that smelled like it had been in storage for decades. Military surplus, perhaps. Like the armor?
He sat up rubbing his eyes. He was in a small private room with a water bottle next to the sleeping bag. He stretched. He was very stiff; he had been in a healing trance for a long time. He chugged the bottle and made his way into a hallway. He heard people talking, and walked in that direction.
He was wearing somebody else's grey spacer's coveralls, slightly too big, and no shoes. He walked into what was obviously a military briefing. Metal camp chairs supported a mostly human, mostly male audience that did not rustle much. They had Imperial uniforms, but there was something wrong with most of them. A lot of slightly mismatched trousers, as if replaced with similar colored pants from civilian stores. A wide assortment of boots and athletic shoes. The gold flash of a nonregulation woman's hairclip.
The speaker stopped with Lord Luke dragged himself in from the hallway. "Our last rescuee is awake, I see," the man in Colonel's attire said. He had one of the most complete uniforms in the room, but civilian shoes.
Luke glanced at the diagrams behind the Colonel. "Looks like you're planning an attack with X-Wing fighters. That's an unusual choice for Imperials. You are Imperials, right?"
"We are Imperial loyalists. Some of us did not approve of the Empire's union with the New Republic to create the Galactic Alliance."
"Well, Imperials or whatever, if you're working to overthrow Jacen, you have my support. And my gratitude, for getting me out of there. I'd like to volunteer."
"You just woke up from a coma," objected the Colonel.
"It wasn't a coma, it was a Jedi healing trance," Lord Luke said. "I'm fine now. Or I will be, as soon as I eat and so forth. Your pilots are probably trained in TIEs, and if I don't miss my guess, you're having to equip yourselves outside channels. Because you're a resistance group. Welcome to the Rebellion."
"Hardly," the Colonel said. "We mean to see Admiral Pellaeon returned from that ridiculous 'retirement' and installed at head of state. The Galactic Alliance is fatally flawed, but we believe a new Empire can grow from it."
"Fine, fine. Pellaeon's a great guy, I like him. Bygones by bygones and all that. I've been in a few committee meetings with him, and he seems to be able to lead in a civilian context too. As long as you help me kill Jacen. Or if you have a plan, then let me help you kill Jacen. Whichever, as long as he dies."
"I understand your need for revenge, old fellow, really I do. I've spoken with several of the survivors we rescued from the GAG special interrogation wing. But our medical officer is better qualified to advise you on your recovery."
Lord Luke inhaled to argue, and someone else, a TIE fighter pilot according to his black uniform, turned around from the front row and said, "Dogfighting's no place for an old geezer, even if you are all better."
Lord Luke smiled a little and said, "I may be getting old, but I'm still the best hand with an X-wing fighter you're ever likely to recruit."
The Colonel tried to shuffle him off again. "We do appreciate your offer to volunteer, and we are looking for more help in a variety of areas. After all this is over, I'll assign someone to work with you in figuring out what skills you have that we could use. But right now we are four hours from mission, and we need to finish our briefing."
"You have no idea who I am, do you," Lord Luke sneered. "And here I imagined I might have been the object of your rescue. Get the famous ex-Rebel working for the Imperial resistance, great propaganda coup. Even better if he can bring the rest of the Order in with him. Too bad it doesn't work that way, or I would have had enough of a chance against Jacen to bring him down, instead of getting myself captured. Being the head of the Order is just a lot of damn paperwork, they don't actually follow me into battle if they don't agree with me. They're still hung up on neutrality and not interfering with government." Lord Luke snorted in derision at the rest of the Jedi.
"What order?" asked the Colonel.
"Huh. I used to have one of the most recognizable faces in the galaxy. From Imperial wanted posters." Lord Luke spotted some more chairs leaning against the wall, and used the Force to pull one to him, and then collapsed into it.
"What did you do?" asked the Colonel.
"Blew up the Death Star. The first one."
There was a feeling in the room as if everyone was holding his breath. Then the Colonel asked, "Luke Skywalker?"
"Yeah. You going to give me a damn X-wing or not?"
"Um. You realize this is an Imperial fighter squadron."
"Right now I don't care if you're the Lords of the Sith, as long as Jacen dies." Slowly, Lord Luke was tempted to add.
"Right. Morven, I believe we did have one extra fightercraft, did we not?"
"One, yes," the pit crew boss replied. "One is no good to anybody."
"I don't need a wingman," Lord Luke said. "A non-Force user would just slow me down."
The Colonel said, "As you wish. The major roles have already been assigned and practiced."
"Fine, whatever. Right now I just want a chance to kill a lot of people."
"Ah. Of course. Since you will have no wingman, stay out of the formation. Hang back, pick off stragglers."
"Sure. Sounds great. May the Force be with us."
A few hours later, Lord Luke was in his element at last: the cockpit of a fighter, skimming the outer atmosphere where the skies of Coruscant hung all about him in a perpetual red twilight, just below eternal night.
Prey came into his grasp. A wounded bird, fleeing the furball the Imperial pilots caused. Lord Luke did not care that he was merely mopping up in a less than important action, a distraction to draw off ships and attention from the real target. He was in battle, and the X-wing was his soul ship, an extension of his very self. He sighted and squeezed, and the target ship broke apart in a shower of golden sparks, beautiful, hot, and transient as the act of procreation.
Another ship came under his guns. Life was fleeting, vapor trails going down on the horizon. The scrap fell as shooting stars in the city skies.
Another. Another. Then he was done. Quietly, with only the faintest touch of irony, he whispered, "Long live Emperor Gilaad Pellaeon."