A/N: Just kidding, I have nothing to say. :P
SIBLING REVELRY
Chapter 7
"You want us to stage a rehearsal?" Both Luke and Leia stared at him with horrified expressions. Wedge Antilles had raised his eyebrows nearly up to the next deck of the ship. Lando rubbed his forehead. Over in the corner, Luke's Rogue pilots gaped at him in newfound adoration.
Han donned a swaggering smirk. "You gotta up the ante somehow, right? What better way than this? It's not an actual wedding."
"But—but—" Luke groaned and rubbed his head. "Han, we're just trying to mess with Antilles, not the whole fracking Rebel Fleet! Hell, what if it gets back to Imperial Intelligence?"
"So much the better!" Han grinned. "Misinformation and all that. Right, Princess?"
Leia, who was stretched out on the deck recovering from her daily onset of the Dymian flu, gave a grudging nod. Luke, who knew that the person who would be misinformed by Imperial Intelligence was his maybe-father, made a faint whimper of protest.
"We can keep it mostly private," Han argued. "We'll just let a few extra people in on the gag and invite ol' Fred along for the ride."
"A few extra people?" Leia said, her eyebrows raised at a wary angle.
"Well, you need someone to officiate, ring bearers, groomsmen, maids of honor, all that jazz."
"Fred can be one of the groomsmen," Hobbie suggested. Luke glared at him.
"Lieutenant Klivian," Wedge said severely, "the Boss gets to pick his own groomsmen." He turned to Luke. "I'm best man, right, Boss?"
"We're really not getting out of this, are we?" Luke asked Leia in despair. She shook her head, resigned. Luke blew out a huge sigh and finally leveled a determined scowl at the perpetrators of the scheme. If he had to pretend to pretend to get married, he was by the Force going to give as good as he got. "In that case, I say that Han has to be best man." Wedge snapped his fingers in disappointment and Han swept a mock bow. "Wedge, Wes, and Tycho can be the rest of the groomsmen."
"What about me, Boss?" Hobbie asked.
The malicious grin that Luke turned on Hobbie would have done the Dark Side proud. "Don't worry, Klivian. I've got just the part for you."
Darth Vader rarely had good days anymore, but he did have days of varying degrees of badness. Today had been spectacularly awful. It had started out with so much promise—they'd gotten a lucky tip as to the whereabouts of a bothersome Rebel cell in the Lykon system—but then the commando team he had dispatched to deal with the Rebels had first landed at the wrong address, then blundered the ambush, with the result that none of the Rebels were captured whereas all his commandos and a sizeable chunk of Lykon's most productive spaceport were blown to smithereens. Consequently his day had been eaten up fielding complaints from the Lykonian government, fending off the galactic media, and explaining the entire mess to the Emperor. As the corpses of several senior officers of the stormtrooper corps attested, the Dark Lord was in no mood for further inconveniences.
Unfortunately, his wayward children had never harbored much concern for his preferences. So it was of course that very afternoon when the next report from his spy in the Rebellion arrived, complete with holo of the twins' latest indiscretion.
Darth Vader was now ensconced in his quarters, eyes glued to his holoprojector with that morbid fascination most beings reserve for natural cataclysms or genocides. Flickering in blue tones before his eyes, a sordid scene was unfolding in a spacious ship cabin. At the fore stood Luke and the Princess in everyday fatigues, holding hands and facing a bulging-eyed Mon Calamarian in admiral's uniform who was presumably the ship's captain. Flanking Luke stood a selection of male friends and the freshly unfrozen Han Solo, beaming beatifically on the proceedings. Flanking Leia stood a selection of female friends and one male pilot, holding the bride's mock bouquet and teetering in stiletto heels. His smile looked rather forced. Down the aisle trundled a rotund little astromech droid; a pair of bright silvery rings glittered on the cushion perched on its dome. Bringing up its rear, a slender gold protocol droid scattered fake petals from the flight helmet it was using as a flower basket.
"Dearly beloved," rasped the fish-faced admiral, "we are gathered here today…"
About eighty-five seconds after the holofile marked "Wedding Rehearsal" began to play, all the electronic equipment in Lord Vader's quarters unaccountably suffered catastrophic damage. About fifteen minutes later, a repair request arrived at the Executor's tech maintenance station. About twenty-one minutes later, a shuttle carrying all the Destroyer's remaining technicians burst out of Hangar Bay Twelve without authorization and got its engines blasted out by Ensign Pol Bhussy, operator of Laser Cannon Mount 52B. It crashed somewhere on the forest moon of Endor, which the Executor was orbiting. It is suspected that the survivors were adopted by Ewoks, which some xenobiologists suggest as an explanation for the stunning leap in Ewok technology that occurred over the next two centuries—but that would be another story.
On Alderaan—according to Leia and Tycho—rehearsals had traditionally taken place a month before the actual wedding. Half of those thirty days had now gone by, and Luke Skywalker was beginning to panic. What was he going to do when time was up? At this point he'd be happy to drop the whole stunt, but Leia seemed determined not to let Fred think he'd won. Luke had begun to worry that she would marry him, out of sheer obstinacy.
"Leia? Han?" He leaned into the hatch of the Falcon's rec room.
"Just me and Chewie," Han grunted. Only his back half was visible, the rest of him being burrowed under the bench.
"What are you doing under there?"
"Well," drawled Han's voice, "you an' Lando, like the first-rate buddies you are, didn't bother to do any maintenance on the energy conduit for the dorsal cannon mount for the last six months."
"I tried to do maintenance on it," Luke retorted. "I just couldn't find it. Can't imagine why I didn't think to look for the access panel under the game table in the rec room."
"What?" Han sounded wounded, which Luke knew to be a shameless act. "It's right by the air ducts and wiring routes to the cannon placement, it makes perfect sense!"
"Except that the whole point of an access panel is to be accessible! You have this ship's guts so screwed up, just about the only thing on the schematic that's still accurate is the engine bloc, and I'm not even sure about that."
"Just remember it's my ingenious modifications that keep saving your butt," Han told him, twisting his face around to exhibit his lopsided smirk. "Gimme the jumper bypass, will ya?"
Luke rummaged through the tool kit and found the JB just as Leia stepped in. "Hey, Leia," he said, handing the JB to Han, "I wanted to talk to you about this whole Fred Antilles thing. Specifically, how do you plan to get out of marrying me?"
He looked up and noticed belatedly her grim expression. "What is it?"
"I think the Empire just gave us an excellent excuse for postponing it indefinitely," Leia said. She handed him a datapad. "Check out what our Bothan spy network just recorded in orbit around Endor."
Luke switched the screen on. Then he dropped it. "No."
"Yes," said Leia.
Han scrabbled out from under the bench. "What is it?"
Luke handed him the datapad. Han almost dropped it too. "You're kidding me," he breathed.
"I wish I was."
Luke shuddered as he stared at the nightmarishly familiar, though only half-finished, sphere in the image, lumbering around the jewel-bright moon like an obese mosquito. "What are we doing about it?" he asked.
"Not sure yet," Leia said. "We're waiting for more reports; they should be coming soon. Right now we don't know if it's even operational yet." She stared through the image, and Luke suspected she was remembering a Death Star that had proven to be operational. She shook herself at last and said, "This is all classified, of course, but I thought you ought to know, Luke, because you could get busy soon. If you're still going to make that trip out to Master Yoda, I think you'd better go right now. I'll okay it for you as long as you promise to make it quick."
"Yeah," Luke said. "Yeah, I think I will."
If anybody had thought to look under the mattress of Fred Antilles' bunk, they would have concluded something was amiss with the intelligence analyst. It was lined with the sorts of magazines, novels, and self-help books generally reserved for very girly tween females and desperate single women in their early thirties. Dozens upon dozens of appallingly schmaltzy publications, all of them dog-eared to the most syrupy pages—some of them even underlined and notated. Anyone would have agreed that Fred Antilles had spun out of orbit of the planet Sanity. What none of them would have believed—what Karlino himself barely believed—was that it was all professional research.
He had spent his every off-duty hour since the rehearsal fiasco hunting for ways to give his reluctant couple a judicious nudge (or, if necessary, a forceful shove) in the right direction. He had tackled his stash of saccharine literature, stolen from the ship's female-only freshers, with rabid enthusiasm and compiled whole lists of romantic ideas. But he hadn't dared to hope that Fate would deal him such a golden opportunity. Just this morning he had been asked to process an emergency leave-of-absence form for Skywalker, Luke. Now that the Princess' fiancé was out of the way, he at last had a chance to act!
He skimmed through his lists to be professional, but he already had decided which plan would be the ticket. And what with all the people who'd placed bets on the Princess and Solo hooking up, he had dozens of potential accomplices to make it work.
Karlino Van Hermahutt, Imperial spy extraordinaire, you are about to ace this mission!
Han blinked when he stepped into Leia's quarters. The front sitting room had been transformed. The lights were off and somebody had scrounged up muted glowbulbs to double as candles. Leia's desk had been dragged out and set up with chairs. Han suspected that was one of Lando's capes attempting to be mistaken for a tablecloth. Abysmally romantic jizz was playing in the background. And directly in front of him, a shadowy version of Lando was supervising while Artoo finished setting the places. The astromech issued a sly beep at Han and bumped into his leg as he walked up.
"What the hell is all this?" Han demanded. "You said Leia wanted to see me!"
"She will," Lando said. "Don't you think?"
"Listen," Han snapped, "I can romance her just fine by myself, Calrissian—"
"Of course you can," Lando said. "Sit down and I'll tell you what's up." Han complied. Lando plopped down in the opposite chair. "Alright, that Fred Antilles guy must've found out Luke just left, cause he came up to my ship this afternoon and asked if I'd be interested in helping him set up a candlelight dinner for you two lovebirds."
Han blinked. "Antilles set all this up?"
"Nah, nah, I said I'd take care of everything." Lando winked. "Now, I said he should do the waiting, so he's gonna be here in just a moment to help with the rest of the food and serve the plates. Leia already knows what's up, I had Artoo slip a note into her office. Now all you have to do is act the part of jilted lover, and let's face it, you can just do that from memory, Solo."
"I oughta ram your sorry butt up the Falcon's quad cannons and shoot you back to Vader," Han said conversationally.
"Aw, come on! You get a candelight evening with the woman you love! And all you've gotta do is act a bit during dinner! I promise, we'll leave the two of you alone after dessert, you can have the whole rest of the night together."
"Fine," Han groused. "But the food better be real damn good."
"Do you imagine you'll be leaving soon, Captain Solo?" Leia asked him icily over a forkful of nerf steak.
Kreth, Han marveled, she's so good at this I almost believe it myself. "Not before dessert," he rallied with a charming smile. His part was turning out to be easy; he just had to pretend like it was Hoth all over again. Which was even easier considering Leia was going full-bore Ice Princess on him.
"I meant, will you be leaving the Rebellion soon?" Leia corrected. Her voice could have frozen helium this time. "After all," she added, turning her eyes back to her nerf steak, "you were intending to do so prior to certain unavoidable delays."
Honey, Han thought in admiration, with a tone like that, who needs a serrated steak knife?
Aloud he said, "Actually, I've changed my mind. I want to stay in the Rebellion."
"Is that so," she remarked with supreme disinterest.
"I mean it," said Han. And to his own surprise, he did. Leia must have heard that, because her eyes flashed up and the icy mask faltered for the briefest instant. She started to say something, but at that moment Fred Antilles appeared through the door to refill their wine glasses. He'd scrounged up a smart black coat and bowtie from somewhere. Han almost had to admire the dedication. As Fred vanished back into the side room, Leia whipped a pen out of her pocket and scrawled on her napkin, Y're really staying?
He grabbed pen and napkin. Yeah I am.
The Ice Princess melted away into a radiant smile. She reached out and squeezed his hand. He grinned back, forgetting that his smile got extra lopsided when he was feeling mushy.
"Well," Leia said aloud, in the same wintry voice as before, "I'm glad to hear that, Captain. The Alliance needs all the able pilots it can find." She let go of his hand and reassembled her chilly expression; an instant later Fred returned carrying salad bowls. "Have you spoken to General Madine about receiving a permanent assignment?"
"I was actually going to ask you about it," Han said, shooting for his most pathetically wistful voice. "Do you think you could spare the time to look into it yourself? I really trust your judgment."
Leia desperately fought down a smirk. He grinned without mercy behind Fred's back. This was turning out to be the best idea Lando'd ever had.
"I'm afraid I just don't have the time, Captain," she retorted. "I'm a very busy woman between the Council and my upcoming marriage." Fred Antilles gave an audible sigh as he headed back to the side room and they snickered silently at each other. Han dashed down on the napkin, Dnt think he'll give up.
Have 2 get rid o/him, Leia agreed. Reassign 2 dif. ship?
Airlock, Han wrote back. Leia stifled a laugh, then stuffed the napkin into her lap as Fred came back in, carrying a single plate of pasta with two forks. "Aldera spaghetti with five-cheese sauce for two, compliments of the chef," he announced.
"That's lovely," said Leia, "but could you kindly get us an extra plate?"
Fred's face fell and he trudged off. Leia scrawled on the napkin, Trad. lovers dish.
?? was Han's characteristic response.
You eat noodles frm ends 2gethr, she answered, regarding him with fond exasperation.
Han mouthed a silent oh.
2 bad we cnt try, Leia added with a mischievous smile.
Barely before Fred returned with the extra plate, Han managed to respond, L8r then!
"Excuse me," Leia said aloud as Fred started back out. "Could I get another napkin, please? Captain Solo seems have soiled mine."
Dagobah was not the sort of place where things happened—at any rate nothing out of the ordinary. It rained, it fogged, small creatures reproduced and were eaten by larger creatures, and all of these humdrum events rolled on one after the other with nary a murmur. Today had been precisely like the day before. The swamp monster drifted in its muddy hole. The lizards and snakes continued to exude slime. The gnats assembled in clouds and drifted apart again. Even the youngish human and the grizzled little green alien, who were the most shocking things that had happened in the planet's entire history, went about their business in harmonious observance of Dagobah's perpetual hush. The millennia-long implacability could have been mistaken for an inviolable law of nature.
Understandably, the natural life of the region was thoroughly startled when the reverential silence was shattered by a thunderous sentence, the first human shout which Dagobah had ever heard.
"She's my what?"
tbc...