"The bridge crew has estimated another two days before our arrival, Master."

Palpatine raised his head from the makeshift throne he had installed in his guest quarters on the ship, favouring Vader with a sly smile.

"Yes, my friend—I can feel the anger in you growing with every parsec we cross."

Vader clenched his fists, wanting to punch something, but his Master had risen from his throne now, and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Patience, Lord Vader," he said, his voice a mockery of a soothing tone. "I am angry as well; the murder of Senator Amidala was a tragedy, as was her decision to turn against us in the end. I'm sure, had the Jedi not twisted her mind, she would have been one of the very champions of our Empire. I—" He lowered his gaze. "I am truly saddened that she cannot be here with us today, to celebrate eighteen years of the peace she fought so hard for. She deserved so much better than the death of a traitor."

Vader couldn't speak—couldn't move. He'd found himself frozen up.

"She was so giving," the Emperor continued to muse, no doubt enjoying the turbulent emotions he could feel rising in his apprentice. "Even in death, she gave you exactly what a good Sith needs to become powerful: Pain."

The leather of Vader's gloves creaked, but he just kept squeezing his hands tighter.

"But while the galaxy moves on, she will not be forgotten. She is a public hero on Naboo, did you know? Most of the graffiti is of her face and her name." And oh, Palpatine's glee just exploded in the Force at that, at the idea that while he was down there Vader would have to see her everywhere— "And you shall exact vengeance on her behalf, I'm sure." He paused, then asked, "Tell me—how goes the hunt for Obi-Wan Kenobi?"

He was within my grasp, and I let him go. "Fruitless, so far, Master, but I will not stop looking."

"Of course. If there is anything I know about you, Lord Vader—" and I know much about you, was what was implied, "—it's that you are relentless. I'm sure you shall find him in due time."

Then Palpatine paused again, calculation flashing across his face. He turned to watch Vader through narrow eyes, then said, "Perhaps even sooner, if we pick up your Sith training soon, and grow your power."

Vader stiffened. This was a test, he could tell, but he wasn't sure what he was being tested for.

Even so, Luke's life was on the line. If he could push Palpatine now, get him to tell him what he needed to know. . .

"Of course, my Master," he said gravely. "In particular, I would know how to manipulate the midichlorians to reverse death."

At that, Palpatine's eyebrow arched, and something cold sank in Vader's stomach. It had been a trap—and he'd walked right into it.

"Of course, Lord Vader," the Emperor said slowly, smiling even wider now. "A Sith always gets what is his due, and that knowledge is what I promised you all those years ago, isn't it? A pity you didn't learn it in time—if you had, perhaps Senator Amidala would be eagerly awaiting our arrival as we speak."

And they were back to Padmé. Vader gritted his teeth. "Yes, but I shall learn it now, so nothing like that will ever happen again." I promise you, Luke: it will never happen again.

"Of course, my apprentice," his Master acquiesced. "I shall teach it to you upon our arrival. Until then, let an old man savour his coveted knowledge for a few days more."

Vader nodded stiffly. There wasn't much else he could do. It would be cutting it a bit close, but it offered a chance for him. . .

"Although, my friend, I must ask," Palpatine asked, and suddenly his yellow eyes were alight with fire and intensity and Vader had a bad feeling about this— "Why do you seek this knowledge now? My old Master used it to save the ones he loved from dying. Whom do you seek to save?"

Vader thoughts stuttered to a halt. He knew.

His Master knew.

There was no way he could know, but he had to, there was no other way he would ask that, and now—

Luke.

Was Luke in danger?

The rasp of his respirator was steady in his ears. He tried to ground himself, bring himself back to the present, but his mind was a mess of confusion and chaos; all he could get out was a stilted, "No one of interest, my Master."

He said it too late.

His silence had already damned him.

Palpatine settled back in his throne, his smugness practically radiating from him. "'No one of interest," he echoed. "Of course, Lord Vader." He smiled. "Whatever you say."


Luke's head was spinning, and he wasn't sure it was the rotating cogs he was staring at were at fault.

He shook his head, trying to clear it. He'd woken up that morning with his mind slightly fuzzy, but he hadn't thought it was bad!

But now he could barely see. His eyes kept slipping out of focus, seeing double—was there one cog in front of him, or two?—and his head ached. The scars on his neck throbbed. There was a pressure building behind his eyes, getting worse and worse and worse, until he wanted to scream

He stood up abruptly, the blood rushing out of his head. He was flapping and floundering for a moment as he staggered back, before he found his balance again.

"Ensign!" a sharp voice barked; a week of working near that voice had Luke internally cringing at the scolding he was about to receive for abandoning his post, but the human officers were now dark shadows flitting across his vision and he—couldn't—see

"Ensign?" The sharp voice sounded worried now; there was the hurried clack of frantic footsteps, then his commanding officer was next to him, seizing his forearms as Luke swayed back and forth and back and forth and back and forth— "Ensign, what's wrong?"

"Luke?" another voice said, then more voices joined the clamour, and everything was just so loud

A startled cry, his arms ripped out of the officer's grip, as his vision blacked out completely and he collapsed to the floor.


Not being able to sense Luke set Vader on edge on the average day, but suddenly, three days into the four day voyage, anxiety gripped him.

Irrational, unbelievable, illogical anxiety, but anxiety nonetheless.

On instinct, he swept through the ship with the Force, sensing each and every consciousness, every presence. His Master was the only acknowledgement he expected, and it was the only one he got; he make an effort to ignore the amusement radiating from him. He was sure his own turmoil was palpable, but he didn't care. He needed to find Luke.

Something had happened to Luke.

And yes, there he was, he could sense him. He relaxed marginally.

But he was in his quarters, unconscious, in the middle of the day cycle when he should've been working down by the reactors—

He turned with a snap, his cape flicking against the legs of his desk. There was a stack of datapads atop the desk; with a flick of his wrist, the top two went flying against the wall, where they crunched into pieces.

He didn't spare them a thought. He had no doubt they were important—they didn't make it to the top of the pile for no reason, after all—but the one third from the top, hidden from prying eyes, was what interested him. He summoned it to hand.

The latest update from Captain Piett flashed onto the surface, the neat lines of text scrolling across his vision. The Ensign showed some discomfort when being teased by the other techs in the mess hall due to his height, but the teasing was of good nature and I believe his peers show him no threat

The pad creaked as Vader's grip tightened. This report was from hours ago, the captain, as always, carrying out his duties impeccably and reporting in twice a day. He couldn't complain—especially since Piett was supervising Luke at the same time as carrying out his own duties, so as to not seem suspicious.

What it did mean was that the next report wasn't due for another three standard hours, and Vader needed to know what was happening now.

Desperately, he hit the refresh button on the datapad, more as something to do than because he believed another report would come up, telling him everything he needed to know.

Which it did.

He blinked at it for a moment, two, then almost snapped the device in half lunging to open it.

The subject of the report was marked EMERGENCY, sending alarm bells ringing in his mind. He read it through in a rush, a daze, then had to stop to process it.

Then he read it again, slower, more thoughtful.

Luke was what was at stake here. If he acted wrong, in any way, Luke would be the one to suffer.

So he forced himself to stay calm as he read about how his only son had collapsed, ill, in the middle of his duties and been escorted to the medbay. Piett had tried speaking to his commanding officer on what happened, but the man himself seemed without a clue.

The medical officers who'd examined him had said they had no idea what Luke's condition was, or what was wrong. They'd given him a bacta shot and put him to sleep, but even then they reported he was tossing and turning, reportedly in pain—for a while, at least.

After that, he'd gone completely still.

Something tightened in his chest.

No—this couldn't be it. They still had eight days until Empire Day. Luke wasn't supposed to be taken from him until his eighteenth birthday—he couldn't die now, without having spoken to his father for days, surrounded by strangers.

The wall behind Vader bent under an invisible assault. Luke wasn't going to—

He mashed the comlink in his arm and growled, "Inform the medbay staff that I am conducting an impromptu inspection and that they are to lock it down from visitors."

"But, my lord," Piett's voice came through, surprised and slightly panicked. "We will be arriving at Naboo in six hours, the Emperor needs you to"

"I am well aware of what the Emperor needs, and he will have it, but I want that medbay prepared for inspection, Captain." The word itself was a threat. "Now."


"Ah, Lord Vader," Palpatine sighed. "Isn't it beautiful? I had so missed my home."

Vader didn't answer—was wound up far too tight to even try. When he'd visited Luke in the medbay, the boy had been alive, but unconscious, and completely unresponsive. Eventually, Vader had dared to push through the boy's shields, weighing his fear that his Master would sense it against the fear for Luke's life, and gone deep—deeper than he should have, perhaps; it might be dangerous to push that far into someone's mind. But it was necessary.

And it just highlighted his worries even further: anyone, Force-sensitive or not, even on the very brink of death, should have reacted to that.

But Luke was still unresponsive.

"I'm sure it will be painful for you," Palpatine continued, jolting Vader back to the present, "but I require you to accompany me to the Theed Royal Palace to see the Queen, then stand by me during my speech on Palace Plaza. I know it may cause some discomfort, bring back unwanted memories, but the Empire needs to be seen as united. Infallible. My friend," he reached across the seat of the shuttle to place a hand on Vader's shoulder, "you are an integral part of what our Empire represents."

Slowly, Vader turned his head to look at his Master head on. The man just smiled.

"Order," he whispered. "Loyalty. Reliability. You embody those words, Lord Vader. You are what the rest of the galaxy aspires to be. You have never failed me, never betrayed me."

The hand fell away from his arm, as Palpatine turned back to the viewport and the tranquil planet floating beyond it.

But even with his face turned away, Vader could hear the mockery in his voice as he said, "And I'm sure you never will."


His Master had been right. This was bringing back bad memories.

The hangar, where he'd flown the starfighter that had destroyed the droid control ship and saved Naboo. The throne room, where he and Padmé had sat and listened to Queen Jamillia talk about the Separatist crisis. The countryside, where Padmé and Ahsoka had been carried out of that mad scientist's facility, ill from the Blue Shadow Virus.

He hated it all, but what he hated most was Palace Plaza, where they'd hosted the festival to celebrate the liberation of Naboo after the blockade. It brought up the most memories of all.

Sunlight streaming through, the place a riot of colour and noise, Padmé splendid in the queen's full regalia, standing next to Boss Nass. When she looked down at little Anakin Skywalker, her smile couldn't have been wider, and it had made him giddy, his child's crush on her expanding with every moment into the galaxy-altering thing it had become. His former self had loved Palace Plaza if only because the feeling of overwhelming joy he associated with it never faded, never altered, until. . .

A rainy day in Theed, one he couldn't witness in person as he was. . . indisposed. . . but one he watched later, his pain feeding his anger feeding his hate. Padmé's beautiful face, slack in death; the japor snippet wound through her fingers; the flowers in her hair. She'd been made to look pregnant on her deathbed as six white gualaars pulled her through the city.

Obi-Wan's doing, no doubt, in an attempt to keep Luke away from him. To perpetuate the lie that the child had died with her. . .

The entire planet of Naboo had gone into mourning when she died—they had loved her so, so much—and it didn't help the situation that he could still feel the echoes of that grief in the stones, in the atmosphere around him. It had been thirty years since Padmé had smiled at him during that festival, and now all the joy was gone.

He was distantly aware of Palpatine giving a speech, something about how proud he was of Naboo's role in the Republic and later the Empire, how special the day was, how much it meant to him. . . It all sounded very similar to what he'd said at the Festival of Light during the Clone Wars, and that comparison sent his mind trailing back to happier times, even with the looming threat to the then-Chancellor's life. . .

If there's trouble Ahsoka will get you, the Queen and the rest of your staff to safety.

He squeezed his hands into fists. Safety.

What about you? Padmé's voice said in his memory, always, always concerned with other people, never herself, never looking after herself as much as she should—

Hopefully I'll be where I always am.

Ahsoka— He means saving the day.

Padmé's laugh. Of course he does.

She'd always teased him about that, his need to save the day, to save everyone, and sometimes the teasing had come to a line she wouldn't let him cross—I can do what I want, Anakin, and you won't let me do anything.

But it hadn't been in the middle of a reckless, selfless, senseless stunt that she met her end. No. It had been in the lie she believed, and the person she ran to for reassurance.

He hadn't been able to save her.

He barely flinched as there was a bang somewhere, and the first of the many, many build up parades he'd be forced to attend this week started, the music obnoxiously loud and patriotic. Everything was in black and white and grey—the colours of the Empire—nothing like that celebration thirty years ago, where he'd known nothing but joy and hope for the future. . .

He felt a spike of anger from his Master; he turned to look at him, and received a glare in return. He was being too sullen, not acting as he should at these events. It brought the Emperor glee to see him so conflicted, he knew, but it wasn't good for the Empire image.

Under any other circumstances he wouldn't have cared. His Master had brought him to Naboo; his Master could deal with the fallout from it. But he needed the man in a good mood if he was ever going to stand a chance at getting Plagueis's secret to immortality off him.

He hadn't been able to save Padmé. But he would save Luke. He swore it.

So he straightened up to watch the parade, noting that unsurprisingly, no Gungans had been invited to attend.


His mood went from petulant to anxious to worse the longer he stood in the place of Padmé's funeral, and the moment he got back to the ship he went to check on Luke. Palpatine was residing in the Theed Royal Palace, he knew, so it was relatively safe to. And he was nervous. He needed to reassure himself that Luke was fine.

Luke was not fine.

After a charged conversation between him and the medics—one which several of them did not survive—he decided that he had to risk moving Luke to his own quarters. Vader had much better medical supplies there, away from the prying eyes of other sick and wounded Imperials, and, as Luke had so astutely noticed before, there was a bed there that he didn't have any use for.

The whole time, he worried and stressed and feared that his Master would think to check the ship's logs and question why a lowly tech was being treated in the quarters of Lord Vader himself. But it was worth the risk, if it meant that Luke was more likely to live. Besides—Luke was registered as 'Luke Whitesun', should anyone ask for his full name, which might stall his Master's investigations for a short amount of time, at least.

It wasn't long, however, until he saw the mistake he'd made.

As long as Luke was on the other side of the ship, Vader couldn't go to him. He could force himself to get on with his work. But as long as Luke was near him, then the boy's every twitch—or lack thereof—drew his attention, disrupting his focus and productivity.

It had been three hours since Luke had been moved, and Vader had reviewed a mere fraction of the datapads he had to get through.

But, he had to admit, this arrangement was still better. It was still better, because the moment Luke's awareness in the Force spiked and he began to wake, a groan stirring the unused muscles in his throat, Vader was next to him waiting.

"Father. . .?" Luke slurred, still half-asleep, and the pacemakers in Vader's chest protested the sudden leaps his heart was taking at the word. "Is that—"

"I'm here, my son." He saw his fingers twitch and seized Luke's hand, clutching it tightly. The next words stuck in his throat. "How do you feel?"

"Like a bantha ran me over, then backed up again for round two." Another groan forced its way out of his throat as Luke made the effort to raise his head slightly, squinting into the room. "What happened?"

"You fainted in the middle of your shift," Vader said, some of the heart-stopping fear beginning to fade now that Luke was awake. Perhaps this was a temporary illness he'd caught, or the product of something otherwise harmless. "Your fellow techs were very worried."

"Yeah, I. . . think I remember that?" Luke rubbed his eyes. "I don't know why I feel so awful, though, it seemed to come out of nowhere. . ."

"None of your bunkmates could you passed you a virus?"

Luke shook his head no—and Vader had known there was no way, of course; the medics had conducted a thorough investigation into why Luke was so ill when they realised that the symptoms weren't any they recognised, but he just needed to be sure—then said hurriedly, as if anticipating what Vader was going to ask, "And none of us have had any drinks or spice on board, so you can rule that out as a cause as well."

Vader gave him a sceptical look.

"It's true! I swear, none of us—" He was cut off by a sharp coughing fit. The sounds were harsh and painful; tears streamed down his face by the end of it, and he looked pale again.

The fear Vader had felt earlier returned. "You're sure it came out of nowhere?" he demanded, looking Luke up and down again. Now he'd been awake a few minutes, his body seemed to be tiring once more. Luke looked like death again.

Clearly, the illness hadn't passed overnight.

"I'm sure," his son insisted, rubbing his throat in the aftermath of the coughing fit.

"Nothing was hurting before, or hurting worse than anything else?"

"No—" Luke began vehemently, then his fingers stilled on his throat.

Right over the scars there.

Vader looked away. "Then I don't know what this is," he said, "and I don't know how to stop it. But it's one week until Empire Day, and if this is what kills you. . ." He bowed his head. "I will find a way to stop it."

"I know, Father," Luke said quietly, his hand dropping back into his lap. He sat up further, bracing himself against the wall, and surveyed the rest of the room—the medical droids, the dim lights, the closed doors—before his gaze latched onto Vader. "I know you'll try your hardest to stop me from dying. But this won't kill me." He tried for a grin. "I didn't spend nearly eighteen years on a death planet like Tatooine just to be taken down by a few coughing fits."

"You don't know that, son," Vader said. "You can't—"

"So we've arrived at Naboo since I was out?" Luke asked. Vader didn't begrudge him the change of subject. "Have you been down to the planet yet? Was it fun?"

A scowl twisted his lips behind the mask, tugging on the scars. "It was not fun," he said, enunciating the word with a particular brand of disgust. "Naboo holds nothing but bad memories and tragedy for me."

"Because my mother died?"

Vader hung his head. "Because your mother died."

"But you said she was from Naboo," Luke pushed. "Don't you have any happy memories there?"

The scene he'd thought of earlier flashed to mind—Padmé, radiant in a Queen of Naboo's splendour, standing in front of an entire crowd of adoring people, and choosing to smile at him. "A few, I suppose."

A faint smile touched Luke's lips, and although it was nothing compared to what Padmé's had been like, his mind couldn't help but compare the two. The shape of the nose was so similar, the slow, naturalness of the action, the genuine joy he could feel behind it. . . "Tell me about it."

There were so many other things Vader needed to be doing. He had a stack of datapads to review, a skill he needed to learn off his Master, an entire fleet to run and a child to save.

But if he only had one week left with that child, then the rest of the galaxy could go to hell for all he cared.

So Luke heard his stories, and Vader hoped against hope that he would survive to hear even more.