Chapter 10
Explosion

Han Solo was not a particularly well-educated man. Most of his education came from the streets, cantinas, con artists, and other smugglers. The only formal education he knew of was an unhappy stint in one of the Imperial Academies – an attempt of his at the straight-and-narrow life – that led to a shorter stint in the Imperial navy which ended with his rescue of his pal Chewie. However, this lack of book-learning did not by any means make him stupid.

He knew that something was up. A lot of somethings. There were a lot of secrets floating around him, secrets that he wasn't privy to, and it made him very, very unhappy.

Most of the mystery revolved around this Anakin Starkiller character. Leia said that he was a former Imperial—something that immediately gave the man a black mark in Han's book. But the fact that Leia wouldn't tell him anything else made Han very suspicious. The rumors floating around didn't help any.

With Darth Vader's disappearance months ago, all sorts of theories cropped up as to why and where he was. Some said that he had gone rogue. Some said he'd gone crazy and been banished to an empty wasteland planet. Others claimed that he'd defected to the Alliance for varying reasons. And some said that he'd up and died from health problems.

No one believed that he was dead. Vader was just too mean, too evil, to just die. And the rumor of his defection—no member of the Alliance believed, but the Emperor strangely seemed to; the price on Vader's head was proof of that. The stories that he'd gone rogue or crazy were the most believable. But what if…

…What if the Emperor's bounty on Vader's head for treason wasn't just the action of a senile, paranoid mind? What if that story that nasty old Palpatine believed was true? What if the Alliance really had made a deal with the devil? And what if this Anakin Starkiller was the missing Dark Lord himself?

There was more evidence to say that Starkiller was the Dark Lord than there was saying that he wasn't—at least from what Han had seen. The man was secretive, cranky, and glared at everything. The creep only seemed to hold respect for the Princess (because she was high-class) and the Kid (because he was a Jedi), and that respect was very limited. He clearly didn't think all that much of Han or anyone else in the Alliance camp. He held himself apart, he refused to play sabacc or smashball or any game, he didn't help cook, he didn't do anything other than sit off to the side and watch them like he was above them all.

The only helpful thing he'd done was assist Chewie in some repairs on the Falcon, and even then he'd been troublesome. Chewie had found him competent enough, but Starkiller had a tendency to jump ahead and work on other things—things that the Wookiee hadn't given him permission to tinker with. Eventually the Wookiee had grown so irritated with his meddling that Starkiller had been thrown out. His first mate's complaints were more than enough reason for Han to not put Starkiller on repair duty ever again. Who knew what the man was up to? He could be purposely sabotaging the ship to get back to his Imp buddies.

Han pulled his blaster out of its holster and started cleaning it. The longer that Starkiller was on his ship, the more he wanted to put a shot right between his eyes. His gut told him that the man was trouble, and he trusted his gut a lot. It had saved him more times than he could count.

Her Worshipfulness didn't like Starkiller any more than he did—he could tell. She avoided him whenever possible, and when she had to interact with him, she kept it as brief as possible. The air crackled with tension when they were together, and she was on edge for hours before and after she dealt with him.

It all just screamed Vader to him. Leia didn't like him, Han's gut didn't like him, and he didn't like anyone. The mystery and air of superiority surrounding him seemed to fit in with the Dark Lord's presence. And the "confidential" rating stamped on him by the Alliance High Council was the icing on the cake.

With his blaster cleaned, he jammed it back into the holster and scanned through the read-outs on the Falcon's bridge. They'd left Dantooine behind hours ago after several days of welcomed relaxation. But provisions had run low and the X-wings needed to refuel and so their party had broken up. It would be weeks until they could meet up again.

It was hard to imagine Starkiller as the man inside the fearsome black armor, though. He was at least a few inches shorter than Vader, he was young, and rather handsome. However, if the rumors were true, if Vader had really needed that suit to survive, the medical attention that Starkiller had required would fit.

He narrowed his eyes as he stared out at the washed-out mess of hyperspace outside the viewscreen. If Starkiller is Vader, then I'd like to know whose idea it was to fix him up and make him a little pretty boy so I can deck him! Hutt spit, Starkiller better not be Vader…

If he was, he could understand why she wouldn't tell him. Vader had tortured him in Cloud City, slammed him in a block of carbonite, sold him to Jabba, and twisted poor Lando's arm to do it all. There wasn't much more he would like than to blast Darth Vader into oblivion. She knew that and that's why she wouldn't tell him. And he greatly resented the fact that she thought he couldn't handle knowing.

I can handle it, he thought darkly. I wouldn't kill him, I'd just get him off my ship. Some other delusional Rebel can baby-sit him. I ain't gonna sit around and wait for him to stab me in my sleep, that's all!

"(What's on your mind, cub?)" Chewie grunted beside him.

"Just thinking of ways to get rid of Starkiller without the Princess noticing," Han grumbled.

"(When you joined the Alliance, you made a promise to follow their orders,)" Chewie reminded him.

Han briefly cursed the Wookiee's strong sense of honor. "I know, I know," he growled. "But I don't like him and I will be much happier when he finally gets off for good."

"(As will I,)" Chewie agreed. "(You and the Princess are far too tense with him around.)"

"What is your opinion of him, exactly?" Han asked.

"(I am not entirely sure what to make of him,)" Chewie admitted. "(He was disobedient and sure that he knows best when he worked on the ship. In general, he is not a very pleasant Human to share space with. However…)" The Wookiee paused to thoughtfully groom some tangled fur with his climbing claws. "(There is something vaguely familiar about him—his appearance, his smell. I feel that I should know him from somewhere; however, I can figure out where I might know him from.)"

Han perked up. "You think you know him? Where the hell would you have met Starkiller before?"

"(The name Anakin Starkiller means nothing to me,)" Chewie replied. "(If I have met him before, it was under another name.)"

"Wonderful," Han muttered darkly.

"(Rest easy, cub,)" Chewie advised. "(This Starkiller has not seriously misbehaved as of yet, and I will keep my eye on him. When the fleet reassembles, he will be out of our fur.)"

"That's what her Worship is always saying," Han complained. "The damned rendezvous can't come soon enough."

"No, it can't," Leia sighed, trudging onto the cramped bridge with a cup of caf.

Han glowered at her, but held his tongue. I don't want to fight with her about him, he reminded himself.

"Please don't look at me like that," Leia muttered, slumping into the navigator's seat. "I drew the short straw when it came time to pick him up; I don't want him around any more than you do."

"Sure," he grunted.

She pinched the bridge of her nose. "Han…just don't. I have a headache and talking him into his room didn't help."

"Why is it that he only talks to you and the Kid?" Han grumbled.

Her shoulders tensed. "He's just picky, I suppose." She downed a large gulp of her drink. "I really wish he'd find someone else to bother."

"Like who, your brother?" he snorted.

"If I could fly a fighter half as good as he can, we would've switched places on Dantooine," she replied.

"And leave me behind?" he sputtered.

"Well you don't let anyone else fly this heap," she shot back. "And it's not like we can stuff him into the cargo compartment of an X-wing."

"Why not?" he joked. "I bet he'd enjoy it."

She glared at him over the rim of her cup. "Don't tempt me."

"Why not?" he repeated with a grin. "It'll be fun."

"Unfortunately we're not going to the same port as the Rogues are," she muttered. "No X-wings are available."

"Damn," Han sighed. "There goes my fun."

Leia only rolled her eyes and drank her caf in response.

Han leaned back into his chair and laced his fingers over his stomach. "So, how is our grumpy, unwanted guest?"

"I don't want to talk about it," she snapped.

He raised a questioning eyebrow. "That bad, huh?"

She shook her head. "You have no idea."

"What did—"

"You don't want to know," she muttered.

He frowned. "What if I do want to know?"

"Han, you don't," she insisted. "Let's not talk about him anymore, all right?"

"What are we going to talk about, then?" he asked.

Leia drained the last of her caf and set the empty cup aside. "How about we don't talk?"

He blinked. "Don't talk? How else are we going to pass the—"

She got out of her seat and pressed a finger to his lips to silence him. "There are other ways to pass the time, flyboy." A curious spark darted through her deep brown eyes. "Interested?"

Is she saying what I think she's saying? She picked up her empty cup and sauntered a way, shooting an intriguing glance over her shoulder as she exited the bridge. I think she is. And I think she's serious!

"Hey, Chewie, watch the bridge for me," he muttered as he peeled himself out of his seat. "I'll be back in a few hours."

"(See that you two make it into your cabin, cub,)" Chewie sniffed.

"Yes, dad," Han groaned as he slipped after Leia.

Han Solo was not a mushy, lovey-dovey, romantic kind of guy. He'd been all over the galaxy and met all kinds of people and done all kinds of things. And yet this tiny little princess of a dead planet with a sharp tongue and fiery temper had him chasing after her like a tame house pet.

In the past, this would've bothered him a great deal. At the moment, it didn't bother him one bit. And for the next few hours, it was enough to make him forget that he was potentially sharing his beloved ship with a mass murderer who had tortured his girlfriend and locked him in a block of carbonite for Jabba…

The world was one of shadow and flame. The air was hot, stifling, and foul. All around was twisted black rock, lit by the eerie hot glow of rivers of lava. For a moment, he thought he was in hell. But then he realized that he was somewhere much worse: Mustafar.

Abruptly, he was on the landing pad of the droid foundry, his hand raised to crush her throat, to stem the tide of lies—they had to be lies! She'd betrayed him! She—the angel he'd sold his soul for, bloodied his hands for, dove into the Darkness for! She'd brought his greatest foe to kill him! And—

Then he was in a white, sterile cell—stained red by the lenses of his mask. The sound of his respirator hissed maddeningly in his ears. She was stretched out on the metal cot and stiffened up as the black sphere of the hovering interrogation droid, loaded with truth serum, floated into the cell after him. He held her in place as the syringe plunged into her arm and as the drugs took effect he plunged into her mind, determined to tear the information out by whatever force necessary. She cried out—

Luke screamed as his sword hand was severed just below the wrist, his hand and weapon sailing away into the depths of the shaft in Cloud City. The young man, so much like he was once, drenched in sweat and clothed in tan Rebel fatigues, hunched over, cradling the stump of his right arm. He recoiled away from the outstretched hand, clung to the cluster of pipes and sensors that hung out into space, cried out horrified denials as the truth was made known to him. Luke looked down at the bottomless shaft, glanced once more at the offered hand, and then let go, to fall down and down and down—

She lay spent on the medical table, tears streaming down her face. Obi-Wan stood beside her, cradling a newborn baby, pleading with her to hold on. She did not seem to hear him, whispering tearful, wearily, how she believed that her Anakin still existed, that there was still some good in him. Then she faded away. Her eyes closed, her body went limp, the baby started to scream as he sensed his mother's death, his cry echoing in the chamber—

A little girl, dressed for bed with her braid hair up in braids and a plush Nerf tucked under her arm, sat on a curving staircase listening. Below and oblivious to her, two men – Viceroy Organa and another Alderaanian politician – were in the midst of a heated argument. The other Alderaanian thought that some other distant relation of Organa's should be named the heir to the throne of Alderaan because the current princess was adopted and therefore unworthy. Organa harshly disputed this idea, claiming that his daughter – adopted she may be – was more than worthy to be Princess of Alderaan—he knew her lineage and found her to be qualified. And the little girl listened wide-eyed, tearing up, because she hadn't known—

A little boy, with blonde hair and dusty beige clothes, peered out of his garage in shock as his uncle brandished a long-barreled laser rifle at a cloaked and hooded figure. The cloaked figure, kindly old Ben Kenobi who had always smiled at the boy and slipped him a piece of candy whenever they had met in Anchorhead, tried to reason with the moisture farmer, but to no avail. The gruff uncle snarled at old Ben, demanding that he go away and never come near the boy again lest he turn out like his father, and if he ever did come back he would be shot. Old Ben seemed to shrink in defeat and slunk away, more sad than he usually was – the boy had always felt that Ben was a very sad man, even when he smiled – and the little boy crept back into the garage wondering why it would be so bad to be like his father—

She lay still and cold in a floating, open-topped casket. Her chocolate curls were loose and framed her pale face like a dark halo. The carved Japor snippet – the symbol of their love – was entwined in her folded hands—hands that rested against her belly swollen with a dead child. Dusted over with tiny lavender blossoms, she was drawn through the mourning streets of Theed towards the same temple where Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn had been cremated. And both Naboo and Gungan wept for her, ignorant of the man who had loved her, had suffered for her, had killed for her, had killed her—

Obi-Wan stood above him on the rocky black shore—his expression one of pure agony, even though he wasn't hurt. His fallen opponent, horribly maimed, clawed towards him, eyes bleeding demonic yellow as he hated with every fiber of his being. The Jedi cried out his pain, his love for the fallen. And the fallen only hurled back venomous hate. Obi-Wan took the dropped lightsaber, turned, and walked away. And then he was burning, burning, burning—

Vader tumbled off his narrow ship-board bed, tangled in his thin sheets, and drenched in sweat. He hit the deck still not fully and beat at the dream-flames that consumed him. For a few minutes, he was still stuck in the nightmare, still stuck in the memory—he could feel the heat of the flames, he could smell his flesh and hair burning, he could hear the crackle of the flames and his own body cooking. And then it was over and he was laying on the cold metal floor in the pitch black cabin aboard the Millennium Falcon.

Trembling, he fought to catch his breath and escape his tangled sheet. Once he regained a seat on the edge of his bed, he buried his face in his hands and struggled to sort out what he'd seen. The scenes, images, and feelings had blended seamlessly together, even though almost half of what he'd experienced had never happened to him.

Uncomfortable in the tiny, dark cabin, he got up and staggered out into the main cabin, slapping on the lights so he wasn't in the dark anymore. Leaning against the dejarik table, he tried to determine why he'd dreamed the other things. Luke's memories he could understand; the boy was his son and they shared a familial bond. But the Princess's memories—they had no place in his head.

It must be the close proximity, he decided at last. She's only a few rooms away from me, on the same ship. Being an untrained Force-adept, of course her mind bled a bit into mine…

With that mystery solved, he was left haunted by the content of the dream.

Mustafar. It was a place he loathed even more than Tatooine. And then recalling when his Angel had gone there, plunged herself into that hell to see him, and what he had done to her—

She'd left him no choice! To think that she would betray him that way after all he'd done for her was still sickening. His Angel had brought Kenobi along, knowing full well what the Jedi would do when they met. He'd been so tired of the lies, so disgusted that she would lie to him, that he just had to make it stop.

Then he'd seen her die. He'd seen the conclusion to his old nightmare in greater clarity than he'd ever seen it before. Anger burned in his gut that Kenobi had been there with her and not him, that Kenobi had held his newborn son and not him. He hadn't been there because Kenobi had cut him down and left him to die!

Her funeral. He hadn't been able to attend. Perhaps it was best that he hadn't. It would've ruined his image as a fearsome Sith. But he had seen recordings of it; indelible proof that she was indeed dead, as Palpatine had claimed.

The conclusion to his duel on Mustafar was a cruel end-cap to the nightmare. It had been part of thousands of his nightmares. It was old news. But it still hurt. It hurt a lot more than it should, and not because it was him burning alive. Kenobi had rejected him; turned and walked away without hesitation or a backwards glance, even as he heard the screams of fiery agony. And to think he'd just professed love for the burning, to think that Qui-Gon – dream though he was – had confirmed that declaration.

Twisting his thoughts forcibly away from that memory, he settled on what he'd seen from Luke. The scene from Bespin had been one that they'd shared. It was not an event he particularly cared to remember. He hadn't meant to take the boy's hand off, but Luke had landed a blow on his upper arm, one of the few parts of him that had still been flesh and blood, and he had reacted. At least that damage was easily repairable. In some ways, prosthetic limbs were better than the original. And it had been only one hand; no great loss. The suicidal leap on Luke's part—now that was the part that really bothered him.

He has accepted the truth now, he consoled himself. That rejection means nothing now.

The other memory of Luke's – for he was certain that's what it was – was thoroughly interesting. It seemed that his step-brother had done at least one good thing for Luke. He drove Kenobi and his Jedi lies far away from the boy at an early age. That was very good. However, the feelings from Luke's mind – the bit about how Kenobi had always smiled and given him candy, how the boy felt that Kenobi was always sad – left him uncomfortable. That Luke had the sense that Kenobi was always sad, even when he smiled, mirrored his observations from the recent dreams of the Jedi Temple. Kenobi had looked young, but his eyes had been old and sad, untouched by whatever expression danced over his face.

Shaking his head sharply, he moved on to what he'd seen from the Princess—

The Princess, dressed in a large loose shirt and sleep shorts, trudged through the main cabin utterly oblivious to his presence in it. She was pale, damp with sweat, and rubbing her right arm as if it pained her. Vader frowned as he suddenly realized that that spot on her arm was where the truth serum had been injected on the Death Star several years before.

Did she suffer a similar dream? he wondered as he watched her. She slipped into the galley for a few minutes and came out with a steaming mug of something. Leaning against a nearby bulkhead, she sipped at it, still ignorant of his presence or his watching eyes.

"Credit for your thoughts?" he asked quietly.

The Princess jumped so badly that she spilled half of whatever hot liquid was in her mug all over the floor. Her dark eyes landed on him and widened in a mixture of lingering terror and absolute fury. She clutched at her mug, heedless of the hot fluid burning her fingers, and worked her jaw for a moment before she pulled herself together enough to speak.

"Get back in your room!" she growled, trembling.

He smirked at her, pleased that he finally had her nervous. "No."

"You are the last person I want to see right now," she snapped. "Get out of my sight!"

"I never knew that nightmares bothered you so much, Princess," he sneered.

"How did you—?" Her mouth snapped shut and she stared at him. Obviously the idea that he'd seen part of her nightmare was profoundly disturbing to her. Then she regained her wits and narrowed her eyes at him. "So, you saw that too." She stalked over to him and slammed her nearly empty mug down on the dejarik table. "Tell me something. Did you ever really love her?"

His blood froze in his veins before exploding into fire. "What?" he hissed, deadly calm.

"Did you ever really love her?" she asked again in the same tone as he had spoken. "Or was she just a possession? A beautiful bird to be locked in a gilded cage to sing for you and for you alone? And when she sang a song that you couldn't bear to hear, you snapped her neck and threw her away?"

There was a terrible roaring in his ears, like the howl of a dragon, and his hands curled into fists.

"Did she ever mean anything to you?" the Princess continued, blind to or simply uncaring of his growing wrath. "It certainly didn't look like it to me. She loved you with everything she had, and you choked her, called her a liar! Is that what happens to everyone who loves you? You kill them?! Is that what will happen to Luke? He'll say the wrong thing to you one day and they you'll reach out and—"

His hands were wrapped around her pale throat and he had her slammed against the fall wall in the blink of an eye. He didn't recall moving, but he must have. She was clawing at his arms, desperate to get air, but he didn't feel her nails, even as they left bloody marks on his bare forearms. He just kept squeezing, stopping the foul accusations that spilled from her lips.

How dare she say such things to him? How dare she insult his wife? How dare she insult him? How dare she?!

She tried to kick him, but he had her thoroughly pinned. She tried to bit him, but he was clutching her neck too tightly. She kept on scratching him, but as her air ran out her strength began to wane.

"Let her go, Anakin!" The voice roared from everywhere and nowhere—a command that hit him like a bucket of ice water. "Let her go!"

For the briefest second, he wasn't sure where or when he was. He was on the Millennium Falcon—he was on Mustafar. He was throttling the Princess with his bare hands—he was using the Force to crush his Angel's windpipe. He was so very angry and Obi-Wan was yelling at him to stop…and he obeyed.

He dropped her and she crumpled bonelessly to the floor, unconscious. He stood there for a long time, his hands trembling uncontrollably, though he wasn't sure why. After an eternity he managed to unfreeze and check her vitals. Assured that she would be fine, he left her there and retreated to his cabin, haunted by her staring eyes. Padmé had looked at him with love, even as he choked her. The Princess has stared at him with the same color eyes, with nothing but hatred and disgust, even as the life started to fade from her. The parallels were jarring, the differences even more so.

The next time this ship lands, I'm getting off and I'm never coming back…

Spots swam before her eyes as she clawed her way back to consciousness. The floor was cold and hard beneath her. Every breath hurt as she sucked it through her raw, bruised throat. She hurt all over and just wanted the pain to go away.

Bastard, she thought darkly. It was stupid to provoke him that way, but… That bastard! He killed her!

It had been a secret fear of hers ever since Luke had informed her of her true father. She had feared that the kind but sad woman of her dreams, the woman that she had always regarded as her mother, had died at his hands. And now, after that disturbing montage nightmare, she knew that it was true.

She allowed a few tears to slip from her eyes. Her poor, poor mother; she'd loved a man so completely, in spite of the fact that he was so undeserving, and it had cost her everything. Now she understood why the beautiful kind woman of her dreams was so very sad.

Rubbing at her eyes, Leia propped herself up against the bulkhead and concentrated on breathing. She was really regretting provoking him now. Not only did her throat hurt, but she was going to have some spectacular bruises in the morning, and she had no idea how she was going to explain it to Han.

"That was a very foolish thing for you to do," the voice of an elderly man scolded.

"Who?" she croaked, her eyes darting around in search of the speaker.

The blue-tinted transparent image of an elderly gentleman materialized before her. She'd seen him once before, a brief glimpse, mere moments before he was sliced in two by Darth Vader's crimson blade. Luke had described the spirit's visits before, but it was completely surreal that he had come to her now.

"Do you know who I am?" he asked gently.

"Yes," she rasped hoarsely. "General Kenobi."

"I haven't been a general in a long time," he chuckled sadly. His ghostly image knelt down in front of her, his expression grave. "You are a very fortunate woman, Princess."

Leia nodded mutely.

The Jedi ghost gave her a stern look. "I trust that you will not incite his wrath again anytime soon?"

She shook her head bitterly.

"I know it will be difficult," he continued gently, "but I am no longer tangible and the help that I can give you is limited."

"I understand," she croaked.

"Good," he nodded in satisfaction. "Now let me see your neck."

She obligingly tilted her head back so that the ghost could examine her injuries. A shiver danced along her spine as she felt cool puffs of air – ghostly fingertips – drifting over her skin. It only added to the dream-like quality of the encounter.

"It will bruise," he said at last, "but I should be able to help you heal it enough to reduce the marks."

Leia nodded and listened attentively to whatever instructions he had for her—anything to avoid Han flipping out.

It took hours and she was left with the distinct impression that if she had half of Luke's training it would've been much quicker. However, she managed to go through all the steps General Kenobi had described, and when she was done her throat felt immensely better. When she opened her eyes after finishing, he was gone.

Sighing, she set about cleaning up the spilled tea and used mug before crawling back into Han's room. She was glad that her nightmare hadn't woken him up and doubly glad that the thick walls of the Falcon had prevented him from hearing the commotion she'd set into motion. Curling up into his sleepy embrace, she closed her eyes and desperately dreaded the coming day and the possibility of seeing him ever again…

Luke started awake in the cockpit of his X-wing in the midst of hyperspace, reeling from the nightmare. The images and feelings the lingered made him shudder in horror. He knew, without a shred of doubt, that all of what he'd seen had really happened. And he had a strong feeling that his sister and father had had similar dreams.

He longed to be with his sister and father to diffuse the tensions that he knew would flare up and ask them questions that only they could answer. But they were on the Millennium Falcon, light-years away, and he was stuck in the cockpit of his fighter. He couldn't even call them on the comm.

Powerless to help, Luke closed his eyes and worked on meditating his way back to sleep. As much as he wanted to do something, he simply couldn't. All he could do was trust in the Force that everything would work out for the best and wait. He didn't like it, but he had no choice.

I hope that neither of them do anything foolish…