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CHAPTER 29

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Luke walked the long corridor alone, mind adrift, nodding in acknowledgment without really seeing the soldiers who passed him and paused in brief salute.

They'd dropped out of lightspeed a little over halfway to their objective, to make a course change and do a standard military mission update and intel download, so the cold, enfolding darkness of deep space was visible from every viewport as he walked, scant inches between him and suffocation.

Artificial gravity never really compensated for that innate feeling which lurked at the back of your head in deep space, crawling just beneath your skin. The sense that you were tumbling in constant freefall, hopelessly disoriented, blind to but waiting for that inevitable slam of impact.

You got used to it, that was all. You got used to anything, given time.

He thought back to the Star Destroyer that the Rebels had stolen and renamed Kathol's Pride. To memories that echoed with the life and hope which had rung down badly-lit, poorly-maintained corridors exactly the same as these, when it had been in Rebel hands. Felt an odd kind of guilt, that he'd brought the ship back to the fold. Felt again that pang of shared empathy with it.

Flat gray. His life was the same dull, flat gray of these confined corridors. And just occasionally, he'd round a corner and see a glimpse of the wide open expanse of deep space through a lozenge-shaped viewport, and sense the limitless possibilities which existed just the other side of that inches-thick transparisteel barrier whilst he remained forever trapped within these claustrophobic confines of dull, flat, monotonous gray.

Funny…turned out you could suffocate in here, too—just not from lack of air.

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He'd passed the nearest set of viewports to turn into an internal corridor when it caught his eye—the prismatic wash of polychrome energy that distorted realspace into a brief, twisted vortex.

Backstepping to the viewport he stared as it erupted ever larger, an occlusion so great and so concentrated that he felt it within the Force—

Then the Death Star emerged from lightspeed in a flare of energy, displacement mass sending a shockwave into the void which surged outwards, its bow-front marked by a crackle of compression-charged energy.

Luke stared, mind racing from shock to comprehension just as the thud of the bow-wave impacted against the Executor's shields and rumbled the deck beneath his feet. It had stopped well clear of the Executor, but even at this range it filled the viewport entirely, a hulk of dark metal whose scale and mass eclipsed all else.

Familiar anger welled in the pit of his gut. He hadn't sensed Palpatine onboard the Executor when they'd launched into lightspeed late last night, but Palpatine had been routinely disguising all but his close presence since his return, presumably to limit Leia's ability to detect him. So Luke hadn't questioned the lack of presence within the Force. And his Master seldom deigned to leave his sprawling quarters onboard the Executor, instead summoning those he wished to speak with into his presence. To Luke's knowledge nobody had been summoned, but then he had actually, stupidly hoped that this had been his Master listening to his security concerns and keeping a low profile as they headed for the Rebel border. Guards had been assigned to Palpatine's chambers and protocols followed, but Luke hadn't sought his Master out, assuming he'd be routinely summoned at some point today.

Why—why had Palpatine lied to him about the Death Star's inclusion in this mission?

Only he hadn't, of course; he'd simply omitted to tell the entire truth. There was an ironic twist to that; it wasn't like Luke didn't do the same, constantly.

His eyes narrowed; how much else was being withheld?

The comlink in his uniform's breast pocket pipped, and he pulled it clear. "Antilles."

"Sir," There was a tremulous edge to Admiral Griff's voice—presumably because everyone on the Executor's Bridge had also just experienced the unexpected shock of seeing the Death Star emerge to starboard. "The Death Star has—"

"I know, I'm looking at it."

"We…" Griff paused, listening to another Bridge officer. "We have incoming comms on a secure channel; Admiral Brie is requesting—"

"Acknowledge, and get a shuttle ready," Luke said tersely.

"Uh…the Admiral is requesting to speak with you, General."

"I'm going over."

"I…don't believe she meant—"

Luke cut the channel as he turned about, intending to go directly to the bay—then paused, considering. It took barely a second before he altered his course, intending to stop by his own quarters, first.

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"General Antilles?"

Luke heaved a silent sigh as he strode across the Executor's bay to a tri-wing Lambda shuttle, its engines already glowing amber-hot. Before it, walking swiftly towards him, was Admiral Griff.

He'd been avoiding Griff since the man had tried to recruit him into what Luke suspected more and more was somehow Shira's plan—though what she thought she could possibly gain from it, he didn't know. Obviously she knew they couldn't overthrow Palpatine—a fact borne out by Griff's attempts to recruit Luke to do the job for them.

Griff was level with Luke now, and forced to turn about to hold a conversation, as Luke didn't slow.

"Sir, did you know that the Death Star was effecting a tandem lightspeed jump alongside our own trajectory?"

Part of Luke wanted to yell, Do I look like I knew?! But he'd been taught too well for too long to ever show any chink of weakness. Instead he kept walking. "What do you want, Admiral?"

Griff glanced out of the wide yaw of the hangar entrance, where the vista of star-scattered space had been completely obscured by the lower curve of the Death Star's surface, a featureless mass of shadow where the blank utilitarian skin plated its surface, darkening occasionally into the dense black of deep hollows within wide trenches of unfinished segments. He didn't speak, but simply glanced to the Death Star and back to Luke, his inference clear.

In more ways than one—Luke knew what was being left unspoken, here. Knew precisely what Griff was thinking.

This was Palpatine of old; the arrogant, authoritarian Emperor holding all power and knowledge only to himself, first because that kept everybody else down, and second because he simply didn't believe that any other being was entitled to know. Entitled to question.

Luke walked on without a word, eyes on the shuttle's ramp…

In his eagerness to push the conversation, Griff reached out and took Luke's arm just above the elbow—

It was a fragment in time, an instinctive flare of bright, scarlet-hot anger—

And Griff was sprawled on the floor five paces away, hands clutched across his chest, the Force-fired body-blow Luke had unthinkingly thrown against him leaving him gasping for breath.

A flood of remorse cooled Luke's anger, and he turned, walking towards Griff as two other officers rushed forward. Both men halted as Luke approached, frozen to nervous inaction, unsure what to do. Afraid; they were afraid of him, their fear ringing a clear note within the Force.

By the time Luke had taken a hold of Griff's upper arm and hauled him unceremoniously to his feet, his unease at his own actions and the reactions of those around him was heating to anger again. Anger at Griff, for inciting this, at Shira for her constant destructive rabble-rousing, at Palpatine for his endless power plays…and at himself, because even now, he was laying blame at everyone's feet but his own.

He dragged the breathless Admiral two paces away by the top of his arm before yanking him about, Griff's eyes wide with shock and dread, mouth still agape as he still struggled for breath.

Clear of everyone, Luke leaned in close, words a low growl. "Tell Shira Brie that if she has something she wants to ask me, then she knows where I am. Then you tell her not to bother coming. I told her a long time ago that I wasn't fuel to her ambition—that still stands. And maybe when you're walking away from that conversation you should ask yourself why, when Brie's onboard the Death Star along with Palpatine, you didn't know it was coming here, either."

Releasing his grip on Griff's arm he strode away, walking into the shuttle without a backward glance. The pilot, stood at the top of the ramp throughout, backpedalled rapidly, staring with rounded eyes as Luke boarded.

"Go. Now," Luke ordered tersely.

The man turned, scuttling into the cockpit without a word.

As the ramp lifted and the shuttle's repulsors flared, Luke leaned to the armrest beside him, tilting his head to rub at his own temples.

That had gone downhill spectacularly, even for him.

He'd been aware that in Palpatine's absence and with Mara's inclusion in his life, his aversion to anyone's touch had lapsed. Now, with Palpatine back… He took a slow, leveling breath as the memory of Mara bled in about his shields—because even like this, she was the only one who could do that so effortlessly. Remembered the touch of her, the warmth of her lips as she'd kissed his eyes closed, inside his shields, as ever. With everyone else, even at his best, contact was something that happened only on his terms. Only with Mara was it on hers.

Biting his thumbnail he stared out of the small viewport, flinching at the luminescent flare as the shuttle cleared the atmospheric shields, and thought again of the position he'd somehow slipped into within Palpatine's new Empire. Thought of the many times he'd seen his father turn on some hapless unfortunate in a fit of fury.

At the time he'd thought his father weak, that he gave his own frustrations such easy sway…

Was that who he'd become—what he'd become? Bitter, frustrated. Trapped in a cage of his own empty, ingrained loyalties, too stubborn and too willfully deluded to break free?

Was that what Palpatine saw, when he looked at him? Was that what everyone saw…Darth Vader's dutiful replacement. Another Sith, taking up the mantle of his dead comrade.

Erratic thoughts flashed another memory into being—of himself at the Imperial Palace on Coruscant, having climbed out once again onto the leaded rooftops over a hundred stories up, to sit on one of the massive stone headers which cantilevered out over the sheer vertical drop. He remembered vividly hunching down against the buffeting winds as he watched the sun dip from twilight to darkness, the vial of blood that Obi-Wan Kenobi had given him laying loose in the narrow trough of the header's water spout, rattling with each high gust. Truth, destiny—his own, and the Empire's, it had transpired—trembling in the wind-whip.

In a painful pang of comprehension, he realized that he was still there—he was still alone out on that high ledge, whipped by high winds and balanced over a deadly drop.

He was tired of being the one constantly performing that insane, precarious balancing act, whilst being kept forever in the dark. Tired of being the one out on the ledge.

And he very clearly wasn't alone.

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A pip from his comlink drew him back to the moment, and he pulled it clear and checked the ID before answering.

Han sounded just about as stunned as everyone else was, right now. "Luke? Have you seen what's just—"

"Wait where you are," Luke interrupted.

Han wasn't buying. "Why? And you don't even know where I am."

"No," Luke said grimly. "But I know where I'm going."

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In the still silence of the Emperor's Tower onboard the Death Star, Shira watched the man himself, a study of self-possessed composure. He had moved to the lofty ovoid chamber atop its heavily-shielded spire—his personal nerve center from which he could oversee, and override if deemed necessary, his fleet—with their reversion from lightspeed, and immediately ordered the guards to stand down from their customary positions. On his command, they had retreated from either side of the turbolift exit to a more distant spot not simply outside of the substantial dual-level space, but to the outer entrance at the base of the turbolift shaft.

Then he'd calmly ascended the multiple steps to the far end of the chamber, where the higher level's lone central seat was placed before a huge circular window to suggest a dais of sorts, and sat, arms settling on the imposing chair's angled armrests, pale yellow eyes on the narrow walkway which spanned a deep void, the only way to cross from the turbolift into the chamber…

They both knew precisely whom it was that Palpatine awaited. The reply to Shira's brief comm to the Executor's bridge on their reversion to real-space had come within moments, and when Shira had pushed for clarification, she had been told that General Antilles was already on a shuttle heading to the Death Star.

Curious, Shira had tried to remain close but unobtrusive as the guards were dismissed, lingering in the lower level of the chamber but retreating to one side to stare out of one of the two other circular viewports which protruded to either side of the vaulted space close to the base of the steps, her eyes on the imposing spectacle of the Executor close by. Her attention, however, remained on the vast chamber behind her, intent on seeing just how a Master handled the Sith that he himself had created…

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Antilles entered alone, covering the long walk from the turbolift to the long run of steps in fast strides and taking the first several without slowing…then halting two steps before the top in a kind of no-man's land beyond all permission, but not intolerably so. Shira turned slightly to watch, ignored by Master and advocate.

She'd expected an outburst from Antilles; incredulity, demands, frustration…

Instead he simply stared, jaw locked, eyes ablaze. Waiting.

Palpatine let the silence hang for long moments as he stared down on his advocate…then looked aside, voice bored, as if all this had been anticipated and was already tiresome. "The Death Star is more suited to this mission."

"The Death Star is undermanned, with a crew who have no craft-specific battle experience onboard a super-structure that hasn't yet had more than the most basic operational tests," Antilles came back, anger not dulling his logic. "The Executor's not much better, but the Death Star takes nine minutes to calculate and prime for a lightspeed jump. The Executor takes one."

Palpatine tilted his head. "Are you perhaps in a hurry to leave?"

"We're about to cross the border into hostile territory with limited crews manning untried super-structures," Antilles replied, voice clipped. "So yes, I might be."

"If you cannot hold your ground against a few tired Rebel battleships with a Super Star Destroyer and the Death Star, then perhaps you should stand down from command." Palpatine's eyes moved briefly to Shira who, realizing the reason that she had been allowed to stay, took a step forward to the side of the steps in eager anticipation as the Emperor continued. "I have others more than willing to take on the mantle you shirk."

What should have been the ultimate threat was met with open derision; Antilles didn't even turn. "Let her, see how far you get. She wouldn't face off against one Rebel destroyer the last time we went to Rhen Var."

Stung, Shira spoke out, countering the harsh dismissal with an accusation of her own. "At least I was there by choice. You simply wanted to impress—isn't that right?"

He turned slowly to her…and that glare was like ice, knowing exactly who she meant. Those pale blue eyes that usually held such mocking disinterest in anything and everything around them had come alive, an unflinching wall of focused intent bearing down on her. His head tipped a fraction, the warning implicit; Do you want to play this game with me?

For a second she faltered—then remembered where she was; who was watching. Who she now needed to impress. Taking a breath, she rallied her thoughts—

He beat her to it, his intervention perfectly timed to cut off entirely the counter that came to her lips.

"My attention was exactly where it should be—which is why we routed the Rebel destroyer and were able to get down to the Rhen Var storehouse at all. And who was there to impress, exactly, you—our supposed senior officer, who was ready to turn tail and run from a single Rebel destroyer?" He turned to Palpatine at the last, though somehow he contrived to make Shira understand that his attention remained entirely on her. "Speaking of which, your Moffs are getting restless."

Shira froze, instantly nervous, though thankfully Palpatine's attention remained on Antilles, as he frowned just slightly. "Dangerously so?"

"No. Not yet, anyway, though today's unexpected maneuver can't have helped. At this point they're still looking for someone to take their risks for them." He still didn't glance directly to Shira—he'd never do something so obvious—but the brief, loaded pause stilled her breath and locked her throat as he angled his head just a fraction towards her, eyes remaining on the Emperor.

"I told them I'm fuel to no-one's ambition." He said the words softly, knowing that she'd remember his speaking them directly to her long ago, when she'd first sought a pact.

He knew—he knew that she'd been the one inciting rumblings of mutiny in the officers. She'd worked to keep her involvement carefully anonymous, trying instead to get other officers to recruit Antilles…but somehow he'd made the connection and now he'd countered her veiled threat to reveal hidden truths with one of his own.

She felt her ribs tighten, aware that she'd been called—been told in no uncertain terms that if she crossed the line in bringing Mara into this then he'd have no qualms about burying her for it. His stance, his voice, his every move implied that he'd do it right now, if she spoke one more word…

She held still… and Antilles said nothing more as Palpatine leaned forward, a grin of genuine amusement lifting his voice.

"They tried to recruit you?! How absurdly perfect!" Even as he spoke, Palpatine's amusement curled back in on itself into a raging fury whose volatile vehemence heightened Antilles' unspoken threat. "Ungrateful curs, unable to comprehend the opportunity I offer them to stand at the very pinnacle of power as I rebuild my Empire. Petty, power-grabbing imbeciles, every one."

Still Antilles remained silent, every inch of his focus pressing in against Shira where she stood, throat locked. How did he do this—because he so clearly had the ability to turn within the space of a thought, when he wished it. He'd come here with a single, aggrieved motivation—yet had snapped that fury instantly to another cause, when it should have left him distracted and vulnerable. Every time she thought she had him, he would rise to the challenge. How much more did he keep hidden…

For the first time she found herself pondering on whether a true Sith's soul laid beneath the claim of a black heart he'd tattooed across his chest, and that customary impassive detachment came not from indifference or uncertainty, but from the innate knowledge that it was there, writ large and indelibly, if he needed it. Found herself wondering if that was the reason why their always-calculating master valued Antilles so much. Found herself wondering what other challenge he might rise to, given the incentive…

In the brief moment that it had taken for that thought to flash across her adrenaline-laced mind Palpatine jerked visibly in his seat in a rare moment of unguarded surprise—

Within a second he'd regained control, head tilting as his voice dropped to cool hostility and his lip curled back. "Where did you get that?"

Shira followed his eye line…

As Antilles had turned partially towards her to level his veiled threat, his back had become visible to Palpatine—and with it, the lightsaber hilt clipped horizontally to his belt at the small of his back. She knew that he alone was authorized to wear one even here, so it wasn't that which had offended so completely.

Antilles straightened a fraction, chin lifting as he turned to face his Master down, his fight instantly there again, though he spoke in a steady voice.

"My father's lightsaber?"

Shira squinted to see, instantly fascinated. She'd never once heard Palpatine mention the blood-parents of any of his Hands, under any circumstances—had always been under the impression that like herself, none knew anything of their true lineage. Yet here was Antilles claiming not only knowledge, but connection…and Palpatine clearly didn't like it.

The lightsaber hilt looked old—Clone Wars, perhaps, judging from the design. Like Mara, Shira had been instructed in the art of duel, though she had the distinct impression that to go up against either of the Sith before her would be a truly painful learning curve whose final lesson would be terminal. She stared, intrigued for so many reasons, but couldn't see more because Antilles' hand had moved to hover almost protectively over the hilt at his belt, though he spoke with absolutely no emotion. No nervousness, no request for permission or pushing for any further reaction—just a simple statement of fact.

"The Rebels had it."

Palpatine narrowed ocher eyes. "You stole it from them?"

"Presumably Kenobi must have kept it after Mustafar."

The planet name caught Shira's attention, of course. She'd heard whispers that Antilles was the son of a Jedi. Was it Obi-Wan Kenobi? Had Kenobi gone to Mustafar where she knew Lord Vader kept a fortress, intending to duel him, and lost or been forced to discard his own lightsaber, but that had turned out not to be the case?

Questions—none of which she could voice here and now, because Palpatine's expression had hardened, his lips narrowing dangerously. It was a moment before Shira too realized that Antilles had ignored his Master's question entirely, and she held her breath, wondering whether Palpatine would call his advocate on the fact.

Instead he leaned back, derision saturating his words. "And you intend to wear it? An antiquated relic?"

"Aren't they all?" Antilles came back, unmoved.

The edge of a sneer clipped Palpatine's words as he settled in his throne, a study of blasé indifference. "Wear it if you wish. The last time your father fought with it, he lost pitifully. Had I not intervened he would have died." He glanced to the hilt. "They say some crystals are always ill-omened—that they bring nothing but misfortune and misery."

"Then it seems we're well matched," Antilles said of the hilt, refusing to be led. "Perhaps I should have told that to your Moffs—they might have reconsidered their offer."

Palpatine stared, clearly aware of Antilles' effort to refocus his attention… then let a brief smile twitch his lip. "Perhaps so. Or perhaps you'll yet have the chance to illustrate it more…tangibly." His flash of anger spent, he cooled to more calculating consideration, eyes finally lifting from the offending lightsaber hilt. "Do I have sufficient reliable officers to replace them?"

Antilles' shoulders dropped a fraction as he found his own composure, the moment—the strange, intense, private battle of wills between them—having run its course. Who had won, Shira wasn't sure; Antilles still wore the offending lightsaber, but it was he who had tried to sidestep further argument.

Now he shook his head minutely, breathing coming under control as he considered his Master's question. "Probably. But not right now. Too big a shakeup already would be viewed as instability—especially this close to retaking Coruscant."

Palpatine nodded, likely already aware that it was the truth. He glanced aside in thought. "Do you believe them still utilizable?"

"They're reliable enough, for now," Antilles said flatly. "If they have an iota of intelligence they'll let you take Coruscant for them before they make any kind of move, anyway. I'd still advise you to return to Fondor, though."

"Then Sekati isn't one of them?"

"To my knowledge, no. Neither is Admiral Bress."

Palpatine settled a little further knowing that the Death Star's present command was not involved, the greater game reinstating. "If not, then my presence here is secure."

"As secure as it was at Corsin?"

Shira felt her jaw drop a fraction at the challenge that those calmly uttered words represented, given Palpatine's outburst just moments before. At Antilles' audacity not just in citing the place of his Master's assassination, but his choice of delivery, softened with neither apology nor validation.

Her eyes narrowed as she dissected the exchange, for the first time considering the possibility that she wasn't alone in her difficulty controlling Antilles. Perhaps she shouldn't feel too frustrated at the challenge, if Palpatine himself quite clearly had the same problems. Luke Antilles, it seemed, would only be led so far, that outward apathy simply one more layer of his armor.

Palpatine's cheek twitched, chin lifting. "We will remain at Rhen Var until my clones and their facilities are loaded onboard."

"That could have been accomplished onboard the Executor. Bringing the Death Star here was unnecessary."

Palpatine smiled thinly as he replied, his confidence reinstated—and why shouldn't it be? For all his defiance, Antilles clearly sought to protect his Master. "The Death Star is the Emperor's flagship, and the clones are the Empire's future. What better vessel to transport them."

"Given that you want their existence kept secret, the Executor would have been sufficient."

"I disagree." Palpatine raised his eyebrows, leaning forward a fraction. "Unless you believe that we may be at risk, in some way?" There was a snide taunt within the words that Shira didn't understand, as Palpatine's head tilted. "Perhaps you fear that some potential information breach exists among us?"

She watched in silent fascination as Antilles clenched his jaw, the provocation unknown but obviously running deep.

Having won whatever challenge he'd just issued, Palpatine shook his head, reiterating his intention. "The clones and their attendant facilities will travel only onboard the Death Star."

"And when they reach their new destination? Are you intending to deliver them onboard the Death Star—broadcast to the entire galaxy where they're based? No—so they're going to have to be offloaded at some point to be transported to their final—"

"The point is mute," Palpatine cut him off. "I have made my decision."

Antilles nodded slowly. "You told me the same thing just yesterday—when you said that the Executor would retrieve the clones."

"Upon which you voiced concerns regarding my security onboard the Super Star Destroyer. I took them into account, and altered my plans accordingly."

"Without telling me."

"And so we come to the crux of your tantrum. You feel you were excluded…when others were not."

Antilles' eyes flicked briefly towards Shira, then back to Palpatine. "I'm not a child and this isn't a tantrum. You systematically exclude one or both of us from full disclosure as if necessary information is a gift granted at your personal discretion, then judge us on the results. My entire life I've watched you do that, to control those around you. To play people against each other."

"I have told you before," Palpatine ground, "Trust is earned. Until I have secured Coruscant, the safest place for my clones is onboard the Death Star. After I have regained control of the Core systems, they will be separated and moved to undisclosed locations."

Antilles' eyebrows rose. "Undisclosed? You want me here, you want me to serve, you want me willing to dedicate my entire life…but you won't tell me that?"

"Earn it," Palpatine repeated, both demand and coercion in his words as his eyes again dropped to the belt which held Antilles' lightsaber, then lifted, full of meaning. "Tell me the words you once spoke so fervently—that you would give your life to save me, that you placed my life always before your own. Say it right now—even now—and mean it."

Antilles glared in silence, pushed on the back heel by the unexpected challenge. He shook his head slowly, jaw grinding. "You make it hard…..but you know," he ground the words, angry and steadfast in the same breath. "you know that I will always put your life before my own."

Shira stared, shaken and fascinated by the depth of feeling in that oath, reluctance and devotion both. Mara was no different, in her devotion; if anything her loyalty ran deeper, in its almost desperately willful blindness. Would she have been the same herself, had she been raised by this man and not Lord Vader? Trapped within the inescapable influence of a consummately compelling psyche who demanded everything, always.

Palpatine settled almost imperceptively at Antilles' uneasy affirmation, his voice taking on a satisfied tinge as he arched his brow. "Despite those you hold around you?"

She was still watching Palpatine—still watching the master at work—when she realized that the silence had held a fraction too long, and looked to Antilles. He remained still, jaw locked, mouth a thin line, eyes hooded.

What was this, that came between them? She'd wondered for so long whether she might oust Antilles based on his lack of loyalty, but that wasn't it at all. It was something else entirely—someone else entirely. Not Jade—Antilles had very purposely pushed her away, and Palpatine had specifically said those you hold close to you.

Palpatine leaned forward a fraction, persuasive, now. "Everything that I said, my friend, everything that I have ever offered you, still stands…but for you, not the Corellian. You ask why I withhold information when—"

"No." Antilles practically barked the word. "Don't try to deflect this again. This isn't about him."

"You're right," Palpatine stated, pressing the offensive—a technique that had already relegated the Death Star's unexpected arrival here to a minor point in some greater argument. "This is about you. This is about my advocate—my brother in arms—being unable to live up to the vow he has made. I ask for no more than I ever did, no more than you agreed to so willingly, in the past—vowed to me on bended knee. What am I to do, save to look at just what exactly has changed."

"You asked for my life—my entire life, nothing but you. I gave it." Antilles shook his head. "What more do you want from me—what do you want that I haven't already given?"

"Your obedience," Palpatine said instantly. "Always, in all things."

"You have my loyalty. That—"

"Is not enough," Palpatine interrupted. "I need an advocate who is unconditionally obedient."

"If I think something's wrong then I should speak out. I'm the only person who—"

"No. You, above all others, should comply. I raised you to be my greatest ally. My only equal."

Antilles glanced away, laughing dryly. "You see no-one as that."

"Then prove me wrong."

"No-one ever could—not in your eyes."

"You alone have the potential to…yet you continually disappoint."

Shira's chest constricted at the unthinking dismissal of her own abilities, in Palpatine's callous words. Unaware, he settled back, eyes straying as he tilted his head in a play of consideration. "Perhaps your father was right."

This time the reference to Antilles' past seemed halfway between taunt and warning, as Palpatine continued in soft tones. "So many people told me so often that I should terminate the…experiment of my new advocate."

Shira frowned at the veiled threat, remembering Lord Vader saying the same thing of Antilles more than once—pushing for it at every single stumble the growing youth made.

Far from being intimidated, Antilles' voice rose a notch. "Even now? I just told you that a shake-up in your senior officers would be seen as instability, and you try this, now?"

Palpatine narrowed his eyes as Shira watched, fascinated, contemplating whether this was the allowance one was forced to tolerate, having created a true Sith advocate. The few occasions that she had observed Lord Vader interacting with the Emperor had not seemed so contentious, but privately she knew that her own Master's mindset had been very much the same as Antilles'; both respectful and contentious in equal measure.

Was this the way for every Sith apprentice?

Lord Vader had told her that the control of one's advocate kept a Sith Master vigilant—kept him sharp, Shira supposed. It was the way of the Sith, he had said. The desire to create something of true power that you alone could command. The necessity to have such a being working to your advantage, however reluctantly.

Privately, Palpatine had held Antilles up before Shira as some kind of paradigm so many times… Was this the price, for the chance to access this kind of power—was the controlling of it so much harder?

When Palpatine's lip slid into a brief half-smile, she knew he would have had to dig deep to find even that, no matter how laced with a barb. "You are one officer—hardly a sweeping reform. And even that is manageable, with care."

"One officer—not a brother in arms?" Antilles asked dryly. "And manageable how? You want to replace me with her? She can't do what I do, and you know it. She can't achieve what I can achieve, and even if she could, it wouldn't be in your name. But then you already know that. You didn't even try to change that self-serving attitude of hers, because it wasn't worth it. She fills a niche, just like everyone else around you does—like I do. We're all just numbers in your equation. And it must eat you up inside, that you can't find a replacement for this particular component."

Palpatine was on the defensive again—and for any Sith, that meant attack. "On the contrary. It is your bloodline that is indispensable, not you yourself."

Antilles took a breath—then halted. And seeing him falter, Palpatine pressed.

"You believe yourself irreplaceable…and perhaps that is my doing, in allowing you such indulgence." Palpatine resettled as he spoke, weight resting to one arm as he leaned forward. "But you are exactly as unique as a single cell in your body."

The words came out coolly, something between an observation and a warning—

And it was as if the air was sucked from the room. Replaced with something dark and cold and altogether more dangerous, as Antilles' head tilted, mouth opening a fraction as let out a low breath, disbelieving words almost lost within it. "You didn't…"

It was fascinating to watch—all the more so because Antilles usually held that perfect sabacc-face. But the slow sea-change from disillusionment to distaste to offense to rising, roiling anger rippled visibly across his features and out through the Force, unchecked. His jaw tightened, body straightening, shoulders squaring. "Where are they?"

Palpatine turned aside to stare into the cold void beyond the curved viewpanes, smiling enigmatically. He was enjoying this moment; Shira could see it quite clearly. Enjoying that he could make the storm clouds gather, knowing he alone could control them.

Already outraged and alienated, having barely been talked down from his initial anger, Antilles overreacted instantly. He took another step up, almost to the dais, the challenge in his voice unchecked. "Tell me—now."

"Is that a demand—from me?!" Palpatine stood abruptly, pushing for control, and Shira felt her breath lock in a shocked gasp at the back of her throat as she jolted, grinning.

But if Antilles saw the change in his Master, he ignored it. "Where? How many—how old?"

It was now that she realized the threat Palpatine had leveled: clones. Galen Marek had been cloned repeatedly, first to serve Lord Vader's intent, and then Palpatine's. That was what Palpatine was insinuating now; he was talking about clones of Antilles, the grin which split his face an open provocation.

"Perhaps you should have explored a little further, on Rhen Var."

"There were no other cloning chambers." Antilles said the words flatly. Contemptuously.

Palpatine nodded, utterly confident. "One day you may thank me that there is. Somewhere."

"Destroy them."

"They are your future."

"I didn't ask for one—not this one."

"You are young." Palpatine's voice had taken on a dismissive air; amused, almost. "Youth always believes itself immortal. I can give you that in reality, to—"

"To what? You think I don't know you?! This is insurance, for yourself. Another generation, to start again. Another life to break apart!"

"The clones are to augment you, not replace you. I will teach you essence tranf—"

"I don't want to learn. I don't want this!" The last was yelled through clenched jaw, Antilles' control barely holding.

Shira flinched, feeling the frisson of nerves rush through her, pulling a smile to her lips.

Glancing briefly to her then back to his increasingly uncontrollable advocate, Palpatine angled his shoulders in unspoken intimidation. "We will speak later, on this matt—."

"No, we'll speak now."

There was a moment, to Shira's perceptions. A single moment that held suspended—because this hadn't happened before, she realized. This argument was going beyond anything that either had tested. She stared, heart pounding.

Palpatine put the formidable force of utter authority into his unwavering voice, his command absolute. "Go back to the Executor."

Antilles held his ground to the top of the steps, outrage firing his resolve. "Destroy them."

Palpatine purposely straightened, tall and intimidating in his power and his potency, a man in his prime compared to Antilles, slight and seventeen, a head-height less, the difference magnified by that final step. But he still held his ground as Palpatine lifted his arm to point, voice low. "Go back to your quarters."

"Where are the clones being—"

It was instant, a rush of action and reaction that took place so fast that it was done before Shira's mind had registered the first move—

Palpatine's other hand, curled behind his back since he had stood, snapped around in a rippling haze of bright white as he summoned and threw a bolt of Force-fed lightening towards Antilles—

And with a yell Luke snatched his open hand up— and deflected the bolt, shunting it upwards to flash and flare as its power was spent against the high arched roof, igniting a cascade of sparks which sizzled and danced on the metal floor plates between the two men.

In the ozone-baked silence that followed Shira realized she'd stepped back two hasty paces, body pressed against the cool transparisteel of the viewport behind her as Palpatine stared, the air charged.

Shira's eyes were dragged unstoppably to Antilles as his shoulders loosened, weight lifting to the balls of his feet…

And for the first time in all the years she'd known him, Palpatine blinked. He backed down. She saw it quite distinctly.

He hadn't known—he hadn't known that Luke could do that.

She glanced to Luke, taking in his fast breaths, still visible in the rise and fall of his taut shoulders… Neither had he—not against Palpatine.

"They don't exist." Palpatine's words leveled out to a mocking tone. "They never have. I was simply curious as to your opinion."

"You could have asked."

"I just did. In a manner which gave me a far truer account of your feelings. Now…I know. A great deal has become clear."

Antilles stared…but the moment had passed. Palpatine had held his composure, and Antilles' anger had run its course, his shock at his own reaction overriding his outrage.

Shira slowly straightened from the cool viewport she'd pressed back against, breath regulating as she watched Antilles wrestle his own emotions under control, his back straight, hands clenched to fists. Her lips curled slowly into an appreciative smile as the shock of her tripping heart was replaced by the adrenaline-laced torrent of tumbling thoughts and calculating possibilities….

His back to her, Luke stared for a few moments longer, unreadable…

Then he turned about and strode from the room, the tension clinging about him to Shira's senses, darkly enfolding, reminding her of nothing so much as her old Master Lord Vader's swirling black cloak…

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Luke sat alone in the shuttle, eyes closed, thoughts racing. A dense, dark knot lay coiled within itself in the deepest shadows to the very center of his perceptions, and he wasn't sure if it was his anger, his frustration, his outrage…or something bigger than all of that, crushed and compressed like carbon to coal, waiting for a spark. Like shadows and tangles, trying to unfurl—and where had he heard that before?

The words hung, potent. Whispered from the past directly to the core of him.

He let his head fall back, trying to quantify something so intense and complex and compressed. Carbon to coal to…what? Where had he heard it?

Whispers skittered, tantalizing, and without realizing he let his connection shift within the Force from vague imprecision to absolute razor focus:


...

The growling flare of a lightsaber blade close to his heart—and his Master's voice, barbed and taunting.
"I believe it's still in there—all that power and passion. All crushed down right here at the very core of you, that much stronger for your ability to constrain it. Like a diamond waiting to shine. What do you say…if I slice off all this dull and dour dirt you've acquired whilst languishing in the mud of mediocrity, will I see my Sith shine again?"
...

...
Carbon to coal; absolute black
Occus Tor

Luke doubled over, fist coming up to close tightly over his chest as he fought to rise against the downward drag of the Force. He surfaced like a diver coming up from deep water, hauling in a deep gasp of air, followed by the echo of his Master, still grinning, still gloating—

"I made him what he is. And if he chooses to carve such a claim into his own skin, then I will make him live up to it."

...

The moment broke, falling away into darkness and leaving him clutching tightly to the center of his chest as if he could hold it all back; crush it in and press it down one more time. The echo of dark fate that a child of seven had unknowingly set in motion when he'd first been brought to Coruscant and, with insufficient words to categorize, had seen only shadows and tangles, closing in.

Was it fate that dragged him forwards…or his own doubts, which held him back?

He knew only that he was reluctant to unravel it.

There were no clones, he knew that—had known it absolutely the instant that he'd opened his mind, unconstrained, to the Force. But it was immaterial. The fact that they didn't exist at this moment didn't mean that Palpatine wasn't planning their creation—they were clearly sufficiently in the man's thoughts that he'd tested the water. And his claim that they would be for Luke's advantage… Palpatine worked to no-one's advantage but his own.

What Luke did know absolutely, was the error he'd made in having allowed himself to be goaded into showing the extent of his ability. In the heat of the moment he'd slipped, and let loose a level of capability that he'd never previously disclosed in front of Palpatine.

And why was that a bad thing—to demonstrate the extent of his connection to the man who had driven him his whole life to take control of that power?

Sat alone in the shuttle, eyes on the cold darkness beyond the viewport, he chewed at his thumbnail, aware precisely of why…

There would be reprisals. And given the significance of both his own misdemeanor and Palpatine's paranoia, they would be severe.

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Onboard the Executor Luke stalked the long, dour gray corridors back to his quarters without seeing, thoughts still rushing, head slowly shaking as he walked without acknowledging the salutes of crew and officers.

Was this the decision that his father had faced, once?

In the midst of a civil war, with enemies all around and precious few choices left beneath the immediate demands of simply reacting moment to moment, Luke was well aware that a lifetime of habit meant that he was effectively becoming the young Vader to the young Palpatine. He was stood now where his father had once stood, facing the same decision that his father had faced.

Should he keep Palpatine in power, just as his father had?

Han's words of Palpatine rang in his head. "I know exactly the game he's playing. It's called locking your advocate down so he'll do as he's told. You think that's nothing, you think it's just some sideline to the bigger plan…but without an advocate, he's stretched too thin and he knows it."

He'd had no comeback at the time, hard facts settling with leaden weight about him, knowing Han's claim was true but aware that he still had a choice; the ultimate choice. Live or die.

He'd always had that choice, even here. Now, today, it had been taken from him.

Even if there were no clones at present, the matter was clearly coming to the fore in Palpatine's mind. Palpatine could claim as often as he wanted out loud that the clones were for Luke to fall back on; assurance that if necessary he could transfer his existing awareness and memories, intact, into another vessel…

But that wasn't necessary. A clone could be given life with no transfer of consciousness; could come into this galaxy as a blank mind awaiting direction. By Palpatine.

Because Luke knew his Master of old; knew his mind. Knew that right now the man who had raised him and trained him was thinking why shouldn't he do that; replace one advocate with another of equal potential. Replace problem with potential.

Knowing how that mind worked, how it was drawn always to power, why wouldn't Palpatine access the bloodline whose abilities had always exceeded Palpatine's own, and try one more time to tame it? After all that he'd done to monopolize Luke's life once he had realized that his grip on Luke's father was slipping…why not one more time—one more life?

Either Luke himself voluntarily learned the secret to transfer his mind—his essence—to a clone, for the sake of some twisted sense of saving another, of controlling his own destiny, or—

Or. He stopped it. Now. Because whispering ever louder in the back of his mind, shrouded in the Darkness that his own Master had taught him to hear, was the thought he'd tried so hard to ignore. Another path—far more dangerous to his soul and his sanity.

Was it this, in truth? The decision his father had faced…and surrendered beneath. The easier path—because after that first excruciating wrench, it would be just that; easy. It would be so much easier to simply stop feeling. Stop struggling.

When had the need to protect those he held close turned from a choice into a compulsion? Another addiction to add to the list. When would he understand that the complications inherent would place him always in contention with Palpatine? Two intractable wills locked in contention, an endless orbit with no possible respite.

Reaching his quarters, he entered without keying the lights; he didn't need them. Stopping at the large, cluttered desk which overpowered the spartan room, he began pulling drawers out entirely to clatter to the floor unheeded, their contents scattered.

He'd known since his early teens that his abilities eclipsed his Master's. But growing up in Palpatine's shadow and subject to his harsh and ready judgment, it had never actually occurred to Luke that his Master might for one second fear him. It had been, for as long as Luke could remember, the polar opposite. Every waking minute of his childhood as Luke had grown, he'd lived in dread of his Master's wrath. And as the years had passed Palpatine had seemed to invest ever more energy and attention in maintaining absolute control…and like a fool, Luke had always assumed that it was for no other reason than that he was, to his Master, a problem to be borne; an annoyance which had to be constantly monitored and curbed, in order to be of any use whatsoever.

Until today.

Today, the reason that had been glaring out through the Force—though Luke had chosen not to acknowledge it—had come into sharp focus. In those last few moments, had he truly understood.

That dangerous thought whispered afresh in his mind; afraid. Not himself; not the child beneath his Master's constant retribution.

Palpatine had backed down, because he was afraid of Luke. Of what he could become.

You don't betray our own Master—ever.

A mantra, hammered home without mercy over and over throughout his life.

He shook his head quickly, mentally retreating, nervous at his own train of thought and angry at himself for letting all this come into being. For believing that he could change anything. He'd stood at this point so many times before and been beaten mercilessly back down.

Everything was complicating. Even he wasn't sure he could live like this any longer, and the people around him were inevitably getting caught up in the fallout. As they always did.

There it was again, that word; complicated.

But he knew of old how to simplify it.

Opening a cupboard set against the wall, his hand raked through it to drag its contents out and let them fall at his feet…and there—there it was. Lifting it, Luke turned and walked to the regulation-issue desk in the center of his quarters, slamming it down on the cold metal surface as he sat, eyes never leaving it.

Intensely, deeply aware that on the table before him he'd placed a small box whose contents could make all these punishing, pummeling crises disappear. All of them. In an instant, as it had so many times before. At the very least, it could make them bearable—make this bearable—for a short while. Until next time. He stared at the box, breathing heavily, jaw clamping against his lip as it twitched, need, both mental and physical, tugging at his core…

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