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Mara sat in the War Cabinet, staring at the holo-maps as Arco and Joss summed up the vast expenditure of available resources, both visible and unseen, which was being mobilized.
Six days; six days, and all they knew for sure was where Luke wasn't. They had no leads, no hits. Every tip-off tapered to nothing, every whisper a dead end.
One ship—assuming he was even still on it—one ship in a galaxy of stars and planets and satellites and clusters and nebulae and asteroid belts and gas clouds. And whatever you'd searched, search it again twenty-five hours later because all yesterday's Intel was already out of date. Every informer they brought in knew nothing, every agent drew a blank, every contact, every organization. Time; everyone needed more time; give them a month, they said, six weeks with their ears to the ground and maybe, just maybe…
But if Reece was to be believed, Mara didn't have a month; she probably didn't even have half that any more. And the days ticked down. This was a job inside a job inside a job; even the Rebels didn't seem to know their own affairs between individual groups. They could spend a month chasing down individual Rebel units trying to get close to the right one for even a single nugget of intel, could commit massive portions of the fleet to tracking them, and they may still know nothing. Where did you look? How did you track down groups who had made it their life's work to remain hidden? How did you track down a group who gambled their lives daily on their ability to remain untrackable? They were too spread, to diverse. No one group knew exactly what the other was doing, only the main command frigate of Home One coordinating and synchronizing with the wider picture in hand, and as search for that single ship she may as well search for the Wasp.
Every day they held meetings of the senior staff, morning, late afternoon and late evening, where the advancements of the day—however few—were summed up and the next step decided…and the hours ticked down, and the meetings went on.
Kiria D'Arca had appeared at the first briefing following Mara's sarcastic invitation days ago, and attended every single one since, the very picture of steadfast concern. And much as Mara had wanted to eject her, she was well aware of the fact that it was she who had invited her—not seriously, but of course D'Arca would take her at her word and call her on it if Mara said something now.
She pursed her lips, returning her gaze to the holographic starchart floating above the table; she really needed to stop making off-the-cuff comments—apparently you weren't allowed to be sarcastic when you were Regent; everyone took everything you said exactly at you word.
Annoyingly—or thankfully, depending on Mara's given mood at any moment—D'Arca had performed her role flawlessly to date, disguising the Emperor's absence in accordance with Mara's wishes, however much she privately disagreed. The decision had already been made not to go public with this, though convincing D'Arca had been less straightforward; she'd wanted to go to the Royal Houses; to open it up beyond Intel and military Command level, claiming the necessity to make everyone understand just what exactly was at stake. Even when she'd relented, she'd still managed to get one last well-aimed snipe in, stating that she could well understand that it would be a little embarrassing for those present at Kwenn; one simply didn't announce that one had lost the Emperor.
Still, when she'd finally consented it had been completely, attending state functions and appointments and generally—surprisingly—making every effort to stabilize the situation.
And as it turned out, stabilizing the Empire seemed her forte. Because D'Arca was quite the strategist—in political terms. She had neither interest in nor a flair for the military, and deferred to Mara's organization of the fleet and rallying of Intel without the slightest reluctance. But in political terms, she had a sharp eye and a razor mind for putting out any number of little fires that Mara, short on both temper and diplomacy at the very best of times—which this was not—would have solved by simply having everyone involved, prominent, influential, high-ranking or whatever, arrested and thrown in the detention centre to let Luke sort out later if he… when he came back.
So they complimented each-other, D'Arca and Mara. And Mara couldn't help but wonder what was being whispered in the mirrored halls of the vast Palace about this new development, by the very few who knew the truth; the woman whom everybody suspected was the Emperor's consort, and his official wife, the Empress, sat at the same table, holding his Empire together in his absence…no matter how reluctantly.
Decisions made and assets reassigned, the meeting broke up, serious, eyes down, lost in thought. No-one had the answers—not in the timescale needed. Tired to the bone, Mara set off back to Luke's apartments in the South Tower, Nathan in tow, still withdrawn and insular as he had been since this had started, silently enduring his own private nightmare, lost in his own world of guilty misery.
And Mara had no idea what to say to him. Tired and numb, stomach churning, fast reaching the point where she didn't know which was worse; knowing nothing, or knowing the truth.
Finally, after long minutes passing in silence, Mara tried a half-hearted line, "Have you eaten yet?"
He shook his head without looking up, and they walked on for easily a minute before he said quietly, "Not since breakfast. You?"
It had become such a rarity for him to speak that Mara turned and just stared for a few seconds, taken aback, before finally shaking her head, "No. Not really hungry. My stomach's tied in knots."
He glanced to her, voice knowing, "Have you gotten any sleep yet?"
She shook her head, "No—you?"
"A few hours," he said distantly. "If you want something to help…"
"No," Mara said firmly. The truth was that she was afraid that even a minute missed may be the difference between life and..
Nathan sighed, saving Mara from following that thought to its conclusion.
"You should get some rest Mara, otherwise you'll be no help to anyone. Why don't you drop in now—I can give you something?"
They were in the North Tower and close to Nathan's little-used medi-bay, so Mara nodded, relenting.
.
In the familiar territory of his office Nathan became, as ever, the consummate medic, already taking the tablets from his small, locked wall store. "I'll give you pro-poxyl. I can reverse the effects instantly with a shot if need's be."
He handed over the small tablets and filled a beaker of water, passing it over at the same time as he took the handheld medical scanner from his desktop, automatically running a scan.
Mara threw the tablets into her mouth and lifted the beaker—and Nathan reached unexpectedly out to hold it back.
"Have you swallowed them?"
There was something in his tone that stopped the fractious reply on Mara's lips.
"Spit them out," Nathan said quickly. "Now."
Complying, Mara scowled, looking to the tablets. "Nathan, what the hell?"
He didn't even acknowledge Mara's sharp tone, more interested it seemed, in taking a second scan...then a third.
Finally, he put down the scanner and walked to the door, glancing down the empty corridor and closing it on Clem's bodyguards, who waited a discrete distance away at the medi-bay doors. When he turned back to Mara he seemed suddenly more alert than she'd seen him in days.
"Okay…alright….." Nathan hesitated a long time, as if uncertain how exactly to continue. "… before I tell you this, I need you to do two things."
Mara stared for long seconds before shaking her head slightly, forcing patience. "Fine, whatever."
Nathan pulled out his own chair at his desk, "First, I think I need you to sit down here. Then I need you to promise to me that when I tell you this, you'll remain sat down."
Mara narrowed her eyes but sat, watching Nathan walk around to the far side of the desk. He hesitated a few seconds more, perching on the edge of the desk—and Mara could swear he was calculating the distance to the door. When he turned back to her he had that fretful, familiar smile which he had perfected long ago, rather like a small animal in a speeder's headlights, finally said timorously, "...Congratulations?"
Mara stared at him for long seconds, too tired for riddles. When she finally blinked several times, shaking her head, it was hardly the most coherent reply, "… What?"
"Congratulations."
Mara started to rise, but Nathan held out his hand as he stood, backpedalling as if he might make a hasty retreat to the door, one hand out. "Ah-ah! Sit, sit, sit!"
"Okay, I'm done with the games, what the hell are you talking about?" Mara glared at Nathan, not in the mood for this. But he simply stared back, silent, willing her to understand…and slowly, the truth dawned.
She sat back down heavily, jaw loose, mouth open in shock, no idea what to say or what to feel, emotions crushing in. She actually felt the blood drain from her face, leaning forward, elbows on the edge of Nathan's desk to cover her face with her hands, "Ohh…"
"So…I'm guessing that my supposition that this wasn't the tiniest bit planned is correct, then?"
Mara moved one finger aside to glare at Nathan through her hands, "What do you think?"
He half-shrugged apologetically, "I don't know; it's not the kind of information I'm called on to hand out very often."
"No—no, no." Mara was rallying now, "No, I was careful."
Nathan shrugged, "I'm sure you were. You're also young and you're healthy and sometimes nature is just as determined to remain unbound as modern medicine is to contain it."
"No wait, seriously…" she ran out of words, simply shaking her head.
"I'm sorry, but no matter how many times you say no, it's still a yes. You're pregnant—around eight or nine weeks, I'd guess, though it's not really my area of expertise. I would recommend someone but…" he glanced away then back, "given the…present situation, I'm not really sure this is the kind of information that should go any further right now."
A whole new flood of implications came rushing in on Mara when she hadn't even begun to process the first set, and still she had no idea what she should be in this moment, what she should feel. Though she was pretty damn sure that the far-reaching repercussions of Kiria D'Arca's reaction shouldn't be what was playing loudest in her mind right now.
Aware of Nathan's eyes on her Mara looked up, but the only expression on his face was grave, heartfelt concern, "So what do you want to do?"
A wave of emotion flooded through Mara in that moment, instant and overwhelming; a driving, bone-deep desire to protect that which just moments ago she hadn't even known existed. "I sure as hell hope you can keep a secret, Nathan Hallin."
A slow smile spread over his face and in that moment he was the blithe, self-effacing charmer again. "You have no idea how many I already keep, Mara Jade."
She almost smiled... and just like that, when she'd thought she couldn't possibly miss Luke more, a whole new level of grief and desperate ache assaulted Mara. More and more, she'd found herself in the last few days making endless pacts with the Fates in which she didn't even believe. Any price; she'd pay any price to get him back and she knew it.
Now she wanted him back so desperately not just for herself, but also for their child…
Their child—it seemed a terrifying prospect, on every possible level.
Because now she needed Luke back not just for herself and for the Empire, but also to protect their baby. She could and damn well would protect it herself of course, but not in the way that she could with Luke at her back; Luke would protect its heritage and its birthright—and it would need protecting in that way, or it would instantly become a means for and against others' ambitions.
Her mind raced to analyze that; think what would have happened if Reece had not been caught; if his plotting hadn't been discovered but had still been successful. D'Arca of course, would always defer to Luke if he were alive but…
Mara paused a second in her realization of that; at how natural and how obvious it seemed in that moment, like a curtain falling. As long as Luke was alive, D'Arca would defer to his choices, Mara knew that. But if he were gone…D'Arca was strong and smart and she marshaled the support of the Royal Houses; she was Empress, after all.
It would take Luke's uncompromising influence to hold her and the ambitions of the House D'Arca at bay; to make sure that the child's future was secure.
Then again, did Mara even want their child to have this life; the existence that Luke led now, laced with endless burdens and demands and danger? The fact was that their child was already in mortal danger, and it hadn't even been born.
Their child. Mara straightened slightly, pursing her lips, "So what do we do now?"
"You know, I have no idea."
"You're not filling me with confidence here, Nathan."
"Don't worry, I can pull out some reference…"
Mara arched an eyebrow, "Hey, I can pull out some reference."
He affected his time-honored mix of injured pride and self-righteousness, "Yes, but I'd know what I was reading—I did do a medical doctorate. We cover this."
"You're sure now?""
"Very sure, thank you. It's just that I'm the kind of physician who's usually called upon to set bones and suture things and generally tell the Emperor that whatever he did this time was a patently unreasonable risk—."
He broke off, realizing too late what he was saying, and Mara returned her head to her hands, regret and elation and fear and grief all washing through and over her one more time.
"We'll get him back, Mara."
She shook her head, breath leaving her in a low sigh. "I just…in the hangar on that damn freighter, he said—he said he was banking on me, to find him and get him out.
"He knows that you'll do all you can Mara—that's all he expects of…"
"No, that's not what I mean," Mara interrupted. "I mean…I mean he doesn't trust me, I know that—I know he doesn't trust me, so why say it?"
Nathan shook his head, "Mara, the one thing he's spent his life trying to do is pull this Empire into some kind of accord; everything he's done and everything he's hoped and everything he's endured has been towards that. It has always, in all the time I've known him, been the greater part of his life and he would do anything to achieve it and everything to protect it—and now he's placed it in your hands. Now tell me again that he doesn't trust you."
"But why would he…" a stray thought locked into place, and Mara truly didn't know whether to laugh or cry; Luke, pushing her away to safety onboard the Wasp, knowing he'd be caught; buying her freedom with his own—then he'd whispered, a grin on his face; "Mara! Anakin—his name should be Anakin."
He'd known. He'd known, and he gave her that moment, that knowledge, that blessing. She wanted to shout, to cry, to laugh—to get him back here, right now. Because she was damned if she'd let him miss this. Their child would have a father who would love and protect it with the all the innate paternal commitment that she knew Luke would give so readily. But if…if Luke didn't come back…then she would be everything for it. She would be everything that she knew now had flashed across those vivid mismatched eyes when he'd looked to her one final time with such faith and passion.
"Anakin—his name should be Anakin."
Mara looked to Nathan, hearing her own voice break, "It's a boy, isn't it?"
"How did you know?"
"Luke knew."
Nathan frowned, uncertain, "He knew?"
Mara nodded, pursing her lips against the tears that were locking her throat even as her lips brought forth a smile. "Smartass," she croaked, then could say no more.
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Luke lay on his side on the bunk, still considering the new direction that everything—everything had taken after Leia's revelation yesterday. Trying to assimilate it, to somehow fit it into his larger plans without compromise.
For Leia to admit publicly that she was his sister now, at this moment and under these conditions, would damage her reputation irrevocably—and with it any chance Luke had to hold together the moderate majority in the Alliance and reintegrate it into the Empire.
Because that one fact remained; his goals hadn't changed; he had to remember that. He had more immediate problems, but just because he was chained up in a cell, his goals hadn't changed.
"Take control, Jedi. Use those around you; anyone, everyone, always, no matter what."
He'd always intended to separate Madine off from the Alliance at some point, always known that the General was the extremist of the Council; that he and his supporters would stand in the way of every step towards unification that Luke took. But then he'd long used it too; used Madine to help polarize the Alliance, intending for it to split into two factions, the moderates and the radicals.
The Empire could never simply accept the Alliance back into its folds as it stood; the propaganda machine that was Palpatine's Empire had seen to that. But if Luke could separate off the moderates from the radicals in the minds of the populous and represent the moderates as a political rather than a militant body then under the right conditions he thought he could reintegrate them—and with them the best aspects of the Old Republic—without further bloodshed. And it would give every single member of the Alliance the chance to act as their conscience dictated; the opportunity to stand behind Leia and a political force for change; to take that chance on peace.
But for that, Leia had to remain unconnected to Luke, otherwise her credibility among those from whom she was already asking so much would be lost. Everyone would see this simply as an Imperial conspiracy from the very beginning; see Leia as a plant who had always worked towards this goal. But if she did as he had asked and told no-one…he wished he'd had more time to explain—but then he would have needed to reveal everything, and this wasn't the time or place to try to convince her of his long-term intentions.
He didn't expect everyone to agree anyway of course; but what would be left would be the extremists, those who were so zealous that they would never accept a truce in any form—and that was where Madine came in, a ready-made die-hard militant for them to gather round. Luke was giving them a choice, but it was an either-or choice; back a peaceful solution or realize just how extreme the alternative was.
Because whatever remained, with Madine at its head it would be a truly seditious faction, a vastly-reduced and aggressively radical minority who would soon be marginalized and ostracized. The inconvenient, anarchistic extreme which existed at the fringes of any evenhanded society; the price for true freedom.
But first of course, he needed to push Leia and her supporters into that political stance in the eyes of the rest of the galaxy—and that was a little difficult to do from the inside of a Rebel cell.
Luke could split the Alliance, he knew he could; he'd already pushed it so far along that path that it would need only the smallest nudge, and the events of the past week were hardly that. The problem, in fact, may be to hold enough of it together through the coming changes. But Leia was smart and savvy; he had every faith in her ability to hold onto that which was worth saving; he always had.
What he sought now was the other side of that plan, the one thing that he'd always needed; something to unite the Empire, public, political and military. Something which would pull them all into a single accord, enabling him to direct all that attention where he chose. Too much of his old Master was left, shaping people's thoughts and perceptions, and he had to move it away from totalitarianism, from an Empire and Alliance constantly at odds. Without that one uniting element he couldn't move forward, he knew that, so he'd long been searching for something to pull the Empire into a single mind, a single accord; something for them to gather behind. Now events had overtaken him—he smiled fractionally at that; his old Master would have criticized and derided him endlessly for 'allowing' it.
It was time to correct that fault; that he had to do it from here wasn't ideal, but this was all he had, and though he had no way to influence or change Leia's stance right now, he suddenly found himself with access to the opposite side of this equation; Madine.
Madine; a dinosaur; a relic from the past who, like Palpatine, had no real place in the future Luke intended. Which made him a pawn to be played, as far as Luke was concerned. And yes, right now Madine was holding all the cards, but the last year and a half notwithstanding, Luke was used to being the underdog, used to operating from this position, everything to play for and no fallback if things went wrong; another lesson well taught by his old Master.
It was Palpatine who had summed it up best when he had said that anything of worth came at a price; that the first thing one must be prepared to sacrifice to any true goal was oneself. Because of Palpatine that Luke held, as ever, the one card that his opposition seemed always unwilling to play.
He'd lived so long like this that it was comfortable, like being in the company of an old friend; a familiar buzz, a heightening of senses, a sharpened resolve. He wasn't afraid to die—as strange as it sounded, he truly wasn't; Palpatine had taught him that with his endless, grinding games—but he'd be damned if he did it on someone else's terms.
Dinosaur though he was, Madine was undoubtedly the master strategist, capable of laying plans months in advance, of organizing single operations or huge campaigns to the n'th degree. But Luke wouldn't fight him on those terms. Couldn't; not here and now. Madine had already allowed Luke to shape the game more than once in subtle ways; to lay the rules, to force the fight on his terms. And those terms were all or nothing, close quarters, thinking on your feet—because here, that was all he had.
Already, after only days here with him, Luke knew that the General had a short temper, and methodical, regimented forward-planners with short tempers didn't do well under pressure; in the heat of the moment, forced to think on their feet, they had a tendency to crack spectacularly. Madine may be the master strategist given time to plan, able to think of and prepare for a hundred possible scenarios, but Luke was willing to bet that if he could come up with something outside of that box, Madine would have no immediate answer.
And as he had with Palpatine, Luke knew he had only one chip to play; himself. But he knew all too well how to play that game; he knew how to take those hits then turn them against their aggressor. All or nothing; it was the only way to play the game.
Truth was that the moment Madine had captured him, Luke was dead. His life was already forfeit. He remembered with pinpoint clarity, even now, the vision—that vacant bubble held about him where the Force did not exist; within it himself and seven men, blaster rifles held at shoulder height, unerringly aimed. Remembered the shout to fire; the fury which fuelled it, remembered jerking back in shock as the word became an action and everything shattered and burst.
Remembered Madine's words that first time he'd entered this cell; "…this small man will be the death of an Emperor then, because there's only one way this will end; whatever happens, you die."
Last time, in a cell so similar to this with Palpatine, Luke had failed—he'd fallen.
He heard again Palpatine's words, spoken with such taunting provocation in that cell, "What do you fear, Jedi? What do you see in the dark when your demons come?"
Incensed and harried and bordering on the very edge of reason, Luke had turned the question on his tormentor, hissing out the challenge, desperate to wound, if only with words; with insight—"I know what you see in the darkness because it burns when you look in my eyes. I know what you see in the dark when your demon comes... I know that it's me."
What Luke didn't admit, would never have given Palpatine the satisfaction of knowing, was what he saw when his own nightmares merged with Force-lit visions. What he'd realized even then; what he saw in the darkness when his own demon howled…
Last time, Palpatine had won; Luke knew that—but not until he was truly devoid of any other choice. Last time, they'd had to carry him out, because they'd held him and persecuted him for so long that he was incapable of walking. Another week, and they would've taken him out in a casket. This time he wouldn't fail, because the man they'd locked onto that cell wasn't the same one who came out of it. This time he'd damn well walk out of here.
Everything, every experience, every stumbling block, could be of use; even his failure. Even that, he'd turn into a strength. Because Madine wasn't Palpatine—he wasn't even close. Just as he'd been in the Empire, he was a thug who'd tacked himself onto a bigger cause and Luke was damned if he'd fall before that—if he'd surrender all he'd committed toward building. Anything and everything, he would use it…even those dark times with Palpatine would give him the strength and the insight to hold out; even those, he'd finally pull something of value from, to stop Madine. And if he had to, if all else failed…he'd turn to that demon waiting in the darkness.
Glancing to the security lens on the wall, Luke turned slowly over on his bunk, the chain about his now heavily-blistered ankle dragging, its weight pulling against his movement as he turned his back to the lens. They'd kept the lights on full since the night before Leia's visit, still shaking him awake every few hours and hauling him over to that table to tether him. Now, with his back to the lens, Luke was able to slide his hand between the edge of the canvas bunk he lay on and the heavy metal frame; still magnetised to the angle-iron frame where he'd put it yesterday was the small anti-surveillance scrambler Leia had given to him. He didn't activate it; it was too soon after her visit. But he brushed his fingers over it, a reassurance that it was still there. He had no plan as yet, no way to pull the disparate facts together…but he was still thinking as he his eyes closed...
He had no idea how long he'd slept before the door opened with that same ear-popping inrush of air. Luke was hauled up, the metal cuff on his ankle carving new gouges into his skin from the weight of the chain as they dragged him over to the table again, his arms pressed down until the bar between them had snapped into the small receiver bolted to the centre of the heavy desk.
This time Madine walked coolly in, nodding to the three men, who backed off a few steps behind Luke's field of view as another two took up position to either side of the door, one of them pausing to drop a third hard chair to one side of the table.
Madine sat, placing a vo-corder on the table before him as Luke glanced to the third chair without comment before turning back to him. It was a long time before either spoke, Madine finally making the move, but then Luke felt no pressing need to move the interrogation session forward.
"Your…" Madine glanced fractionally to the side, then back to Luke, "supporter doesn't appear to be coming through for you as you might have hoped after her little visit…and here I was keeping you all safe and healthy."
Luke remained silent, internally logging the fact that his relationship to Leia wasn't common knowledge, even here—but then why would he think for one moment that Madine would wish to share his little nugget of power? Not that Luke was complaining; he wanted it kept quiet as much as Madine did—except that Madine would out it eventually; right now it wasn't in his interest to do so because knowledge was power, but there'd come a time when he could gain by more by speaking out the facts than by withholding them.
"I'd expected her to work a lot harder on your behalf," Madine continued smoothly. "Seems the only person who's keeping you alive isn't keeping up to her end of the bargain. Which is a very dangerous thing…for you. Particularly since I promised I'd have plenty of evidence to present to the next Council meeting to indicate that a trial would move smoothly to the right verdict—maybe even a full confession."
Luke remained silent, still trying to fathom the way that this particular session would go as Madine leaned back, casually assertive, hands clasped one fist inside the other before him. "Seems you've also been a little busy yourself in the last few days, spreading rumors among my men. I don't appreciate that."
Tam, Luke realized, half-smiling, split lip still tender. That was why he hadn't been back. "Rumors, truth…it's all the same to you Madine, isn't it? Do you even know the difference in your own head any more? Does it…"
Madine brought both fists down onto the table with a heavy thud, silencing Luke. "No, we're done with these little lectures. From now on, we talk about what I want to talk about and nothing else. From now on, you keep your mouth shut unless I ask you a question."
Luke heard the boot steps of the troopers moving closer behind him and tensed, though nothing happened. For a few moments they stared at each-other in silence.
" Futility Approach." Luke finally said, keeping his own voice calm, aware that lines were being drawn. "'I can make this very uncomfortable for you and you can't stop me'—or how about the, 'This can only end one way so why not make it easier on yourself' threat. You might get some mileage out of the method, assuming that I hadn't read a dozen papers on its use as an interrogation technique. But we both know it'll take time, and with near enough the whole Imperial military and I'm guessing a pretty unexpected amount of Alliance leaders on your back, you strike me as a man on a tight timetable."
"What makes you think anybody's looking for you, Imperial or Alliance…other than a body, of course."
"Really? You want to try this line of approach? I would have led with that two days ago perhaps, but asking a man who you're now claiming is thought to be dead, to read out a confession clearly garnered after Kwenn is a bit of a slip. As is letting the leader of your own Alliance in here to talk to me." Luke gave an empty smile as he set his head on one side, "...it is still your Alliance isn't it—they haven't thrown you out yet?"
"I wasn't saying that people believe you died at Kwenn. I was simply saying we can kill you any time we want."
"ISF; Increased Stress and Fear. You want to go through the list? You've probably read the same papers on interrogative techniques that I have, back when you were an Imperial. Mine'll be a little more up to date, but knowing you, I'm sure you've kept your hand in. Let's go through them, shall we? Direct approach; doesn't seem to be working yet and since I know that if I actually do read out your statement it's my death warrant, it's not very likely to. Obviously you can't use an Incentive approach, for the same reason, and really the Emotional approach is clearly not gonna work. Pride and ego—worth a try if its information you're after, but I'm hardly likely to be goaded into telling you anything just to prove my own worth. Increased Stress and Fear? I'm sure you'll get to that; we've already had a few testings of the water. Deprivation techniques…same thing, but we both know they'll take more time than you have, won't they? Establish a False Identity? Can't really threaten me with the fact that you suspect I'm anyone higher up and therefore more accountable that I actually am, so that's a dead end. Friend and Foe—I'll just laugh right now when I mention it, and that'll save you the embarrassment of trying. Silent Approach? Already blown that one… Have I missed any?"
"File and Dossier." Madine said coolly, and Luke tipped his head.
"Not on purpose I assure you. No psychological slip-up…but feel free to try it."
"Why am I not surprised that you know all this." Madine too was playing to the audience of soldiers scattered about the room now, but for him this was a new technique; for Luke, playing to the larger audience whilst speaking to one man was a way of life. So he shrugged slightly now,
"I read. I've read about you too, in Imperial files. You read like more of a…hands-on learner."
"I'm not afraid to get my hands dirty for what I believe in if that's what you mean—unlike you.
Luke shook his head, "Oh no, you can't have it both ways Madine. You can't accuse me of undercover infiltration into your own unit and then tell me I never get my hands dirty—" Again Madine slammed his hands down forcibly, but this time Luke didn't even pause, "Or are they both true in your own head? Anything that serves your—"
Madine's eyes flicked to a spot just behind Luke, and a heavy blow landed against the side of his skull from behind, the force snapping his head to the side. Luke straightened slowly, dizzy from the wrenching strike.
Madine watched, unmoved, head to one side, "Let me explain again; No more little lectures, we're through with those. We talk about what I want to talk about and nothing else. When you talk, it's because you're answering my question. Step outside of that rule, and bad things will happen."
"Old games." Luke said, shaking his head. "These are old games Madine. I've used them and had them used on me too many times. Tying me down every time you come in, having men stand out of my line of sight, no sleep, leaving me sat here for hours then coming in and staring in silence. I'm surprised you haven't had me stood against that wall in a stress position."
"Old games?" Madine nodded again to one of the soldiers behind Luke, and he braced… but the man walked silently past him and to the cell door, comlink to his mouth.
Uncertain, Luke glanced back to Madine, who simply stared, that mocking half-smile on his face, waiting…
Luke forced himself to breathe slowly, every muscle taut, aware that they were taking their time on purpose, playing on his nerves. Eventually the doors ground open and a military medic wearing fatigues walked into the room carrying a medi-case. He stopped by the table, handing something quickly over to Madine, who dropped it onto the table before him, locking Luke's lungs in recognition.
It was a syringe, a dirty brown liquid within.
Madine smiled, knowingly. "Then let's start a new game, shall we?"
Luke's eyes stayed on the syringe as Madine continued, coolly confident. "Pharmacokinetics; Imperial. We've made quite a little cocktail just for you. Kalter here has done a lot of work on it; you could say it's his specialty. Amo-tricliptidine he tells me, combined with a little something special just to be sure it works—something kindly provided one of your own people. SK-17; I'm told that's the only name it has. Recognize it?" Madine glanced once at Luke's hands on the table, tightening to fists. "I see you do. And the tricliptidine, that's always been an Imperial favorite, hasn't it? Kalter chose it with care. Kalter?"
The medic had sat on the third chair, not looking up, his voice distracted, preoccupied as he was with arranging the tools of his trade on the table. "Has a half-life of approximately one hundred and sixty minutes per dose. It affects the G protein, blinds serotonin receptors and increases amplitude and decay time of inhibitory postsynaptic currents. Induces intense psycho-physical reactions. Symptoms are variable and include decreased lung function, nerve and muscle spasms, tremors, severe cramps and seizures due to hypoxia, hypothermia, pathological cognitive confusion, distortions in perceptions and loss of identity. All increased if recipient is in a hostile environment, depending of course on the dosage and tolerance. Higher doses can cause overwhelming cognitive shifts. Those who've been administered it over several days say this particular drug has flash-back effects lasting years."
The medic trailed off, squinting at his apparatus, seeming more concerned with making sure that all the items were laid out in perfect parallel than anything else.
Madine smiled tightly. "It also makes you tell the truth, but then I'm guessing you knew that; it's an Imperial drug after all."
Luke leaned back just slightly, adrenaline kicking his heartrate into high gear, and Madine settled, leaning one elbow on the table. "I presume I have your attention now?"
The medic Kalter dragged his chair closer beside Luke, still without once looking at him. Luke glanced briefly, then turned deliberately away as the man assembled vein catheters and an old, portable medical scanner.
"Do you have any medical conditions?" the medic asked finally as he worked. "Are you taking or do you have in your system any other drugs at present? Are you aware of any member of your immediate bloodline who is prone to seizures? Are you aware of any member of your immediate bloodline who died as a direct result of an aneurism?"
Luke didn't look; kept his eyes on Madine, who held that mocking half-smile to the edges of his lips. Two men closed in from behind and pinned Luke's arms and shoulders, though he didn't resist; right now, what was the point?
He felt the prick of the needle in the back of his left hand; felt it drag as the pressure changed and the catheter was taped down. Felt the men grip tight against him as the syringe containing the brown fluid was threaded into the catheter. Felt it bloom through his veins, incredibly warm…
The world did one slow, nauseating loop and Luke felt his head rock slightly as he blinked slowly, the drug burning like wildfire. He could feel himself start to rock in an effort to remain upright against failing muscles, feel the buzz as a metal band seemed to tighten within his brain.
"Breathe slowly," the medic said, unconcerned. "Don't hyperventilate."
Everything was becoming more distant now, the pain in Luke's chest increasing by the second. The task of remaining upright seemed more difficult with every labored heartbeat and he slumped slowly forward onto the table, his breath leaving him in a trembling sigh, the drugs overwhelming,
The medic settled down on the chair, taking care to push the vo-corder forward and activate it before he spoke. "Perhaps we can sit him up?"
Heavy hands hauled at Luke from behind, pulling him upright so that he slumped in the chair, head lolling, incredibly heavy, the medic's words unexpectedly, almost painfully loud in his hears, "Good. Okay, we can start now—this is session one, the date is forty-five, fifth, fifth, Coruscant Standard."
Madine's voice came, low and satisfied—Luke couldn't make out his face any more; "I want confessions on the vo-corder—start with the fact that he was a spy—I want to hear him say it out loud, nice and clear."
"Fine." The medic, leaned in slightly. "Shall we start at the beginning? Shall we start with your name?"
Luke turned away, clinging to what awareness he had, familiar with this game. His Master had often used drugs against him, to control and subdue—among other, less clinical methods. He'd long since read the techniques that enabled you to control it—for a while.
The medic paused expectantly before prompting, voice dripping insincere familiarity, "You have a name which I'm told you once used here—Luke, isn't it?"
Luke remained still, staring to the desk before him, concentrating closely on that familiar metallic tang at the back of his throat; it was a long time since he'd tasted it…he'd always hated it.
The man leaned back slightly to glance to Madine, voice a quiet murmur, "I think we'll take him up twenty milli." His attention turned down, then back to Luke as the dose rushed in a flush through his veins, causing an overwhelming wave of nausea and dizziness, making him grip to the hook at the centre of the table which held his hands bound.
"How do you feel, Luke?"
"Tired…can't breathe." Had he said that? Concentrate.
"You'll be fine." Again that soulless fellowship, completely without feeling, "Luke—is Luke your name?"
"I can't…"
"Is your name Luke?"
"Y… no… it was."
"You don't seem very sure?"
"I don't…seem very sure." Luke repeated the words, more an avoidance than acknowledgement.
The man shifted slightly, the motion making Luke's head swim. "Is your name Luke Skywalker?"
"I…have no name..I lost it."
"Is your name Luke Skywalker?"
Eyes still locked on his hands, Luke shook his head slightly.
Silence held for long seconds as the medic regarded him, openly considering…then turned again to Madine, "I think we'll up the dose."
That strange heat rolled through Luke again, making his heart skip and his head cloud. His broken breaths were loud in his ears, like the roar of an ocean, his eyes drifting inexorably closed. He felt his head loll momentarily, the action causing the room to spin, the bright lights dragging long, blurred lines across his vision as someone behind him caught the back of his collar, holding him upright. The medic leaned in slightly, his chair scraping across the hard floor, the sound grating across Luke's painfully acute hearing.
"Perhaps we should try again; your name is Luke?"
He blinked slowly, hypnotized by the sound of his own labored breathing, staring at the vague, imprecise features of the medic as he spoke, digging deep for resolve as the pain began to spike in his chest, temples pounding. He could do this—this was an old game; "……..One hundred."
His inquisitor's blurry features transformed into a smudged frown, "What?"
"One hundred. Ninety-three…..eighty..eighty-six….seventy-nine…."
The medic leaned back, realizing. He watched for a short while as Luke struggled to count backwards, the act requiring every ounce of concentration.
"Seventy….seventy-two…sixty-five…sixty—no, fifty-eight. Fifty eight. Then…"
"Fifty-one." The man said, attempting to take over Luke's train of thought, "Then forty-four. Shall we continue?"
Ignore him; concentrate… "Forty—no…thirty-seven?"
"Thirty-seven, thirty. Twenty-three, sixteen, nine, two." The interrogator completed the train of thought for him, "What's your name? Your real name?"
That hazy, fuzzy daze blanketed thoughts and emotions to leave him numb and dizzy and diffuse, and Luke knew he should be worried, that he should be on guard, but…he fell momentarily back into the blackout, his body jolting physically at the imagined fall, eyes opening wide, the light painful.
"I can't breathe."
The voice that filtered through was calm and quiet and completely without emotion, "Your breathing is fine Luke, I'm watching you. Tell me about the Rebellion. You were a pilot, is that right?"
Luke stared, memories assaulting him, too many and too fast to hold against, "X-Wing," he murmured, the image of his battered old fighter coming intensely to the fore of his thoughts; of the tape across a tear in the pilot's seat, of the failed heating duct which always left his feet freezing, of having to hover one time above the landing bay floor whilst a 'tech came out and hit the release hatch for the front landing strut with a piece of pipe because it had stuck closed and he couldn't set down. He smiled; stupid ship…always got him back.
"Rogues…" he said absently, "Rogue Squadron."
"Rogues…is that the squadron you flew with?"
More memories, thick and fast, don't; don't get pulled in. Individual moments plucked from time crowded in on him, broken fragments with no order and no sense; hours spent sat in the ready-room, waiting to sortie, talking and laughing and playing sabacc. Don't get pulled in. Endless hours in insular isolation listening to the chatter on the comm system when on escort duty, nothing to do but stare at the rear of a freighter's engines and wait for trouble. Don't get pulled in. He remembered Tycho bringing an X-Wing in once with three s-foils and no landing gear. He remembered Dak accidentally shooting Sarkli in the foot. He remembered the still they had set up in the rec room. Remembered Wald throwing up in his cockpit when he took a shot and was knocked unconscious, and everyone drawing straws as to who had to clean it out. Don't... Remembered Wedge walking into the mess hall one time with his flight suit on inside-out, he was so tired. Remembered Madine chewing him out for taking a run on a heavily-defended gun-slit…Madine…
Don't get… but the moments clamored to be heard, to be felt, and he was falling among them, nauseous, heart pounding, chest tight.
A memory surfaced, pulled to the fore by that same feeling of nausea and dizziness; of barrel-rolling in the atmosphere, a spook on his tail. Of turning the ship too tight on the pull out, corner-speed g-forces after the near-stall of the roll pushing his body too close to the edge of endurance; of the cold, seeping nausea, the slow tunneling of his vision and the sure knowledge that the spook was still there, every shot getting closer. Of yanking clear and rattling off six fast shots which raked the spook, other, unknown shots exploding it onto a blossom of fiery heat in the same moment as Wedge's X-Wing screamed by overhead, brash enough to take a victory roll even in the middle of a dog-fight.
"Wedge," Luke said aloud, grinning.
"Wedge?" The unwelcome voice that prized itself into Luke memories made the name a question, and Luke had some vague inkling that he shouldn't reply but couldn't remember why.
"Wedge Antilles," he whispered, the name of his old friend enough to make him smile.
"A pilot?" The voice prompted, "A pilot like you?"
"Like me." That twisting mix of relief and deliverance and adrenaline burned inside him again as Luke smiled at the memory of Wedge's X-Wing wrenching out of the flashy aileron-roll and Luke grinned; laughed aloud. "He pulls another stunt like that in the middle of a fight and I'll bust his ass down to wingman."
"You remember Wedge?" the voice asked.
Don't get pulled in… Luke frowned, the warning lost in the rush of memories bursting forth, "Yes."
He could see him absolutely; his cocky grin, his endless confidence—a brief, blurred image of Wedge slouching unevenly in a chair opposite him on the time that he'd drunk Luke under the table for a bet. Could recall them both sitting on the floor in separate stalls the next morning feeling green and fragile and way too worse for wear and praying they didn't get the sortie alarm. He smiled at the memories; Wedge…
That voice spoke again, "Did Wedge know what you were, Luke?"
Luke frowned, confusion misting the memories now…why was it so hard to breathe? "What?"
"Wedge; did he know you were an Imperial spy—or did you never tell him that you were a spy?"
Don't get pulled in. Confusion, and the memories drifted away but the queasiness remained; the chemical taste in the back of his throat. Luke turned to stare at the voice, and the man who slowly coalesced about it. "Not…a spy." He dredged the words from dim thoughts as he stared at the man, "Not a spy."
That head tilted, splitting into multiple images as it fazed across Luke's indistinct vision, "That's not true, is it? You were a spy, the fact is that you just didn't tell people…did you tell people you were a spy Luke, or did you keep the that fact hidden?"
Luke blinked, dredging that knowledge, that determination up to his thoughts, remembering where he was, what was at stake, struggling to pull in a breath against burning lungs and aching ribs. Don't get pulled in. "Not a spy."
"Yes you were. All you need do is say it just once and we don't need to ever talk about it again. Do you want this to stop, Luke?"
Reality, cold and hard; his chest cramped from simply breathing, his muscles burned, his heart spike with every pound. "Everything hurts…"
"That's the drugs Luke…but we can stop that, no problem. That would be best, wouldn't it?"
"Yes…."
"Then it's very easy… just say you were an Imperial spy. Just once, and all this will stop. It's obvious, isn't it? Obvious what you should do. And it's so easy. Just you and I are here, Luke. Just tell me that you were a spy?"
Palpatine's voice came from no-where in wheedling tones, so absolutely crystal clear that he could have been stood at Luke's shoulder, "Only you and I are here; would it be so terrible to kneel?"
"I can't do it—I can't."
"Luke, I can't stop the drugs until you say that you were a spy. It's impossible, do you understand? This will continue until you say that. Do you want it to continue?"
Luke tried to shake his head, fizzing explosions lighting beneath his skin at the movement, muscles trembling, excruciating. "How many minutes?" He probably wasn't meant to ask that out loud. "How many minutes now?"
"How many minutes? Not long. We still have a long way to go Luke…and I can always administer another dose."
"No more doses…no more doses in…." he struggled to remember, the facts escaping him. "Hours. Twelve hours….twelve hours…"
"Theoretically. But we know your Imperial interrogators use the drug again as close to three hours afterwards."
Spikes of distant awareness cut razor-sharp in the back of his mind, anger giving them power, "No…illegal. Illegal now. Changed…"
"Only not so, isn't that the truth? Now it's just a little less public."
"No."
"Yes."
"Change…" Luke was fighting to get his point across, aware that his words were slow and over-pronounced, stumbling on each one, "..is slow. But started."
"Save it for the holo-speeches. You have no audience here." Another voice…Madine; Madine was here!
Luke blinked slowly, trying to turn his head to the voice, but the muscles of his neck and back locked in spasm. "Change…."
"Liar."
"..change…"
The hand banged forcibly on the table before Luke, making him jolt, his mind reeling at the sudden sensory overload...
.
.
A noise so loud it was painful made Luke open his eyes, though he couldn't turn to see the source yet. He lay with his face down on the cold table, thankful for its chill against heated skin, still tethered awkwardly to the desk his head rested on, shoulders cramping though the drug had worked its way clear of his system over the last few hours.
The glaring lights lanced into him, but he knew that trying to turn his head away would hurt more, so he lay still, taking shaky breaths in through still-aching lungs.
"I don't consider myself a moralist," Madine's voice came coolly from somewhere close, and Luke had no idea if he'd been there all along or had just walked into the room. "War is never clean and it's never fair…but it's necessary. I get my hands dirty so that those who cling so stubbornly to their high moral principals can sleep well at night. Myself, I'll sleep very well tonight—you should try to do the same. Get some rest, something to eat, unwind a little—I know I will when I walk out of here. You…you might find it a little more difficult, what with the boys behind you coming in every few hours to make sure you're awake. I've told them I'm not particularly bothered how they do that."
Luke blinked slowly, unresponsive, still struggling to heave breaths in hours after the drug was spent.
Madine's voice again, unnaturally loud. "You should sit up."
Someone hauled Luke up by the scruff of his neck, eliciting a sharp, soundless gasp, his throat too dry to speak yet. The unknown hand released him and he immediately began to slump, but it grabbed him and hauled him straight again, shaking him, the binders on his wrists clattering in their catch, until Luke took his own weight.
Madine sat before him, unmoved. "You know, I was thinking about what you said...maybe a few hours stood up nice and straight would do the galaxy of good; give you time to think, huh?"
Luke didn't reply. Eyes down, blinking repeatedly, his body weaving slightly from drugs and exhaustion he was, to all intents and purposes, only half-there. In fact, he was staring fixedly at exactly what he needed, laid casually on the table before him, just beyond the reach of his tethered hands.
Madine was already rising, one of the soldiers stepping forward as they always did to release Luke's bound hands from the catch in the middle of the table without ever removing his actual cuffs, as another began to kick the loose chain which extended from the cuff on Luke's ankle back towards the bunk, ready to tether it, the movement grinding its metal edge against barked skin.
Luke's eyes remained locked on the table; on the stylus and the vo-corder and the two empty syringes which rested on it, all just beyond his reach.
He could think of no other way to get to them; maybe if he was a little sharper, he would have…but this chance might not come again and in a few more moments Madine would remove them from the table and even this would be gone.
This would hurt, he knew that. This, he'd pay for.
But he could think of only one way to get what he wanted off that table.
As the soldier lifted his wrist binders free, Luke lunged to his feet, still-bound hands pulling back to deliver an awkward sideways blow to the man's face with his elbow, aiming for his nose, knowing that would send him reeling. It was weak and uncoordinated, but it made contact and as the man staggered backwards Luke made a wide, fast motion to sweep everything off the table with as much power as he could muster, the contents scattering, the vo-corder casing shattering on the hard floor before Luke took the corner of the table in both hands and, yanking it aside, lunged for Madine, managing to grab him by the scuff as the big man backstepped, arms up in surprise. His wrists bound, Luke did the one thing he was still capable of; he yanked Madine in and brought his own head forward in a swift head-butt hard enough to make himself reel, let alone Madine—
Then his feet were hauled from under him, the soldier who'd been about to chain his ankle back to the bunk frame having had the presence of mind to simply haul on the chain, dropping Luke instantly, no defense possible.
He rolled as he fell, the sharp shards of the shattered vo-corder case digging in through his flightsuit as he rolled over them, bound hands sweeping across them, worried they'd stun him and this would have been for nothing, his eyes on his goal—
The blow came from behind seconds later, hard enough to make him see stars. Luke curled up, breath leaving him in a gasp though he didn't shout out; he never shouted out. Years with Palpatine had taught him that.
"Get him up here! Get him back up here!"
Luke was hauled bodily back onto the chair, another heavy blow to his kidneys winding him, making him gasp again, doubling over as they yanked him back by his collar and his hair.
He looked up to see Madine, his nose bloody, bad enough that it had already spattered across that perfectly-pressed uniform—and he couldn't resist it. He shouldn't, Luke knew that, but he couldn't resist it; he grinned, still gasping, breathless, "Well look at that—Generals bleed too."
Madine stepped forward and, held in place by the two soldiers behind him, there was little Luke could do, even in defense.
.
Fury spent, Madine backed up, the muscles of his back and arms still tensed from his onslaught, Skywalker's body lax now, having fallen to the floor long ago beneath the beating. Madine stared at him, panting, still bringing his thoughts under control.
"We need a little co-ordinated action here; Densun, where's that ring he wore?"
The trooper looked up, himself still breathless, "I dunno—I think Coley took it."
"Get it off him. Bring it here. Tinel; go get the recorder."
Densun was back within ten minutes, handing the blue-stoned ring over to Madine, who took it, kicking the still-unconscious Skywalker casually over.
"Which finger did he wear it on?"
"Little finger, left hand." Densun said from memory.
Madine crouched before Skywalker, struggling to get the ring back on over loose fingers before turning to Tinel. "Take the holo—get his face and the ring. Don't get anything else in."
Beside him, Tinel activated the recorder as he slowly stepped closer. Madine reached out as the man got close, using his foot to kick the still-unconscious Skywalker onto his back, his face now slick with blood, appalling injuries obvious. Reaching his hands in, he struggled to drag the blue-stoned ring from Skywalker's unresisting fingers, slippery with blood now.
"Got it." You want me to get the statement spliced onto it?"
"Yeah, but don't put it out just yet." Turning to Densun, Madine held out the ring. "Here. You're gonna make a very special delivery—and I want to know just exactly when it arrives."
.
.
.