A/N: Alright, ladies, gentlemen, and all the rest of you - let the regular updates commence. :) Plan at the moment is to put up a new chapter about every three days so each post will have a chance to saturate a bit before the next comes. It may fluctuate a bit one way or the other as Darth Reality dictates (I do have a PAYING job, you know) but I shall try to keep to that rate. Without further interruptions from me...


CHAPTER 53

"Rather Short Notice"


It was a very long way from the room where Leia had been staying to the hangar bay. This ship must be monstrous even for a Star Destroyer. They didn't run into so much as a mouse droid the whole way, which sent shivery chills into Leia's bones. Her fears were confirmed when the great hangar bay proved to be abandoned except for the shuttle on which she would be leaving. Clearly Vader didn't want anyone knowing where she had gone. Whatever his reasons for that, she didn't like them.

As they approached the lowered base of the ramp, a lift on the other side of the hangar arrived and Dr. Siler scampered out, clutching his fluttering cap to his head with one hand and juggling several bags in the other. Distraught though she was, Leia had to laugh. He grinned back at her and not for the first time she wondered how such a pleasant person could have wound up as the personal physician of a man in strong contention for the title of Galaxy's Most Evil Despot.

"Rather short notice," he grumbled at Miyr.

"It usually is," she said calmly.

"Which doesn't make it any less of a nuisance," the doctor retorted. "Not to mention nonsensical. Sending you back to Vjun I understand, but I'm his attending physician for the Emperor's sake."

"I'm not going," Miyr said just as an officer and a pair of stormtroopers came out of the shuttle and ended any conversations. Siler's tight, downturned mouth relaxed at the corners as he made a slow, sympathetic nod.

"Madam Administrator," said the officer. "You will not be accompanying us?"

"No, Captain Landre," she said, turning crisply to him. "Dr. Siler and this young lady are your passengers. Doctor, she's in your charge now."

"I'm sure we'll get along famously," Siler said. The stormtroopers circled around and escorted them doubletime up the ramp. Leia turned back at the top and saw Miyr lean up close to the Captain, whispering something in his ear. He straightened abruptly and stiffly, glancing at Leia.

"And I do mean any measures, Captain," Miyr murmured as she leaned back, just loud enough for Leia's strained ears to catch. "Her secrecy and safety are paramount."

"I understand, Administrator," he said.


After the events of the last year and especially the last week, Landre had assumed he'd fathomed the uttermost depths of stress and wild anxiety. He hadn't known the half of it. As if having his head on the line for Lord Vader's three missing children was not enough to drive anyone to distraction, the Dark Lord had now upped the ante by handing yet a fourth child into his care.

Trouble was, Landre was fairly certain he wasn't supposed to be privy to that information. Something in the administrator's manner when she whispered the news in his ear warned him that she'd just disregarded an injunction from their yet-enraged master. This, just days after she'd brazenly broken Imperial law and – even worse – crossed the line of Vader's personal authority to summon his squadron to Coruscant in the first place!

It was no damned wonder Vader wasn't sending the administrator back to Vjun. She'd be lucky if she ever got off the Executor alive.

The sole thing Landre could do for the administrator now was to get this third daughter of Vader's back to Vjun as fast as he could without setting so much as a toenail out of line. That way he could at least minimize the amount of anger that Miyr would have to face when the Dark Lord finally took her to task.

It would also be his one hope of redeeming himself from that same wrath.

Swallowing hard, he forced his thoughts away from that subject. The more terrified he was the more compromised his judgment would be, and therefore the poorer his chances of success. Besides, he reminded himself, he had had no real difficulty entering the Imperial system. No doubt Grand Admiral Grant would be thrilled to boot his squadron back into hyperspace. In fact he'd probably clear a least-time route out of the planet's gravity well specifically for their use. Once in hyperspace they'd be home free. Nothing to worry about.

The captain blew out a measured breath and studied the girl seated opposite him in the shuttle. How could someone so small be such a heavy burden on his mind? For that matter, how could the towering Lord Vader have fathered a girl of her diminutive stature? She didn't resemble her siblings either – dark brown hair, wide dark eyes. Perhaps she was only a half-sister? He automatically warned himself away from such dangerous conjectures; the girl curled her feet up and twisted round to look out the cabin viewport. The Executor's prow was still in view, but steadily vanishing as the shuttle pressed on to the squadron's position further out from the planet. Next to her Dr. Siler kept up a stream of mutters as he rummaged through one of his bags, apparently trying to organize a hasty packing job.

A doctor and a girl. Landre flexed his fingers on his knees and made himself crack a small smile. All he had to do was take a doctor and a girl on a ride for a few lightyears. If chauffeurs could do it, so could he –

His train of thought derailed because a gigantic invisible hand had lifted him out of his seat and hammered him into the starboard bulkhead, which had somehow become the floor. Forgot the crash webbing again, didn't you, you idiot, his Academy safety instructor's voice seemed to echo from afar. The girl shrieked in alarm; Siler's bag soared away from him, striking Landre's shoulder and spewing its contents, as the doctor yelled something that would certainly have been inappropriate for a child's ears had it been translated into Basic. Finally the shuttle's artificial gravity generator caught up with the spiraling, accelerating dive its pilot had unaccountably performed; Landre tumbled forward and found himself sprawled across the deck.

He scrambled to his feet, grabbing the backrest of a chair and kicking Siler's bag away from his path as the shuttle lurched again. "You two!" he yelled at the stormtroopers in the next row. "Check the passengers! Double check for any loose articles!" Staggering from seat to seat, he forged his way to the cockpit, swearing under his breath and vowing to emasculate whatever sorry piece of Hutt slime had taken it into his thick skull to –

"What the hells is that?"

The entire cockpit viewport had been swallowed up by a gigantic mass of gray durasteel, like a city had sprung out of nowhere in the middle of space. The navigational officer caught him by the arm, then Landre was thrown over him as the shuttle wrenched aside again, its pilot desperately trying to avoid colliding with – with whatever that was –

"We don't know, sir," the nav officer gasped, "the damn thing just appeared out of fricking nowhere right the hell in front of us – "

"I'm getting readings on it now," the com officer added, hanging onto his armrest for dear life as the grav generator struggled to equalize the tremendous g-forces the pilot's maneuvers were producing. Considering they were at the edges of Imperial Center's gravity well by now, he must be redlining the engines on a near-180 course reversal to be overtaxing the generator like that. And still the edge of that blasted enormous thing did not appear –

"Sir," the com officer got out, "this can't be right – the sensors are saying this thing's the size of a class-four moon! Estimating a diameter of 160 klicks…" His voice trailed off as he mumbled, "But it transitioned out of hyperspace…had to…how…"

The grav generator finally drew even with their accel and Landre was able to pry himself off the nav officer and stagger towards the pilot. The gargantuan curve of the object's horizon appeared on the edge of the viewport.

"We'll clear them now, sir," the pilot said tightly. The copilot, a recent Academy graduate without the sangfroid of experience to sustain him, heaved a shaky sigh and wiped his hair back.

"Good work, Lieutenant," Landre told him, and patted the copilot's shoulder. He glanced over his shoulder at the com officer. "Contact the Warlord and get a status report. Perhaps their sensors have a more complete picture."

The com officer shook himself and reached for the transmitter. "Imperial Star Destroyer Warlord, this is Imperial Shuttle Nexus. Captain Landre requests an immediate status report. Once again, Warlord – "

The com crackled. "Imperial Shuttle Nexus," said someone who was certainly not the Warlord's chief com officer, "this is ComScan Delta of Imperial DS-1 Orbital Battle Station. Transmit your identification code immediately."

The com officer went pale and stabbed in the code, having to stop and correct himself once or twice in his haste. "What the hell's an Imperial DS-whatever?" demanded the copilot.

"Holy fracking shavit," the pilot muttered. "That thing's a battle station?"

"Silence in the cabin," Landre ordered reflexively.

"Imperial Shuttle Nexus, your identity is confirmed," the com officer from the battle station told them. "You are ordered to adjust frequency to 3357A-12. Fall in with your unit and comply with all subsequent directives."

"Affirmative, Imperial Com – Imperial DS-station – "

"Imperial DS-1 Orbital Battle Station," snapped the voice. "Abbreviated reference code is Death Star. Death Star over and out."

"Get me the Warlord, Lieutenant, now," Landre barked.

He had no chance before the com crackled again. "Imperial Shuttle Nexus, this is Admiral Conan Motti," an imperious male voice barked. "Put Captain Landre on the com immediately."

They must have intercepted the transmission to the Warlord. Landre kicked the com officer out of his seat. "Admiral Motti, Captain Landre speaking."

"Captain, your identification code indicates that you are assigned to Battle Squadron 559, stationed in the Vjun system."

"That's correct, Admiral. We're on our way to rendezvous with our squadron, located at approximately 12-3-3 to your position."

"Under what orders have you deployed to Imperial Center?" snapped Motti.

"We received a special directive from Lord Vader, sir," Landre said carefully. "I can order the Warlord to send you the transmission record."

"What were your orders from Lord Vader?" demanded the other, ignoring his offer.

Landre drew a deep breath – he must fly with care here. Between this freak battle station and Lord Vader's wrath he had precious little space left to maneuver. "Specialized medical personnel transfer," he replied. It wasn't that big a stretch, and specialized medics from major capital ships often had to have emergency transfers if their unique skills were required elsewhere. No need to mention the girl.

There was a moment of silence before Motti answered. "Very well, Captain. Proceed to your squadron."

Landre breathed, "Thank you, sir – "

"As soon as you reboard you will notify the Death Star and fall into support formation with the rest of Capital Fleet," Motti continued.

Landre wiped a sudden sheen of cold sweat off his forehead. Thank the fates the transmission was voice-only. "Admiral Motti, my orders from Lord Vader explicitly state that we are to hyper out of system without delay."

"Those orders have been overridden," snapped the admiral.

"Admiral," Landre retorted, "with all due respect, you are not authorized to override direct orders from the commander of the Imperial Navy."

"Perhaps not," Motti told him sourly, "but the Emperor is."

"Sir?" whispered the pilot. Landre waved him on towards the Warlord.

"Admiral, without contravening written or direct verbal orders I am not authorized to deviate from Lord Vader's stated directives," he insisted as the shuttle shot around the horizon of the station and accelerated towards their squadron.

Yet another great jolt arrested their forward momentum. The com officer hit the deck as Landre seized the armrest of his seat. "Tractor beam, sir!" the pilot snapped in angry indignation, giving the controls one last wrench out of frustration.

"Admiral Motti, you are interfering with my orders!" Landre raged helplessly and desperately. "My squadron stands ordered to depart system immediately – "

There was a click, cutting him off – had that damned admiral just hung up on him? – and then the com officer was back on line. "Imperial Shuttle Nexus, you will maintain com silence until you have touched down. Prepare for boarding and inspection. Death Star out."


The vista of space – Imperial Center sparkling like the queen of crown jewels it was, the velvet backdrop of vacuum flaked with crystal stars, the precise tri-dimensional ballet being enacted by the repositioning Capital Fleet, and beneath it all the grand game of politics, treachery and counter-treachery – oh, it was a splendid moment, and Grand Moff Wilhuff Tarkin had the best seat in the house. Perhaps the bridge of the Executor could have afforded a more sweeping view, as aesthetic considerations had not been a priority of the Death Star's designers, but the Executor was not sitting on the most formidable weapon the galaxy had ever known. Grand Moff Tarkin was – just a few hundred meters below his boots, in fact, where the northern arc of the emitter dish drew its ominous curve across the station's surface. His toes tingled with the latent energy pulsing in the mighty station's innards, his thoughts with the awareness that he could in the course of a few hours vaporize all signs of life in the entire system. The Emperor himself stood at Tarkin's mercy…

…presuming, of course, he was willing to kill the planet's one trillion permanent inhabitants to get to the man. The actual death toll would probably be three times that due to the hundreds of billions of transients and illegals on the planet's surface at any given time.

Tarkin smiled thinly to himself. No, alas; the destruction of Coruscant was unthinkable. It would constitute political suicide. While a powerful deterrent if properly exercised, one Death Star was not sufficient to keep the galaxy in line by itself. The structures of traditional authority could be pared back somewhat, but remained a necessary evil. And without the forceful personal authority of the Emperor, the decade-old Empire would probably splinter in short order.

Which meant allegiance to the man was still in the best interests of one Governor Tarkin. To work, then.

Admiral Motti was in the command conference room when he arrived, just finishing a holo-conversation with some aide. "Grand Moff," he said without preamble, "I've verified the military forces in system. Capital Fleet is all accounted for and assuming supportive formation."

"And the Executor?" Tarkin asked, flipping through the brief report Motti handed him.

"Holding station outside planetary orbit as ordered," Motti assured him. "Captain Piett did not object. No word from Lord Vader as yet."

Tarkin nodded. Not surprising, considering it was the middle of the night in Imperial City and no one wanted to be first to disturb the Sith's slumber. "So no anomalies."

"There's one, sir. A small squadron of Victory-class destroyers was positioned near our entry point. According to the Fleet database they're assigned to the Vjun system. They can't have arrived long ago if our orders from Imperial Center didn't record their presence in the system."

"Vjun? Then they're Vader's," murmured Tarkin. "What are they doing here?"

"They claim it's a medical personnel transfer from the Executor," Motti said.

"Plausible enough."

"Perhaps, sir, but that doesn't explain why one of their destroyers opened fire on us as we entered the system."

Tarkin raised an eyebrow at that information, but brushed it aside. "A reflexive response to an unidentified potential threat. I trust they ceased fire."

"Almost immediately," Motti admitted. "But the squadron commander is refusing to maneuver his squadron into support formation and insists on following Lord Vader's orders to hyper immediately out of system. And our trackers identified a smaller ship accelerating away from the squadron towards the planet. He could be attempting to send some sort of covert message to Vader."

Tarkin considered for a brief moment. "Perhaps I should speak with this commander."

"I can arrange that," Motti said, glancing at the screen of his com. "His shuttle has just been tractored aboard."

Tarkin bestowed a disappointing frown as they headed together for the turbolift. "A little courtesy, Admiral," he said. "The commander is, after all, a fellow Navy officer."

"He's Vader's man," Motti snarled in response. "What else do we need to know?"

Tarkin had to concede the point.


"What's going on?" the girl demanded when Landre reappeared in the passenger cabin. She had gotten out of her crash webbing and was impatiently enduring a quick examination from Siler. The sudden ferocity in her brown eyes did away with Landre's doubts that she could really be Vader's daughter. He'd recognize that temper anywhere.

"We're being stopped for boarding and examination," he said. "Dr. Siler, we've told them our business in system is to transfer you. Tell me you can think of a good reason we're doing that."

Siler's bushy eyebrows folded over his urchin-like grin. "Think of a reason? I've already got one."

"Good," said Landre. "She's your patient, understood?"

Siler nodded. The girl crossed her arms with a scowl.

"Who is them?" she spat. "And what makes you think I'm going to put on any kind of act for you and Vader?"

That was when Landre realized the situation was far more complicated than even Miyr had told him. The girl was Vader's daughter, but apparently hated him, or possibly seemed not even to know

Siler emerged from his bag with a hypodermic needle and planted it deep in the girl's neck before she or Landre could object. A short gasp later she collapsed unconscious into the seat. At a wave from the doctor one of the stormtroopers retrieved the hoverstretcher from the onboard med kit. The girl was hoisted onto it. While the shuttle thudded down on a hangar deck Siler rapidly attached diagnostic readouts and monitors and tucked his oblivious patient under a blanket. "I think she'll cooperate now," he said to Landre with a wry grin.

The ramp lowered. Landre tugged nervously at his cap. "I hope so."

They started out of the shuttle and were met by a stormtrooper squad in full armor, blasters at the ready though not actually trained on him. Landre heard Siler start railing at the squad commander about delays and the serious condition of his patient and Lord Vader's displeasure if he lost her. Across the bay two officers stood waiting, and as he approached he discerned the unwelcome bar insignias of an admiral and a grand moff.

"Grand Moff, Admiral." He dug down deep, beating back anxiety and scraping up as much indignation as he had. "When word of this reaches Lord Vader – "

"Lord Vader is not my concern," the Grand Moff said smugly. "I am Grand Moff Tarkin, the commander of this battle station, and my orders come from the Emperor personally. You had best cease playing with fire, Captain…?"

"Landre," supplied the other, who must be Admiral Motti.

"Your squadron seems to be in a tremendous hurry, Captain Landre," Tarkin continued with lethal courtesy. "An explanation would be in order."

At that Siler spoke up from his position bent over the stretcher and the unconscious girl. "I'm Lord Vader's personal physician," he barked, "and there is an urgent case in Vjun requiring my particular skills. Not to mention the one I'm currently trying not to lose, no thanks to all of you" – his fearsome glare would have set Vader on edge – "so unless you want to make the explanations to him yourself I hope to hell you plan on letting us out of here ASAP."

"And what patient," Tarkin replied, "is at Vjun requiring which of yourskills?"

"A Jedi prisoner," Siler retorted. "And if you can find another physician trained to treat metaphysical injuries I'll give him my job."

"Metaphysical injuries?" murmured Motti, looking much less sure of himself.

"I did a practicum with the Jedi Order's healers before the Empire," Siler snapped, turning back to his supposedly critical patient. "If you want to explain to Lord Vader why a prisoner with critical information about the location of other Jedi fugitives died while you detained the only doctor left in the galaxy who could treat him, be my guest. At the very least get me to a real medbay with this one."

Tarkin's expression had gotten cold – plainly things weren't going his way – and Landre began to be hopeful. Siler's story was credible enough that he almost felt convinced of it.

"And what about that prisoner?" the grand moff demanded, switching his gaze to the stretcher. "Another Jedi?"

"Damned if I know," Siler retorted. "I don't ask questions when Vader tells me to treat somebody. It's bad for life expectancy."

Motti shifted and tried to murmur something to Tarkin, but the grand moff's eagle gaze was still on the girl with eerie fixation. Sharply he stepped over and turned her face up. Then he jerked upright with a cold smile.

"How very interesting," he purred. "Come take a look, Admiral. Do you recognize this girl?"

Motti scowled. "Of course not, why would – "

"This," Tarkin continued with terrifying cheer, "is Princess Leia Organa."

"She certainly isn't!" Landre snapped, belatedly realizing that he didn't in fact know what the girl's name was. But she was Vader's daughter, that he did know, and how could she have two fathers at once?

"Don't lie to me, Captain," Tarkin murmured. "I have met the Princess myself previously." An ugly shadow flitted over his expression.

"Bail Organa's daughter?" Motti spat. "What's she doing here?"

"I can't say for certain," Tarkin said. He prowled back to Landre. "What I do know," he told the captain, "is that just days ago the Emperor informed me Lord Vader was under suspicion of treason. And as you surely know, Admiral, Imperial Intelligence has long suspected Bail Organa of complicity in the rebel movements. I can only conclude that Lord Vader has chosen to collaborate with Organa." The eerie light in his eyes intensified as he stepped back from Landre. "A collaboration in which this man is knowingly complicit."

"No," Landre rasped, reeling from the sudden twist. "That's not – "

"Relay my orders to Captain Terang to eradicate the squadron," Tarkin said to the stormtrooper commander. "No doubt they are attempting to summon forces to Lord Vader's aid. Your men will escort the doctor and his charming young patient to the detention block. And as for you, Captain – "

Landre had been trying to brainstorm a convincing denial – anything to get the girl out of this hellhole, out of the system – but a muzzle snapped up, aligned with his eyes, and an agonizing blaze of red and heat wiped thought away forever.


By the time a bank of enormous turbolasers opened catastrophic fire on the four Destroyers of Battle Squadron 559, the small ship which had split off at breakneck speed had vanished into the melee of panicking orbital traffic and could not be pinpointed for destruction by the station's gunners. To at least one of the passengers, this was precious little consolation.

"Artoo, we're doomed! Oh, please, let's get out of here!"

Connected to the computer nearest the pilot's seat in the Millennium Falcon's cockpit, Artoo-Detoo swiveled his dome and emitted a condescending twitter.

"Oh, that's perfectly fine for you to say! This was your idea in the first place! I told you to stay out of the castle's central computer, but you wouldn't listen –

Artoo spat a long string of whistles and beeps.

"Yes, I realize we wouldn't have known about the Princess' capture if you hadn't broken into Lord Vader's private communication files," Threepio conceded angrily. "But you're not supposed to search his files! They're classified! And besides, we belong to Lord Vader and Master Luke! The Princess isn't our concern!"

The astromech responded with a violent eruption of squeals.

"What do you mean, Bail Organa sent us to watch out for Master Luke? Now you're just having delusions, you ridiculous scrap heap!"

Artoo's answer sounded eerily like a human snort.

"Besides, how can you be sure the Princess was aboard the Executor in the first place? This theory of yours that Captain Landre was coming to get her is all conjecture, you know."

Artoo swung the ship around a pair of Rendili cargo freighters, chortling the while.

"Well, yes, I know you intercepted the call from Lord Vader while we were in Borleias, but he didn't specifically mention the Princess – "

A reel of chirps and beeps cut him off.

"Alright, and you intercepted the conversation between the shuttle and that horrible station, but he still didn't – what do you mean, you ran a bioscan on the shuttle? How did you do that?"

Artoo accompanied his response with a swivel of his dome that was decidedly smug.

"The Falcon has a smuggler's sensor suite?" Threepio sounded rather faint. "However did Master Solo get one of those?"

An indifferent bleep, then a prolonged chain of twittering.

"And you know a small human female was on board?" Threepio straightened in the copilot's seat, only partially convinced. After all, at such a distance…

Artoo spun his dome and screeched indignation as the Falcon swooped across the path of several cargo modules tractored to a freighter.

"Well, of course it couldn't have been anyone else!" Threepio retorted. "Oh, do watch out Artoo!" The freighter had shot over the hull of a panicky passenger liner with just meters to spare. "But even so we can't do anything about it! She'll be on that horrible space station now! We can't fight legions of stormtroopers on our own!"

As the Falcon settled in deep amongst the crowd of frightened orbital traffic, slowing into the flow, Artoo heaved a depressed beep of agreement.


tbc...