AN: This story was written for the Secret Santa Fic Exchange conceived and driven by SilverDaye. My gift is for Spellcleaver - an author that I have grown to admire for her talent in story telling. I hope, really hope, that she likes it.
The opening scenes of this story were concocted several years ago during a brainstorming conversation between myself and my best buddy Kazlynh (check out her fic on FF.N) and includes a scene that was originally written for Wedge Antilles, that I then changed some time ago for Luke, and then during writing this decided, that Nah, it was for Wedge after all. Sorry Wedge.
I cannot leave this note without remembering my dear, sweet, pain in the ass big sister who passed away on the 23rd of December. Writing this has been therapeutic and has helped keep me sane and focused. I love you, sis.
Smoke
"Go! Go, go, go!"
Luke Skywalker heard Wedge's warning, and with the rest of the Alliance squad members, he turned and sprinted from the cavernous Imperial storeroom. They had thirty short minutes to get the hell away from the area before their strategically placed explosives blew this place to smithereens; taking with it six TIE fighters, three AT-ATs, seven AT-STs and a copious number of crates full of ammunition, blaster packs, power cells, seismic charges, boxes of thermal detonators, explosives, blaster rifles, cannons and hand guns.
It was going to be quite the show – which they would be able to see from a safe distance, if they could get away before it all went to hell.
It was a waste of weaponry, Luke knew, a terrible waste of money and resources that the Alliance could have used, but the small twelve man squad with their two escort pilots, had no way of loading up and transporting any of it; their shuttle and X-Wings had been found by the Imperials and it was sheer luck that, thus far, the Imperials on Abarim appeared to have no idea where the infiltrating Rebel squad was, or what their mission had been.
It wasn't blowing up this warehouse, that's for sure. The Alliance hadn't even known the store had existed, but when they had stumbled upon it, the temptation had proved too much for them.
Let's hit the Empire where it hurts, they had agreed. Especially now, after the losses at Hoth, after the loss of Han Solo and Luke's own experiences on Bespin. A little revenge may be the only highlight of this particular trip behind enemy lines.
"A little payback, dad," Luke had thought, and then shook himself. It was becoming too easy to think of Vader as his father, and Yoda would not be proud of the darker thoughts that seemed to come quicker to his mind since Bespin.
Son of a Sith…
Luke rounded another corner, his prosthetic fist tight on his blaster, hearing the pounding bootsteps of his squad mates around him as they followed him. Time was ticking down, they had to get out of here. He barrelled on down the long connecting hallway that lead to a massive blast door and the T-junction beyond, not even caring at this point if they ran into a whole battalion of stormtroopers, just wanting to get out of this outpost before everything went sky high.
There was a warning in the Force, a tightening of the muscles at the back of his neck; something was wrong, suddenly and deadly wrong.
"Move!" He screamed at his companions, at Wedge bringing up the rear. "Move!"
Skidding to a stop, he allowed the troopers to pass him. "Go!" he echoed Wedge's earlier shout. "Go! Get to the blast doors!"
The durasteel may not hold, but at least they may afford them some protection from the looming explosion.
"Luke?!" Wedge questioned, breathlessly, looking suddenly frightened, sweating in his flightsuit.
"No, time!" Luke told him, starting to run again, now he was bringing up the rear.
There was a distant "whump!" and, still running, Wedge glanced over his shoulder at Luke with wide, horrified eyes. "It's early!" He tripped, stumbled and Luke grabbed him, pulled him up and pushed him on.
"Go!"
A muffled thud, a low rumble.
"Shit," Luke breathed, head down and sprinting, "shit."
The first members of the squad were passing the blast doors when the first true explosion rocked the building, and it was Luke who stumbled this time as the corridor shook; the floor undulating. He picked himself up, sprinted on.
Another explosion and now a surge, a roar, a deafening thunder.
Luke looked up, saw the last stragglers passing the blast door, saw Wedge still a few metres from it. Luke lifted his blaster and pulled off a shot, it zipped passed Antilles and struck the side control panel and the heavy doors began to fall together. He felt, rather than heard, Wedge's cry of horror.
Luke dropped his blaster, lifted his hands and pushed Wedge forward, sending his old friend lurching through the closing space.
There was heavy breath of hot wind behind him and he pivoted on the balls of his feet, now running backward, and sent his hands outward, palms up, pushing with all his strength, trying with all his will not to crumple in panic at the wall of roiling, raging fire that was charging toward him in the confining corridor.
"Luke!" Wedge screamed. "Luke!"
The storm of flames struck his Force barrier and Luke was driven back a few metres by the sheer power and strength of the rushing explosions. Luke planted his feet, body bent forward, arms out, hands high, head down to keep from being forced backward.
Just a few more seconds, a few more and the squad will have some protection.
But you won't…
Another tremendous blast and the roof began to cave in, the floor buckled, a pair of hands grabbed the back of his jumpsuit, jerked him backward and to the side, he lost his grip on the Force and fire surged. It all happened at once; a flash of fire, a searing hot pain, a heavy slam on his right arm, excruciating agony and burst of deafening noise blasted…
…the sonics!
…was the only thought before the wave of sweeping debris hit. Then all was dark.
ooOOoo
His ears were ringing; a constant high-pitched whine piercing his head. He winced, felt nausea churn in his belly, he tried to move and groaned as a dull agony purled through out his body in sickening waves.
"Shhh," is whispered in his ear. The sound is muted, muffled, heard through ears that felt stuffed and heavy with pressure. He tried to yawn to clear it, it hurt. His face hurt, it felt tight, hot, scalding. "Stay quiet. Stay dead."
Luke forced his eyes open, failed as only one obeyed; the other remained shut tight. He blinked grit and dust, and through blurry tears he saw the dark grey of durasteel centimetres from his face, it's surface dented and scratched and blackened with carbon.
"Dammit, Luke," another breathless whisper, "stay still."
Had he moved? He wanted to move, wanted to get out of this uncomfortable position that he found himself in. He felt pressure, felt compressed, felt his breaths enter and leave a chest that had been crushed.
What had happened?
Where was he?
With full consciousness slowly bleeding back Luke struggled to make sense of what was going on.
"I am your father!"
No. He suppressed his sudden memory, the image of Darth Vader extending an inviting hand as the winds of Bespin tugged at him, threatening to blow him off the thin ridge upon which he stood.
"Join me!"
No, that had been weeks ago. That wasn't now.
He licked, his lips; they felt rough, sore, as though burned by a hot cup of caff and tried to remember.
His head pounded as he looked down and saw the orange of his flight-suit.
Had he crashed?
Wouldn't be the first time.
No, he was on his knees on a floor.
He blinked, trying to clear the stinging grit from his open eye. His body shuddered; an involuntary response.
Shock, he thought, hazily. Stress.
"Keep still!" The voice urged; a voice he knew.
He tried to speak, "Wedge…" but he had little breath, no voice and it came out as a croak of sound.
"Shhhhh."
A curl smoke brushed across his face and, closing his eye, Luke, fumbled for the Force, tried to catch the strands to pull it to him. He missed.
Opening his eye, his right eye still staying stubbornly shut, Luke concentrated on his knees. The fabric of his flightsuit was torn, filthy, and chunk of it was burned away, the skin behind looking red, raw and painful.
'supposed to be burn retardant…
He reached for Force again, it danced elusively beyond his reach. He tried to move his hand, his right hand. It stuck. He tugged and a new agony murmured down his arm, he bit back a cry.
"Luke, please…" The voice pleaded. No, Wedge pleaded, sounding desperate.
Drawing in a pain filled breath, Luke smelled smoke and dirt and ozone and he choked on it. Was that blood he could taste? He glanced up, saw his arm was raised about his head, his wrist seemed to disappear between two sheets of metal…
The blast doors.
The blast doors. His right arm was pinned, trapped over his head, by the blast doors.
The mission. The ammo dump. The run through the Imperial outpost and the explosion.
He remembered now.
He was kneeling on the floor by the doors, trapped against metal that still radiated heat and… there was someone draped over him, someone whose weight added to the drag on his trapped arm, on his compressed chest.
"Shhh…." Wedge again in his ear, "stay still. They're coming this way."
They?
"Not a sound, Luke."
Wedge. It was Wedge lying on him, over his back. His friend sounded rough, sounded pained. His voice torn.
There were other sounds. Bootsteps, the clatter of armour and the tinny sound of stormtroopers speaking.
"This one's dead, move on."
"Over here, this one's alive!"
"Nah, she won't last, finish her."
A sudden report of blaster fire.
Luke closed his eyes, tried to swallow in a swollen throat, tasted blood, tasted ash as full consciousness truly wakened him. He wanted to cough, needed to cough and fought to suppress it. He understood what had just happened; one of his squad had been executed by Imperials who had come to investigate the explosion. He knew their situation was dire and he knew that he was severely injured and helpless. Pain racked his body; a hot burning agony down and along the side of his head, his body.
Flash burn?
…he was sure his right arm was broken, possibly dislocated at the elbow, he knew his prosthetic hand was caught by the blast doors, and seared by heat. His throat burned, swallowing was painful, taking a breath hurt…
You breathed hot air; smoke.
…and his whole body felt battered and bruised.
He briefly closed his eye, stretching for the Force. Awake now, he caught a wisp of power and drew the Force to him for strength, leaned into it much like one would a crutch. Luke's head cleared some more, his pain became tolerable, but he didn't know how long he could last.
The footsteps were closer.
There was a cry, a squawk of pain, a sound of dragging.
"On your knees, Rebel."
A thump, a thud.
"I said on your knees, Scum. Hands on your head."
Someone was alive, had been taken.
Then: "At the doors, two of them."
"Shit," Wedge murmured in his ear.
The rattle of armour and bootsteps came closer. There was a sound of scraping and shifting and Luke imagined them moving the debris from the fallen ceiling and ruined walls to get to Wedge and himself. His heart hammered in his chest; there was no way out of this; not for him and not for Wedge.
Wedge's weight suddenly disappeared as his friend was dragged off him and despite the Corellian pilot's previous entreaties to Luke to keep quiet there was a grunt of pain when Antillies hit the floor. How badly was Wedge hurt?
"This one's alive," a voice observed about Wedge with some satisfaction in his voice.
"Put him with the others, check that other one," this voice did not belong to a stormtrooper.
An armoured hand grabbed Luke's collar, jerked him back and a blast of intense agony purled along the shattered bones in his trapped arm. He couldn't help it; he lost his grasp on the Force and he cried out, called out. He remained locked in place between the blast doors.
Wedge must have grabbed him just as the doors shut, must have pulled him behind the door, snapping his arm just as the fire hit, before the wave of sonic hit.
There was laughter from the troopers. "He's stuck!"
Luke could feel blood beginning to run down his arm, into his armpit. He grasped and grappled for the Force once more, like a drowning man in water desperate for something to hold onto.
A hand grabbed his hair, dragged up his head and he found himself looking up into the face of trooper's helmet. It was dusted with ash, spattered with blood.
"He's conscious, fully aware," he called back to his superior. "We could cut him loose?" It was more of question than a statement.
"Leave him, it's not worth the effort," the voice said, and Luke expected a quick shot and a quick death. "We can question them here."
Luke's head was released, and he turned as best he could to see what was happening, feeling no relief at not being immediately executed.
The scene was as dismal as he had expected; the wall opposite the doors had been blown out, and through the hole, through the smoke, he could see six of his companions, including Wedge, had survived the explosions and were now lined up, stripped of weapons, with hands on heads. Each of the six had varying degrees of injury, and each of the six had a trooper behind them with a blaster pointing at their heads.
Another tendril of smoke rose around Luke, blown by the light wind that came from the holes in the ceiling, it caught in his throat and he coughed; lungs burning at the movement, ribs protesting and throat spasming. He had no idea how they were going to get out of this.
A figure stepped forward in front of the rebel line. An officer, Luke squinted through smoke irritated eyes; a Captain if he was reading the rank bars correctly.
"Do you have any idea who you just pissed off?" he was laughing, enjoying himself. "Do you have any idea who is on his way here now? Do any of you, have any idea, what is in store for you all?"
The questions were rhetorical, but they twisted Luke's belly with an abruptly keen understanding.
Vader. The man was talking about Vader.
My father.
And yet the Force was quiet. There was no warning. No sense of danger.
Not to me anyway.
Not yet.
Luke resisted the impulse to reach out into the Force and search for the man who claimed to be his father; instead he gathered it in, held it tight and used it to dampen his pain. He needed his wits about him.
"So," the Imperial Captain elongated the word, 'sooooo," using it to draw out their physical agony and tease their emotional and mental capacities; playing with their fears, "which one of you is the ranking officer?"
No-one spoke; the quiet broken only by a piece of ceiling tumbling to the floor from further down the corridor, by the pop and crackle of fires still burning and by the grunts and breaths of pain from the assembled rebels.
"No?" The Captain nodded at one of the troopers.
Another sharp shot. Another dead Rebel.
Luke saw the rest tense up; Wedges eyes flared in fright and then settled on Luke's with firm determination, his head moved minutely to the side and back. It looked like a tremor of pain, but Luke knew what Wedge was telling him; "don't you dare own up, Skywalker." But, how could he say silent when all their lives were at stake? When one word from him could possibly save them.
Or condemn them.
The Imps could easily just execute them all once they had their prize.
"I shall ask again, shall I?" The Imperial continued, voice polite and cordial, as though asking someone to pass the Deveronian pepper at a meal. "Which. One. Of. You. Is. The. Ranking. Officer?" He pivoted on his heel, looking toward Luke, including the trapped man in his question.
He has blue-eyes, Luke thought absently, like mine.
Still silence, the rebels' head were down, each one waiting for the shot.
The officer turned from Luke, nodded at another trooper.
"Wait!" Luke called, but his voice stuck in his throat, got trapped behind his vocal cords. He coughed, a hacking spasm that rocked his body with pain. He spat out ash and blood and his vision spun, a slow sickening loop.
Was it smoke damage, heat damage?
He didn't know. All he knew was that there was another shot and another dead friend. The dizziness eased and he lifted his head to find Wedge glaring at him and Luke glared back – knowing each were silently arguing with the other.
Don't do it, Luke. Wedge was saying.
I may need to, Wedge, for all our sakes.
The officer looked around. "Did I hear something? Was someone trying to say something?"
The Captain looked at Wedge, crouched down beside the kneeling man. "You, pilot? Do you have something to say?"
Wedge stayed silent. Refusing to give the man the satisfaction of looking him in the eyes.
A crack of knee joints and the Imperial stood and nodded to the soldier at Wedge's back.
"No!"
The shout was cracked, sounded painful, but it was heard. The captain whirled around, while gesturing for the trooper to belay the shot.
"Ah, our stuck friend has something to say!" He seemed delighted as though dessert had just been served. He picked around the debris, stepped through the hall into the collapsed corridor and hunkered down next Luke and whispered softly, coldly. "Who is the ranking officer?"
Luke tried to lick his lips, but he had no saliva, his lips felt rough, peeling, but he managed to say. "I... am."
The captain smiled, "Really? You're not in the best physical condition, my friend. You're probably dying by the looks of you," he observed, pleasantly, "are you sure you are not just telling me this so that your compatriots can have a few more seconds of life," he looked thoughtful, "or perhaps you are wishing a quicker death for yourself to be free of the pain?"
"It's… me…" Luke assured him, not looking at Wedge. He stared the man in the eyes. "I'm Com… Commander… Luke… Sky…walker…"
The Captain shot to his feet, as though stung. "Skywalker! He hissed, a flash, a gleam of ambition in his eyes as he stared down at Luke. He whirled to look at Wedge who lowered his head and whispered, "shit."
"Cuff them, bring them all," he commanded, with a laugh. "Lord Vader can deal with them all," he crouched back down at Luke, "I know of your reputation all too well, Skywalker," he paused, anger now filling his eyes, it twisted his lips and he whispered again, the hate in the words sinking Luke's heart. "My husband was on the Death Star."
ooOOoo
He couldn't wake up. He knew on one level that he had been drugged, knew that he was in trouble, knew that he had to get up, had to move, but he simply couldn't. He slept.
Later, Luke forced open his eyes, saw a dull orange light, and closed them again.
It was cold, he observed a while after. At least, he thought it was after. It may only have been a few minutes. He opened his eyes to the same orange light and again his eyelids slid shut.
Imperial cell, he thought and knew he should be more worried about that than he was.
He clumsily fumbled for the Force, tried to reach out and fell asleep.
His body felt heavy, limbs like beskar, head pounding like a metal smith's hammer. He smiled blearily at that…
Beskar… metal smith… get it?
He got it.
He slept.
His arm hurt. A dull, heavy, bone deep ache. He groaned, tried to lift his left hand to hold it against his right, but it caught with a rattle. Bewildered, Luke strained to open his eyes, the right eye still tight, slow, but he compelled both to open and in that same dim orange glow he slowly focused on his surrounds.
He was lying on the floor, on his side, his face against the same type of floor grating that had been in Leia's cell on the Death Star. From the ceiling fell the same poor light and, just about a foot away, was the straight lines of a sleeping platform.
They hadn't even had the decency to lay him on the bunk.
Willing himself to stay awake this time, and not allow the drug induced tiredness to claim him again, Luke lay for moment staring ahead that the roughened durasteel and took stock of his situation, of his physical condition. The side of his face still smarted, but it wasn't the screaming agony of a fresh burn. His arm was dressed and set in a bacta cast. His lungs dragged, his throat felt swollen, but his breathing was definitely improved and Luke had to concede that the Imperials had, at least, given him enough medical treatment to save his life. Still, he had to wonder the reasoning behind it; because his father was coming and Vader had ordered it, or to bolster him, to strengthen him so that he would not die at the first touch of torture droid.
Now, there was a cheery thought.
He coughed, tried to move, wanting to roll over from his side onto his back, but again his left wrist caught, his ankles, too. Again, that rattle when he moved and, with dawning horror, Luke realised that he was short chained to the floor and only his broken right arm, with mangled prosthetic hand still attached to his wrist, was free.
He squinted at the hand, the burst and seared, synth-flesh, the twisted and disjointed fingers, the loose wires.
"Shit," he slurred, blinking in horror at the sight. "Shit."
They hadn't removed it, hadn't replaced it.
What did that mean for him?
He was stripped of his flight suit, clad only in grey pants, tied down like an animal for slaughter, or for branding. Tied down so he could not fight back.
Luke swallowed his rising panic, tried to reach passed the effects of the drugs and into the Force, tried to feel for Wedge and the others; fearful that this was happening to them too, that giving up his identity had done nothing but pain them all, but he couldn't concentrate couldn't find the peace or passivity that Yoda had taught. Instead he gasped in frustration and pain, wishing the metal smith in his head would put down his karking hammer.
The cell door abruptly slashed open, and Luke was immediately chilled, not just by the cooler air that rushed in, but by the darkness that seeped down the steps and by the sound of Darth Vader's regulated breathing.
Luke panted shallow breaths, fighting his sudden terror, trying to keep…
His thrill, his relief.
…his turmoil from bubbling to the surface as his father stepped down into the cell.
Vader took a slow walk around the short-chained prisoner, his cape brushing against Luke's skin. He stopped before his prone son and tucked his thumbs into his belt and stared down as Luke looked away; given his position and his lack of physical strength, he could do little else.
Vader noted the injured arm, the cast and the damaged prosthesis, the burns that blemished his son's skin. The right side of Luke's face was scarlet, no longer raw and seeping, but scarred enough that the healing skin had a sheen. One eyelid drooped, his ear was crinkled, and his hair had been singed away. His body was mottled with old and new bruises.
Vader had to dampen his rising ire and remind himself that Luke may be his son, but he was also a Rebel and Rebels deserved no mercy.
After the few seconds of silent scrutiny, Vader stated. "His injuries were treated?"
"Minimally, my Lord," Luke recognised the voice of the Captain who had captured them, "we did not want him dying before you arrived."
"A wise decision," Vader rumbled, "I would have been most displeased."
Vader moved again, another circuit. Luke swallowed dryly, gagged. "His companions?"
"Are in separate containment cells."
"Their status?"
"One has potentially life-threatening injuries he sustained during the explosion, the others are in," Luke sensed a shrug. "various states of health. However, all can be questioned should you so wish it, my Lord."
Again, Vader stopped before Luke. "You have identified them?" he spoke to his officer, but kept his attention on Luke.
"Just one, my Lord. Wedge Antilles, a deserter from the Skystrike Academy on…"
"I know where Skystrike is, I know of Antilles, and of his affiliation with Skywalker." He looked down at Luke, ignoring the pain radiating from the boy, ignoring the shallow pants of breath. "I shall enjoy discussing his defection with him."
Wedge!
There was a mixture of relief and horror; Wedge had not yet been questioned, but he was facing it.
"Ple..please," Luke forced out, voice hoarse, scraping through his swollen throat. "Father…"
Vader's eyes went straight to the Captain at Luke's entreaty. The man was looking down at Luke, but then his blue irises rose to Vader's mask's and his pupils widened in shock, in understanding.
Vader merely bowed his head in acknowledgement but gave no other explanation. It was not needed, this man was beneath him. "Release Skywalker, then leave. I shall question him myself."
The man stood for a moment, momentarily stunned, then he visibly gave himself a shake and, with trembling hands, he undid the chains that were keeping Luke pinned to the floor.
"Ahh…" With a groan Luke stretched out his legs, muscles cramping with the sudden movement. He lay, gasping, as the Captain bowed his head and hurried from the room.
There was silence for a few minutes after the door slammed shut. Luke's laboured breathing syncing with Vader's own regulated breaths.
"Get up," Vader finally told him, "so that we may speak."
"I… I don't… think I can." Luke told him, truthfully. He coughed, held his hand against his ribs, wincing.
"I will not repeat myself," Vader warned him.
With another groan Luke rolled onto his back and paused, gathering his strength, before pushing himself up on his good arm. Another pause…
"Ack!"
Losing patience Vader leaned down and gripped Luke by the upper arm and pulled him up, Ignoring Luke's protests he dragged his son across the floor and deposited him on the stark platform.
He stood back, allowing Luke to rally, to catch his breath. Luke's eyes watched his father warily; his apprehension growing, a little anger firing. This was his father…
his father!
…doing this to him, putting him through this.
A father he didn't know, who didn't know him. A father who was his enemy.
The quiet dragged until Luke could stand it no longer, licking his lips, he swallowed and stated, "I still won't join you."
"I have not asked you," he was told darkly. "You rejected my offer, why should I give it again."
Because I hoped you would.
Luke stamped on this thought, quashed it, lest it seep into his emotions and allow Vader to…
The Dark Lord wheeled around, stepped forward and Luke recoiled from the thought, from his father, cursing himself. This was not what he wanted, he was not going to join Vader and betray everything he had fought for since Tatooine, since the brutal murders of his guardians. He would never betray Leia, the Rebellion, the Jedi, the men lying in the cells around him.
"Aren't you going to question me?" he changed the subject and gestured around the cell, his tone harsh, cold eyes fixed on his father's bulk. "I don't see a droid."
"I need no machine to question rebels," Vader thundered, the timbre of his voice rattling Luke's head further; he winced.
"You did for Leia," he shot back, regardless of his pain. He pushed up, his anger strengthening him.
Vader smiled behind his mask; feeling Luke's ire, feeling the dark side coil in anticipation. He wanted to fuel it, to see it burn. "I see that you are indeed on first name terms with the Alderaanian Princess."
Luke clamped his jaw shut, eyes flashing in annoyance.
"What are you doing here, Luke?"
"Blowing stuff up, Darth." Luke retorted before he could stop himself, then he flinched back, recoiled as Vader took an angry step forward, fists closing with a leathery creak.
"Do not presume to test my patience, boy," he threatened, "you may be my son, but I will not hold back."
Luke glared at the figure looming above him, another retort on the tip of his tongue, his anger growing hot and strong.
Anger, fear, aggression the dark side are they. Easily they flow…
Luke glanced away, remembering the last time he had faced his father, how his anger had got the better of him and what the outcome of their duel had been. He had been beaten, soundly beaten, and had lost his hand to a vicious stroke of Vader's blade. On Bespin he had been armed and sure of himself, now he had no weapon, was injured and shut in a tiny holding cell with the man who had bested him.
My father.
He relaxed on the sleeping platform, lay down, allowing the anger to rise and dissipate, allowing the Force to calm him.
Vader was impressed by his son's control, but he knew anger still simmered below the surface and would rise again when goaded with the right words, the right actions. Luke had to know that it was useless to resist, that he was trapped and had nowhere to go, no escape. Luke just needed a push in the right direction, a deviation from the path that his son believed he had chosen.
Vader just had to find the right catalyst; just as Palpatine had found Anakin Skywalker's.
Padme.
That one thing that held Luke to the light, that one transient thread that could be snipped and removed allowing Luke to drift into his father's path; allowing Vader to draw his son to him and away from others who wished to corrupt the gifts that Luke possessed.
The rebellion.
Palpatine
"Ask your questions," Luke told him, tiredly, staring at the ceiling in resignation. If his fate was to be tortured for answers by his own father, then so be it. If Vader was with him, if he could keep the Dark Lord occupied, then he wasn't with Wedge or any of the others.
Vader cocked his head, picking up on his son's acceptance, of his son's feelings of…
Protection.
…no, that wasn't quite right. Vader reach out, careful not to alert his son while doing so. It was…
Others. Protection of others.
Of course. It was not just the Alderaanian Princess and the smuggler who Luke was close, too. Father and son carried the same flaw, the same weakness, when it came to the Jedi dogma. Luke had not learned his lesson from Bespin, when he had come running recklessly to the Cloud City to save his friends only to fail.
Luke would still prefer to take the pain rather than endanger someone else.
Attachments.
Friends.
Loved ones.
Ties.
And Vader knew where the cuts had to be made and, this time, there would be no going back for Luke, no return to the Rebel Alliance, no choice and only one pathway.
Straight to his father.
"Very well," Vader finally responded, drawing himself up and steeling his resolve. Let Luke feel the pain, let him feel what could be done to the others; to the traitor Antilles. Let the fear for others influence his son's actions. "Commander Skywalker, what was your mission to Abarim?"
Luke stared up, eyes flaring in disbelief, in horror and fear. Then his jaw firmly set, his eyes dulled in resignation as the cell door slashed open to admit two detention guards and, floating in behind on whining repulsors, an IT-O interrogation droid. He swallowed, cleared his throat, gathered the Force to him, ready for the fight, and answered.
"I told you…," his throat was still rough, sore from inhaling hot air, "We were… blowing stuff up."
ooOOoo
Luke was kneeling on the floor grating vomiting. He had nothing to come up; just saliva and bile, but he was glad the Imperials had designed the cells this way, at least he didn't run the risk of standing in a puddling of his own body fluids.
When he had the strength to stand, that was.
He gagged again, sweat beading his face as his body lurched. It was true what they said about Thiohexium; it made you nauseous. It also made you talk, but Luke was pretty sure he hadn't said too much, and he was also pretty sure that, despite his words, Vader had held back.
If you could call what had happened holding back.
He'd tried to fight, had used the force to drive the droid against the cell wall, had hurled the guards after it, before a powerful back hand from Vader had sent him reeling. He had been beaten by the guards, injected in the neck by a replacement droid, questioned by Vader and beaten again when he had tried to resist the drug. His fractured and seared arm had been twisted, the crushed prosthetic breaking off and falling away.
That was the first time he thrown up.
"Why were you on Abarim?" Vader had asked.
"Vacation," he'd answered, resisting against the pull of the drug that bid him answer truthfully. The drug reacted with epinephrine he remembered from his briefing on Imperial interrogation techniques soon after he had joined the Alliance. They injected you, deliberately hurt you to release the hormone and then asked their questions. Thiohex was effective in wringing the truth from prisoners. It also affected Force sensitivity, robbed you of your senses.
"What was your mission?"
"Tol… told you, blowing…"
That earned him another thrashing, an additional dose of Thiohex. More questions. It was difficult to remember them all, so many.
"Where is the Alliance base?"
"Nuh… nuh… not… here."
Blood had been dripping from his nose, but he had been truthful.
"Your mission on Abarim?"
He vomited again. "C…odes, spatial co-ordinates."
"For what?" Vader demanded.
A hand on his broken arm, a squeeze to release more hormone. He had screamed then. He was sure he had screamed a lot, but that was the one he remembered.
"Mi…mi…mission."
"What mission?" Vader was ruthless.
Tell the truth, he had been taught by the instructors, hide the truth in the truth for as long as you can.
"M…my… mi…mi…mission."
A change of tactic, of questioning. "Where is the Alliance Fleet."
Luke had laughed. "Nu…nu… not here."
Another beating.
It had been getting difficult to think, to keep up.
"Who has been training you in the Force?"
"Yeh… yeh… " he'd fought harder against that, straining against the effects of the drug that wanted to loosen his tongue and finally he gasped out, "Obi-Wan!"
Which again wasn't entirely untrue. Obi-Wan had indeed taught him a lesson.
If you choose to face Vader, you will do it alone.
Yep, not going to do that again, he'd thought staring up the Dark Lord from the floor and that's when the giggles had struck him. The guards had stepped forward towards him again, only to be motioned back by his father.
"No," he'd said in warning, "Leave him. There are others to question. Antilles may be more forthcoming with answers.
They had left him on his knees, and he'd been unable to move since; racked as he was by retching and that damned metal smith still pounding away in his brain.
Antilles.
Wedge.
He groaned, he couldn't allow this, couldn't let Wedge be forced to endure Vader's questioning, and the horrors of thiohex. He had to get them out of here, had to find a way; a way to fight, a way to get off Abarim before Vader put them all to the rack.
He collapsed onto his side, exhausted, and passed out.
ooOOoo
Luke opened his eyes and found himself still lying on the floor of the cell with pain undulating through the shattered remains of his right arm. It wasn't his only pain, but it was the worst. It had wakened him, dragging him from a slumber that had been surprisingly peaceful and refreshing, although perhaps he just felt that way because he could no longer feel any aftereffects of the drugs in his system.
He could feel again, he could connect with the living Force, which meant the thiohex had left his system, he must have been out for some hours.
With effort, he turned onto his back, biting off a cry of agony as muscles, bone and skin protested any movement. They had really given him a once-over, no make that four or five-overs. He rested for moment gathering his breath and coughed into the air; it still hurt to breathe. He'd have to get himself checked out when they got back to the Alliance base; he had a bad feeling that he needed another soak in a bacta tank, maybe even a flush through his lungs. That would be uncomfortable.
Smoke inhalation. You breathed in heat.
If… If they got back to the Alliance base.
He wasn't going to think about that. He wasn't going to let himself sink into despair; that's what Vader wanted. He wanted Luke to give up, to give in, and capitulate.
Not gonna happen.
Tentatively, Luke reached into the Force, grinning when it easily answered his call. He wiped fresh blood from his mouth with the back of hand and pulled the Force to him, feeling it moving through him, easing some of the pain, lessening the hammering in his head. He grunted, pushed himself up into a sitting position, manoeuvred his body around and rested against the side of the sleeping platform.
He rubbed at his face with his remaining hand, hissing when his rough hand raised scraped the stinging burn on the side of his face and he tentatively touched, searched, his skin with his fingertips. His right cheek was sensitive, swollen, rough and painful, his ear didn't feel right, and his hair on that side was simply gone; burned off, or shaved by the Imperials, he wasn't sure.
Well, hadn't Han once told him that girls dig scars?
He sighed at that. Girls were the least of his worries; hadn't he dedicated himself to the Jedi? Hadn't Yoda cautioned him on attachments, explained how they could make him weak to the manipulations of the Dark Side?
Luke shook his head; he had always found strength in friendships.
And yet, he had failed miserably when he had run from Dagobah to save Han and Leia.
Remembering that turned his thoughts to the friends he had here, friends needing his help right now. He had to get out of this cell, find the others, and get the hell off this planet. He couldn't fail this time; Wedge needed him, the other survivors needed him before Vader got to them, too.
He may already have.
The door opened, and Luke jerked in shock, in horror, expecting Vader to step back down into the cell with him. Yet again, he hadn't sensed his father. He wasn't ready. Not yet… Not yet…
His heart hammered and he gathered his legs in, coiled the Force around his body, braced to move, to fight back again, and was relieved and mildly humoured to watch a small, balding, man in the uniform of an Imperial medic step down into the cell carrying a small case marked as medical supplies.
"Ah," the man said, glancing around the small oppressive room with a wrinkle of his nose and Luke realised that he must not smell too fresh. "I, uh, the Lord Vader has ordered that your health be assessed for uh, for…."
"…another round of interrogation?" Luke stated for him, his voice rough and hoarse; from the smoke, from the screams wrung from him.
The medic drew up at this, he looked uncomfortable and Luke realised in that moment that the cell door had not yet shut behind him. It lay open, inviting, tempting.
"Uh, no, no," the man answered quickly. "For transportation. You are being relocated to his Lordship's ship."
Located to his Lordship's ship!
Say that ten times in row after some Corellian ale.
Suppressing his humour, and the threatening smile, Luke took his eyes away from the open door, lest the man see the direction of his eyes and have it closed. "The others," Luke said, rasping, "they are being moved, too?"
The medic kneeled beside him, giving Luke a clear floor between him and the door. He swallowed, seeing a cell door opposite his own, seeing the corridor between. He could see no movement, and he gently probed in the Force and could sense no guards outside his cell. It seemed too easy, it seemed suspicious.
What was Vader up to?
Would he be a fool to try it? Would he be caught and slapped back down; have his hope snatched away only to be thrown back into this dingy dungeon?
"No," he was told in response to his question. "Just you," the medic smiled as he opened his case and began checking through the contents. "I'm afraid that your friends are to be executed." He didn't sound afraid at all.
Anger curled in the pit of Luke's belly, grief and fear for his friends and, despite his concerns, his decision was made; even if this was some sort of set up, he had to take the opportunity to free himself and the others in the squad. He only hoped they had all survived this long; however long "this" was. A day, two? More? He just didn't know.
Closing his eyes, Luke fell into the force, calling on it for strength, for the power to help him move his tortured body.
And move he did, slamming his left fist into the side of the medic's head, driving it against the corner of the sleeping platform. There was a smack, a crack, and the man flopped to the floor. Hurriedly, Luke rummaged in the medical pack, drawing out ampules of medication and painkillers before realising he didn't have pockets in his pants.
Dammit.
With a grimace he crouched by the unconscious man and removed the medic's jacket. Hissing in pain, Luke shrugged it on and, leaving it unfastened, he filled its pockets with his spoils after quickly injecting himself with an ampule of analgesic and a stim shot.
He stood, wobbled on unsteady legs, glancing at the unconscious Imperial, already feeling regret at harming a man who was just doing his job…
And you're just doing yours.
…and limped cautiously to the doorway. He peered out, looked up one way of the corridor and down the other before gripping the side of the opening to steady himself and stepping out of the cell.
He paused, listening to the Force, looking for direction, and hobbled across the hall, feeling his strength, his hope, grow with each step.
ooOOoo
The bead of sweat dripped from the end of his nose, falling to land on the floor grating. The droplet slid down between the criss-cross of metal and disappeared into the glow of orange light that dimly illuminated the bleakness of his surroundings.
Wedge had lost all sense of time. He had no idea how long he had been in this suffocating heat, no idea how long it had been since he had been dragged down the steps, horror rattling through him at sight of the tall, bulk of Darth Vader standing silent and still waiting for him in the cell, and short-chained to a bolt in the floor at Vader's feet. Wrists and ankles shackled, left in a painful crouch; unable to sit, unable to stand.
Vader had simply turned and left the room, the door sliding shut, leaving Wedge confused and alone and utterly terrified.
He grimaced, face contorting with the agony of his cramping thigh muscles. Biting back a cry he tried to shuffle, tried to change position, but he knew it was useless, he knew the only way out of this would come when his captors returned and he knew that would be when his situation would become so much worse.
He coughed, dragged in breath. It burned. It was becoming harder and harder to breathe, the linger effects of the smoke on his lungs he had inhaled while draped over Luke, his folded position and the unbearable humidity of the room was making even the simplest of body functions excruciating and difficult.
Time ticked sluggishly, slow hours broken only by dripping sweat, agonizing muscle spasms and hacking coughs that wracked his body.
Wedge closed his eyes, ran his tongue over parched lips, wondering if he would ever again see beyond the walls of this cell or if this was it, if this was all he had left. This room, this agony, this unbearable heat and thirst.
He jerked on the chain that kept him in the forced crouch, grunted as he tried to shift his bare feet on the grating, the sharp edges of the lattice cutting into the skin of his soles.
He was worried about Luke, worried about the rest of the squad. He was worried about himself; anxious about his ability to withstand the interrogation when it came time.
You can do this. You can do this.
But could he really? He'd been here before. Had been locked up with Hobbie…
Thank the Force he isn't here.
…and had been facing Imperial interrogation when they were rescued by Sabine Wren.
Now it looked like he was on his own; they were all on their own. All separated and dumped into neighbouring cells.
And Luke… where was Luke? What had they done to him? Skywalker been badly injured pulling that stunt after the explosions, and that was on top of his recent recovery from whatever had happened on Bespin where he had faced Darth Vader alone.
Crazy son of a canoid, going up against Vader like that. What the kark, had he been thinking?
But Wedge knew. Knew all too well what Luke thought of Vader, or at least, he once did. Lately Luke had been quiet on the subject of the Emperor's second in command, had avoid any mention of the Dark Lord, had risen and left the squad room when Jason did his famous, and admittedly hilarious, imitation of Vader's breathing.
"Sheesh-coo, sheesh-coo. I am Darth Vader! Fear Me! Sheesh-coo…."
Luke had become serious, withdrawn, and it gnawed at Wedge, worried him. They knew Luke had fought Vader, they knew he had been injured and that, somehow, he had escaped with his life. They knew that Vader had renewed his efforts to find and capture Skywalker; the bounty on Luke's head had tripled with the caveat that he be taken alive. Luke had merely shrugged at that news and changed the subject.
Wedge tried to shuffle again, tried to find a position to relieve his endless suffering. It was no good, his position was fixed.
He groaned, head drooping, wishing he could pass out…
Even dying would be better than this!
…just to get relief from this never-ending hell.
Wishing Vader would hurry up and get to him and just get this whole thing over with.
Despite his thoughts he still squawked in dismay when his cell door sliced open and tried to pull away from the shadow that descended, followed by…
"Luke?" his voice, was a dry whisper. He squinted at the slim, figure that limped down into the cell.
The shadow and Luke became one.
"Luke?" he said again watching in astonishment as Luke cautiously and carefully crouched before him. Skywalker looked worse than he felt; and he felt pretty bad.
"Yeah, Wedge, s'me," Luke's rough tones assured him, checking him over. Antilles didn't look too bad, which was a relief, maybe Vader hadn't gotten to him yet. "Think you can stand? Walk?"
Wedge loosely nodded, "Yeah, but I'll do better with a blaster in my hand."
"Still working on that," Luke murmured as he checked Wedge's chains. They were similar to the ones that had held him. He closed his eyes, laid his hand on the locks, and pressed against them.
Wedge felt a jolt, heard a rattle, and watched dumbfounded as the chains dropped away.
What the Kark?
Then he fell over.
It was agony! Blood flowed into his limbs, into his muscles, and he bit deep into his cheek to keep his cries at bay.
"Wedge! Wedge," Luke was whispering desperately. He sounded worried, terribly agitated and anxious.
"Gimme a sec," he requested, tasting blood as he spoke. Then, "Ow!" he exclaimed at a sharp sting on his leg.
"Painkiller," Luke hissed
Another sharp sting. "Ah!"
"A stim, come on."
It hurt, it hurt a lot. His legs burned with the effort to stand. His back sent waves of agony into his limbs and he dropped hard at the first step. Then there were other hands helping, not just Luke's and he looked around, blearily seeing the faces of two of his surviving squad mates.
"Others?" he asked, roughly, already knowing the answer.
"We're all that's left. Private Berns was dead in his cell," Luke told him with regret, then he glanced around at the corridor and back at Wedge. "We're taking a chance," Luke warned him, explaining, "We got out too easy. I think it's a trick of Vader's, but it's the only…"
"…chance we're gonna get," Wedge finished, looking at Luke's earnest eyes, the blend of healing burn tissue scaring his friend's face and head, the bruises and the blood. Luke's prosthetic was gone, and he cradled his right arm close against his body. He could see the pain etched on Skywalker's face.
Luke smiled, the movement tugging at his scars, he nodded, and they moved.
ooOOoo
They had met little resistance as they slowly made their way through the Imperial Garrison. Wedge had guessed that most of the personnel were still on clean up duty at the site of the disintegrated armament warehouse. Luke had agreed, wanting to believe his friend, but he knew something wasn't right here; this had been too easy.
There had only been two guards in the cell block, and they were quickly subdued by Luke who, with a brief second of concentration and a flick of his wrist had sent them careening into the farthest wall. They had dropped, out cold, to the floor.
Wedge was glad that he had seen Kanan Jarrus and Era Bridger in action before Luke Skywalker had dropped into his life or he may have cussed like the big soldier,…
Dricken? Stricken? Chicken?
Meh, does his name matter just now?
…had.
"Karking wizards."
If Luke had heard he hadn't reacted. Skywalker had simply hobbled to the fallen men and lifted their blasters. He handed one to Wedge, the other to Dricken…
..Drippen?
No alarm had been raised.
They had reluctantly entered the turbolift, no-one liking the confined space, all worried about what they may face when the elevator doors opened on the upper levels. No-one spoke on the ride up, all conserving what energy they had left for the possible fight ahead.
Wedge wiped his palm on his flightsuit, gripped his blaster as the lift slowed. He glanced at Luke. Skywalker's eyes were closed, and he seemed to mouthing something slowly to himself, the same movements over and over and then Luke visibly relaxed his shoulders and opened his eyes, meeting Wedge's with a grim determination.
The doors parted to an empty corridor.
Lue could feel the relief from the other's, he could feel their undercurrent senses that screamed just as loud as his own feelings.
This didn't feel right. Each step they took screamed at Luke to turn around and run in the opposite direction. Except, in this base, there was no opposite direction. This was the only way in, or out.
They had no choice but to walk on, hugging the walls, sometimes holding onto the walls for support. They were all hurt, all injured from the explosions.
"Wait here, rest a moment," Luke told them, gesturing to the junction they were approaching, "I'll scout ahead."
Wedge nodded in relief and slid down the wall to sit on the floor. He was exhausted and wanted to make the most of this pause.
The other three watched Luke limp away, at times reaching out with his left hand to steady himself.
"What do think, Antilles," Dricken…
Ficken? No, definitely a 'D.'
…crouched by him. "Ya think Skywalker's leading us into a trap, Captain?"
Wedge frowned at the accusatory tone of the soldier's voice. "Luke got us out of a trap, remember?" he reminded the man, sharply.
"Yeah, but, looked at him," the man, persisted, gesturing a hand in Luke's direction.
Wedge glanced up; Luke was standing still, holding onto the wall, left hand around his ribs, head cocked as though listening to something only he could hear.
"Ya, gotta admit, he's a little creepy at times."
"The Force," Wedge said absently, still watching Luke. "I've seen Jedi before."
"A damned wizard, like Vader," the man growled in dismissal.
A spike of anger tore through Wedge and he struggled to his feet, he couldn't shout for fear of being heard, didn't have the strength or breath anyway, so he hissed at the soldier. "He is nothing like Vader! Nothing. If is wasn't for Luke there would be no rebellion. If it wasn't for Luke, we'd still be sitting in our cells waiting for Vader to take us apart and…"
"You know he's been questioned, don't you?" the man said.
"What?" Wedge turned back to Luke, watching as his friend cautiously peeked around a corner.
"You didn't notice?"
"Notice what?"
"The injection site on his neck."
Wedge's stomach dropped, he felt ill. Of all of them, it had been Luke, Vader had gone too. "And you still doubt him?" Wedge was disgusted. "He's been through hell, and you compare him to Vader."
The man shrugged, "Maybe Vader's turned him? He won't be the first rebel to come back converted and working for the other side. Think about, Captain. The word is he was caught on Bespin. He came back. You think it's just a coincidence that Vader's here the same time as Skywalker?"
"He came back minus a hand," Wedge said, but not as emphatically. The soldier's words had caused him to pause, just for a minute.
It was true of course, there had been soldiers, hell even a couple of pilots, who had been believed captured only to return unexpectedly with wild stories of escape. There had been deaths; General Willard on a transport ship, shot in the head by a young man who had remained with his General cradling his body, distraught that he had just killed a man he admired. There was the hanger blast on the Mon Cal cruiser Valiant; an explosion caused by a pilot, who had been missing in battle the previous week for only a few hours, firing within the hanger itself. He had survived, many had not.
The pilot had killed himself while awaiting court martial after confessing that the Empire had taken him during the fight.
But not Luke, never Luke.
"Not Luke," he said aloud, "Never Luke. He's a Jedi…"
The man nodded, "Yep, a wizard like Vader," he repeated. "If we get back to the fleet, he needs to be contained."
"We all do," Wedge retorted, it had become standard procedure for those who had been in Imperial custody to be confined, medically scanned and psychologically tested. He glimpsed movement at the side of his eye and glanced down the hallway, seeing Luke wheeling his remaining hand in a "come on," gesture.
They joined him at the empty junction; the conversation fresh and leaving Wedge with a heavy sense of disquiet. Would they be aware if they had been turned; if their minds had been implanted with Imperial conditioning? Wedge shuddered.
Luke squinted at him in concern. "Are you okay?"
Wedge grimaced, trust Luke to pick up on something. "Fine," he lied. He wasn't, he hurt like hell, could see that Luke did, too and he didn't want to admit that Dricken's…
Dicken? Ducken?
…words had got him. "Let's just get us out of here."
Luke hesitated, his eye's narrowed, the right eye almost closing entirely as he glanced between Wedge and the tall soldier. Then he seemed to shake himself. "We're nearly out, I think," he told them, "Exterior door at the bottom of that hallway, I don't sense anyone there, we could be free and clear."
"And that doesn't worry you?" Wedge asked, a little too tersely.
"Of course, it does!" Luke retorted. He sore, exhausted, wanted nothing more than to curl on a bunk and give into his pain. He didn't want to consider that this had all been a trick of Vader's; to give hope only to snatch it away. These men depended on him; Wedge depended on him and yet…
… and yet they all knew something was very wrong.
Then he saw Wedge's eye dart to look at his neck.
Luke's hand went to his neck, touched the bruise and pinprick of dried blood where he had been injected. He laughed dryly, incredulously. "You think I'm compromised?"
Wedge was quick to deny it. "No!"
Luke glanced to the other two. They all looked away, guilty and shame faced.
Skywalker cursed, "Shit." After everything he had just done for them. To get them out of their cells, and through the base, to this point and they thought he'd been turned into an Imperial stooge.
Offended, Luke turned away, "We don't have time for this," he said bitterly, and he got up and hobbled around the corner not waiting to see if they followed.
Wedge angrily eyed the soldier, Dricken.
Was it Dricken?
"He's fine. Luke would never betray us. Never."
ooOOoo
They crouched, Wedge sitting, for a few moments at the open doorway blinking in the bright sunlight that streamed in from the open landing field beyond; black smoke billowed in the distance, the smell of smoke, soot and ash hung heavy over the area.
Wedge wiped his palms again, dried the blaster butt with his sleeve, deliberately taking his time to prolong this rest period. Luke needed the break, Wedge needed the break, hell they all needed the break.
None of them were unscathed by their mission to Abarim. All of them had been injured to some degree by the explosion, injuries exacerbated by the manhandling by the Imperials, by the confinement they had endured.
Luke coughed, hacked out phlegm, spat on the ground and sucked in a breath.
Wedge knew Skywalker was suffering. He looked awful, especially in the natural light of the sun; grey, pale lipped. Scarlet puckering of healing burn scars up the side of his head, hair singed off, black bruises, slip lips, swollen cheek under the drooping eyelid. His right hand ended in a stump again, the hand taken by Vader, the replacement prosthetic lost while in custody. The right arm itself now hung, broken and twisted, useless by his side.
Wedge was in some discomfort, but he didn't want to even begin to imagine the pain that Luke was going through at that moment. He didn't want to think about the amount of effort it was taking for Luke to remain on his feet and guilt for their last few words lay heavy within him.
He leaned into his friend. "I'm sorry."
Luke's lips quirked into a tiny smile. "For what?" He knew of course.
"You know," Wedge told him.
"I know," Luke said, and Wedge knew that was the end of it.
He grinned, relieved. "So, what's the plan."
A coughed laugh. "You think I've had a plan?"
Antilles shook his head, "Never, but I was kinda hoping this once."
They both looked out, needy, greedily, at the cargo carrier that sat in the middle of the field.
They all felt it. They all knew now. This was some sort of cruel trick of Darth Vader's; an easy escape, an empty base, and a convenient ship just waiting on them.
Are you letting me go, father? Luke sent into the Force.
There was no reply, no sense of his father, of his adversary.
Remember Bespin.
Remember he came out of nowhere. No presence, no sound. Just his lightsaber slicing down.
Coming to a decision Luke stood, stumbled and was caught by Wedge.
"What are you doing, Luke?"
"Putting an end to this," Luke told him hoarsely, looking out at the ship, his face pale and grave; resolve set. Wedge could feel Luke's body trembling with pain, with the effort to stay on his feet. "Whatever game he's playing, it needs to end."
And Wedge understood at that moment that Luke didn't expect any of them to survive this, but he was still going to do his damnedest to try and save them all.
Luke nodded at Wedge, feeling his friend's understanding. He glanced at the other soldiers, took in their faces, saw the bruises and injuries that they carried from the blast, from ill treatment. He was watched with a mixture of awe and suspicion.
"Okay," he breathed, and he paused, feeling Wedge's hand on elbow, steadying him. He closed his eyes, gathered in the Force, sent it around his body to sustain him for what he was about to do.
I am one with the Force, and the Force is with me.
He had to hold it, had to trust in the Force. Had to believe.
"That is why you fail."
Not this time.
Turning away and raising his left hand in surrender, he stepped out from the shelter of the doorway and into the deserted landing field.
He limped slowly across the smooth, well-worn, dirt of the field and looked up at the surrounding durasteel walls, at the unmanned gun emplacements; then down at the piles of packing crates and boxes, looking for movement, searching in the Force for some indication of nearby life.
The Force was quiet.
He sensed no danger and yet…
He stopped, stood; stooped over in pain and effort, right arm held close, left still raised.
He heaved in a breath, feeling the burn in his chest, and shouted. "I'm here!"
He heard a muted curse from one of the Rebels behind him.
Then…
A breath, mechanical, and a black shape stepped out from the cargo vessels loading door and onto the dirt before Luke. He was followed by a squad of Stormtroopers.
The Force shimmered as the veil was removed and bootsteps pounded and armour rattled as the walls filled with troopers, blasters raised; all pointed at him.
Luke huffed out a breath, swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing.
"So you are," Vader observed, his voice sounded humoured.
"Let them go," Luke demanded.
Behind him Wedge frowned; it wasn't "let us go," it was "them," and why would Vader listen to Luke in the first place?
"They are Rebels, traitors," The Dark Lord responded, angrily, "they do not deserve their freedom."
Luke shuffled his feet, changed his stance, bearing his pain. "Then why?" he asked, "why allow us out, why underman the base, reduce patrols, and leave this ship here?"
"To test your abilities," Vader responded, "and your weaknesses," it was a hiss. "It seems your loyalty to your friends is still your greatest failing. I intend on removing that loyalty," Vader paused, his mask lifting as he looked to the doorway where Wedge and the other's huddled, and he finished pointedly, emphatically, "my son!"
Luke's stomach dropped in horror at the revelation of their relationship, at the insinuation that his friends, that Wedge, would be removed, would be killed after all of this.
He ignored the gasps of shock from behind, pained that he heard Wedge's voice among them.
"Bring them!"
"No!" Luke was desperate. He watched helplessly as more stormtroopers appeared behind the remains of the squad and each was grabbed and dragged out of the doorway and manhandled across the landing field where they were dropped to the ground, forced to kneel before Vader and Luke. "Father, please!"
"Father," a voice said quietly in disbelief and resignation. Wedge's voice.
Luke stepped forward on unsteady legs, almost fell and Vader's hand fell possessively on his shoulder.
"Wedge, please. This isn't what you think, I…" he tried to shrug off the Dark Lord's hand, but the gloved fingers curled tightly around his upper arm.
Glancing up at him, Antilles, smiled a self-deprecating, smile. "All this time," Wedge's voice broke, "all this time. I trusted you. I believed you! I stood up for you! Defended you! And you lied!
"all this time…" Wedge trailed off.
"Wedge, no…" He pulled against Vader to no avail.
"Execute them," Vader commanded, dragging Luke back.
Guns raised, pointed at the back of heads – an eerie replay of their initial capture.
"NO!"
There was a blast in the Force, Vader staggered, troopers were propelled backward and tumbled across the landing zone, the kneeling rebels were driven onto their backs and Wedge's head struck the impacted dirt. He saw sky, bright light and then nothing at all.
Vader caught Luke as the boy collapsed, having used the last of his strength in a futile display of power. He had only delayed the inevitable for his friends, but he had shown his strength with that last burst of rage, the intensity that lay below the surface; the Dark Side stirred within his son, anger and hatred roiled in his heart and Vader knew then that Luke's fall was inevitable, just as his own had been.
Lifting Luke into his arms, Vader addressed nearest trooper as he was picking himself up from the ground. "Finish this."
"Yes, mi'Lord!" He turned and gestured to the troopers and, as Vader strode away carrying the weight of his son, two sharp shots echoed off the walls.
ooOOoo
It hurt waking up.
It hurt a lot.
Limbs hurt, back hurt, head hurt and…
He rolled, vomited, tasted dirt in his dry gags.
Dirt…
Reluctantly opening his eyes, blinking away grit, he found himself staring straight into the dead eyes of the ground soldier…
Dricken. It was Dricken!
…who had been so disparaging of Luke.
Luke!
Wedge pushed himself up, fought against the wave of nausea that churned his belly, and took in the area around him.
He was still on the landing field. The sun was low, the sky darkening, the black smoke from the fires they had set almost invisible in the night sky, and he was alone. Alone except for the two dead squad members. His hand went to his body, checking for a blaster wound, but there was none, just a lump on the back of his head.
He'd been allowed to live.
Luke.
Fighting against his pain, against his injuries sustained during this failed mission, Wedge struggled to his knees and paused as he caught his breath.
Luke.
Could it be true? Was Luke…
"My son!"
"Father, please…"
Gritting his teeth Wedge forced himself to his feet, he staggered, almost fell, but he caught himself, steadied and stood.
The ship was still there.
The cargo vessel.
They had all left. Left him alive, with a ship.
Why?
Luke.
And Wedge suddenly understood Vader's motives.
He had been spared to return to the Alliance.
All of this; their capture, their torture, their mock escape and the deaths had all been orchestrated by Vader to retrieve his son and he was to take their relationship back to the Alliance, severing all allegiances and loyalties that Luke held within the Rebellion by doing so. There would be no going back into the Alliance ranks for Luke Skywalker.
"Wedge, please. This isn't what you think…"
"Shit, Luke," he breathed to the cooling evening air, recalling the wide-eyed desperation on his friend's face when he had pleaded with Wedge.
"This isn't what you think!"
"Are you one of us? Were you ever one of us?"
His hand went to his throbbing head, gently palming the lump. This was too much to think about, too much to consider. It was confusing, disorientating. Luke had been his friend, and not once had he ever questioned his friend's motives; not when Luke had returned from Bespin. Not even when he saw what Luke could do with the Force, the power he had gained in the months after Hoth, and not when he had heard that Luke had gone up against Vader…
His father!
… and not when others had begun to question what Luke had become; was becoming.
But you did…
"A wizard, like Vader."
Wedge spat dirt from his mouth.
He had no choice, it didn't matter if he had reservations, he had no choice; he would make his report to the Alliance even if it meant that Luke Skywalker was disavowed.
Turning on his heels, Wedge hobbled to the waiting ship.
ooOOoo
tbc