Note: This part rated M only for psychological torture and angst
In the refuge of his personal quarters, Darth Vader pressed the switch to raise the blast screen and reveal the infinite starscape to his gaze. Much of his last twenty years had been spent in space and, truth be told, as beautiful as it was, he was tired of it. He longed to feel land beneath his bare feet: the soft grasses of Naboo or even the hot sands of Tatooine. Any organic surface would be preferable to the unyielding durasteel, any quiet sounds of passage better than the constant clacking of boots. He wondered if Luke missed his home.
But no, the boy was young and still eager for adventures. He had probably been bored on Tatooine, particularly on that remote moisture farm. Yet the hard life had done Luke no harm; indeed, Vader reflected, the boy's strength of will made him proud. Many men lost their senses when subjected to the intensity of mental torture, yet his son had not only weathered it but had apparently been strengthened by the adversity.
Torture. The thought of it applied to his son made him wince. Often he had enjoyed inflicting pain on others...but this was different. It was not merely that he had to erect blocks in his own mind to prevent Luke's pain from reaching him. No, it was something more. A feeling less than possession, more than indifference. Luke was his boy...his and Padme's. With such a heritage, it was expected that Luke would be both strong and stubborn. It was an added bonus to find him so brilliantly intuitive.
But enough musing. He turned his back on the endless vista of black and studied the silent physician/interrogator. "The scout ships have reported back. The Rebel fleet is not massing at Sullust. Skywalker lied to you. I told you it would not be so easy to subvert his will."
"Perhaps he was not lying, My Lord." Quester showed no sign of being intimidated. "His sense of time has been affected. It could very well be that the Rebels will indeed be at Sullust-- in the future."
It was irritating that he had not thought of such an obvious explanation. The trauma of his son's treatment was distracting...or perhaps it was simply Luke's presence, reflecting so brightly in the Force, that ruffled his equanimity. "He is still strongly sided with the Rebels."
"Yes, My Lord." The physician was silent for a moment before venturing cautiously, "It is possible that he would respond to a more physically demanding regimen of interrogation."
Torture. Ignoring his uncharacteristic queasiness, he made a scornful noise. "A Jedi does not have the physical limitations of an ordinary mortal. It would be difficult, if not impossible, to expect results from physical torture alone. It is his mind that is most vulnerable. Whatever method you choose," he shook his finger at Quester, "I do not want him permanently damaged. He must see the error of his path. I want him eager to join me and serve the Empire."
"You could just ask him."
Aghast at the other's imprudence, Vader curled his fingers into a fist. "I warn you, Doctor, do not mock me, or you will learn the true meaning of torture."
"I did not mean to offend, My Lord. But you did say that the Force would mitigate the effects of physical torture on the--"
"I must go to Coruscant to report to His Majesty and attend to other duties," he interrupted, effectively ending the discussion. "While I am gone, you may apply whatever methods you deem appropriate. But do not disappoint me, Doctor." Once again, he faced the galaxy, ignoring the murmurs of obeisance from his underling. Ah, Luke, the Sith Lord thought wearily, how long will I have to wait for you to join me? I tire of these lesser beings. He needed more than Luke's powerful Force abilities for alliance and companionship; he need the unquestioning loyalty of a son. The same loyalty that Padme had once shown him.
Yes, he reminded himself darkly, and look how badly that ended.
When the guards came for him, Luke followed without any idea of protesting. Confusion still permeated his mind, and his attempts at further meditation had been unsatisfactory. Vader was Anakin Skywalker, his father; he was almost certain of it. But there were so many contradictions, so much that was unclear. And he was so tired. Mind-numbingly, bone-meltingly tired.
The stormtroopers left him in a room so compact, in all directions save one, that it was more like a closet. It was constructed totally of black Durasteel, even the ledge that jutted from one wall. He supposed that was to be his bed, though it was not long enough for him to lie fully extended. Sitting on it, he studied the four walls. The door on one, this bunk running the length of another, a sani-unit offering no privacy on the third wall, and the fourth was simply a flat surface. Tilting his head, he looked up and up, and was finally rewarded with a bank of bright lights that appeared very far away, but dazzling nonetheless.
It was an ugly cell, but in a way it was more acceptable than his quarters. At least here it was obvious he was a prisoner.
The door slid open. A smart, crisp gray uniform filled his vision as Dr. Quester took two short strides into the center of the cell. "Hello, Luke. Are you feeling better?" Two more strides took him to the bunk, where he sat down at Luke's side.
"Was I sick?" Nervously, he picked at the crease in the trouser of his jumpsuit
"You were running a high fever." A hand briefly rested on his forehead. "You're better now. Evidently the medication I gave you, though it cured your malady, caused you to hallucinate quite badly. I apologize that I did not have your medical record and so could not predict the ill effect. I trust you're more rational now?"
He laughed, though he didn't understand why he was amused. "I have no idea. Have I been rational since I've been here?"
Quester ignored his question and removed a small portfolio from his tunic. "I've brought something to show you. It's something I... well, I haven't shown anyone else." He opened the folder and pulled out a thick sheet. "It's my son. Raylan."
A brief spark of his old curiosity ignited. Luke took the sheet and studied the image. It was a blond youth, his eyes dark like his father's, and the resemblance to Quester was unmistakable. Raylan was wearing an Imperial uniform, and his martial appearance was at odds with the wide grin on his face.
"Lord Vader thought that..."
He looked from the image to Quester, thinking that this could almost be a likeness of the physician at a younger age. "Vader?"
The doctor hesitated. "He said that Jedi can get...impressions from images or possessions. I thought maybe you could tell me something about... You see, this is the last image I have of him. It was taken as he was leaving for his first posting. On Ord Mantell. I never saw him again. Do you...can you tell me if he suffered, or if...?"
Aghast, Luke stared at the older man. "I don't know how to do that! I've never tried." Guiltily, he remembered Yoda's admonition. Do or do not... "Just...give me a moment."
Focusing on the image, he tried to clear his mind. But his concentration wandered, reluctant to stay centered on the task he was attempting. Eyes squeezed shut, he refused to give up. Without his conscious direction, his fingers rubbed across the slick sheet. An image sped through his head like a bolt of lightning-- young Raylan joking with a comrade -- and then it was gone.
"What did you see?" Fingers dug into his arm.
"I...just him laughing. Wait, let me try -- let me do it again!" Excited, he tried to put aside his immediate thoughts of ways to use this new, untapped resource inside him. Drawing several deep breaths, he consciously relaxed. Fragments of scenes came to him, disappearing too quickly. Past, present, future... Yoda had said something about that. Releasing all awareness of his surroundings, Luke allowed himself to be swept into an invisible tide. It pulled him to and fro, swinging him like a cradle, and then he saw...
sounds -- could that be laser fire?
looking up from the monitor
a figure, a civilian, but he's aiming a lasergun
he's aiming
he's
Luke started, his hand flying to chest, clutching the fabric, feeling for a ragged hole, the rawness of seared flesh.
Nothing.
"What did you see?"
Dazed, he stared at the other man as he gathered his thoughts. "Your son didn't suffer," he said, his voice shaking. "He didn't have time. It happened so fast. He didn't even have time to be afraid."
"Praise be," Quester whispered fervently. Closing his eyes, he leaned back against the hard wall. Luke watched, waiting until the dark eyes opened again, unsurprised to see the remnants of wetness in them. "Thank you."
He nodded, then asked hesitantly, "Doctor, will you tell me why I'm here, in this room?"
The officer stood. "For this very purpose. The lack of distractions will improve your ability to concentrate. I will not leave Raylan's image with you, for it is the only one I have, but here is another. This is his friend Conor. I suggest you practice this new skill, and perhaps you will win Lord Vader's approval."
The suggestion that he would want Vader's approval was so outrageous and insulting that Luke couldn't find words to respond. Quester departed quickly, leaving him alone in the strange and uncomfortable cell. Curious, he picked up the image that had been left. Another young man, his age, this one with dark hair and skin and cat-like eyes. Deciding it was the best use of his time under the circumstances, Luke focused and found it easier this time to catch glimpses of this one's life. The scenes were like passing shadows across his mind: a home, plant-rich surroundings, a girl with a sweet smile, a mother who hugged him, a father who clapped his back, an Imperial uniform -- unexpectedly, Luke felt Conor's pride. Then he was no longer simply seeing...he was feeling.
He was so proud to be accepted into the Imperial Navy. True, he was only a stormtrooper, but he would rise through the ranks. Someday he would be a captain and have a planetside posting, then he could marry Cherlene, and have the children that they both... But enough dreaming about the future, he had to check out this sorry excuse for a ship that they had tractored in. It appeared abandoned, but Vader said to check it thoroughly, and what Vader said, everyone did. It appeared empty, all right, but what was that noise? He whirled, and had a brief glimpse of a blond kid before something large and heavy came at his head and --
Luke jerked away, the image slipping from his numb fingers. The Death Star. The trooper he had clobbered to steal his armor. You bastard, he snarled, wishing that Quester could hear him. You filthy, rotten--
He tore the image into pieces, shredding them as small as possible. But the memories of Conor were inside him like a poison, infecting him with a guilt he shouldn't have to feel. He hadn't meant to kill the youth, only knock him out. "It was war!" he screamed to the walls, knowing that somewhere Quester was watching. "Do you hear me? It was war!"
There was a movement above him, and he leaped to his feet, backing into a corner. You'll be safe in a corner. But it wasn't an attack. A single sheet drifted down, caught in the breeze of the air circulator. It landed near his feet. He bent to pick it up. It was another image, another man, an older one this time. "No," he murmured, but though he had easily learned to see, he did not know how to stop the seeing. Or how to stop the feeling. And this time the feeling was more intimate.
"Prepare to fire."
Yeah, blast these damn Rebels to hell, then maybe I can head home. This is supposed to be my last tour, but there's talk of extending everyone's duty, all because of these damn Rebels. Hells, they've kept me away from my kids long enough.
"Five."
I hope they haven't forgotten what I look like.
"Four."
Bettany was so little when I left.
"Three."
She might not remember me.
"Two."
But she'll get used to me. We'll get acquainted all over ag--
"One."
What in hell is that?
What? What!
A flash of bright light, and the vision was gone.
The Death Star.
That was Luke Skywalker blowing up the Death Star.
Angrily, he threw the image aside, shuddering as another one fell from the distant ceiling.
And another.
And another and another, until it was snowing images.
He ducked, scurrying around the room, trying to avoid touching them, but they were everywhere. Men, voices, surprise turning to horror, to terror...to death. Death after death. Death Star, aptly named. Fighter pilots, their ships exploding; Hoth troopers screaming as their Walkers toppled.
Help me
Mom?
Dad?
I love you
Who the hell is that
Watch it watch it
Noooooo
Oh shit
Rebel bastard, hold still and --
Unexpectedly, sunshine, flowers, green grass, blue water.
Remember the day I asked you? The picnic. We both knew I was conscripted and would soon have to leave, but it was so beautiful, I'll remember that day forever...I know I'm dying...but I'll remember that day forever...
Luke opened his eyes. He was standing in paper images up to his calves, and they were still falling, fluttering from above like a million angels of death. They whispered to him...see me, be me...live my life, live my death...
See me
be me
see me
be me
see me die
be me die
be me
He crawled onto the bench, standing on it, trying to escape. But they brushed his arms, his head, landed on his shoulders. Boys barely old enough to enlist, running away from home; older men, career soldiers, duty above all else, destroy the Rebel terrorists, they bring death, they only want to kill...
He sank down, arms clasped around his knees, rocking slightly, wanting to hide.
But there was nowhere to hide, and he couldn't tell if these were his thoughts he was trying to hide from...or theirs.
Hide, hide, to be safe, we must hide...
The million voices in his head drowned all hope of finding his own.