All previous disclaimers apply…

Dark Times: Chapter One

Network

Part 7

"Wait!" Luke cried, throwing up a hand. Hating this, hating begging, feeling humiliated and defeated by a man he trusted. "Not like this, not on my knees. Please."

Taln licked his dry lips. This was taking too long, prolonging the Rebel's agony and his own. But he nodded, put out his hands and drew Luke to his feet. The boy swayed, but stood and lifted his chin to stare Taln in the eye. In the torchlight he saw fear there, he saw strength.

"Don't do this, Taln," Luke spoke quietly, almost calmly. "You don't need to do this."

"Luke...don't..." The Resistance fighter lifted the blaster again.

"Don't?" Luke rasped with an abrupt surge of anger. "You're telling me not to...?"

Taln glanced away, focused behind Luke, pulled off a shot and destroyed the seeker that had appeared around the corner. Luke fell back at the shot he had thought was intended for him and he landed hard on his tail bone, crying out at the wave of pain which blasted through his back. Taln gave him no time to recover as he took hold of his shirt and dragged him up. Lights appeared suddenly at the end of the corridor, sweeping over them and a shout went up from the first stormtrooper around the corner.

"You there! Stand where..."

Taln blasted him and didn't wait for another to take his place as he ran, hauling Luke roughly along. They moved wordlessly, Luke struggling to keep going, tripping and falling over legs and feet that stung and pierced with every step. They were only just one turn of a corner in front of the pursing soldiers. They turned again and Luke gave in to his growing desperation as he saw a blank wall, highlighted by a stream of sunlight from above. "It's a dead end!"

Taln heaved Luke up to standing, saw the flush on the boy's face, the hair plastered with sweat, the tears brought by pain. "You need to climb," he told him, indicating upwards.

Luke glanced up, saw metal rungs fastened into the rock wall, saw day light about ten metres above. "I can't," he gasped, exhausted, in pain. He couldn't do this, couldn't do as Taln asked.

"Get your friggin arse up the ladder, now!" Taln shouted, lifting and literally throwing Luke upwards.

Luke caught onto the rungs and started to climb, drawing himself up as quickly as his body would allow, feeling the surge of adrenaline, knowing it and Taln's presence were the only things keeping him going.

The troopers reached the corner and immediately opened fire. Taln drew off a few shots of his own before grabbing the first rung and pulling himself up to climb after Luke. Blaster bolts thudded into the rock under them, next to them. "Move! Move!"

Luke did, closed his eyes and climbed, pulling his strength from the very dregs of his stamina. He ignored the spasms in his back, the stabbing pain from his rib cage, the ache of his ankle. He quelled his fears and focused on one thing; moving hand over hand, grasping rung after rung until he was pushing a metal grid to the side and pulling himself into sunlight, grabbing onto grass and dragging himself out of the hole.

There was more blaster fire from below. A red bolt of light shot out from the opening and there was a scream of fright from nearby. Luke glanced around to see that he had emerged from the ground into parkland, and that there were people nearby enjoying the peace of a sunny, late afternoon. He turned back to the hole as Taln was drawing himself out.

He reached forward, offering Taln his hand. There was a sudden blast of light from below the Resistance fighter and Taln stiffened, grunted, a look of horror and pain crossing his features. Luke reached for him as he was struck again, body jolting from the force of the shot.

"Go!" Taln told him, blood bubbling from his mouth. Then he fell back into the darkness. His body landing below with an audible thud.

"No!" Luke yelled, horrified.

"Hey! Hey you!" a voice called out anxiously. "What are you doing there?"

Luke turned saw a young man looking his way.

"Over here! He's over here!" Another voice cried.

Luke saw the white armour of more troopers running over the rise of a small ornamental bridge. A woman with a child was pointing in his direction. He could hear the clanging of metal from the hole in the ground and knew that the soldiers from below were nearing him. He scrambled up, fell, pushed back up and staggered on, running over dew damp turf towards a monolith which rose, granite grey, from the grass around it. It was a statue of the Emperor, rising up to dominate the surrounding park, arms spread wide in a gesture of dominance. More laser bolts sang through the air around him.

His feet hit the gravel path that lead to the steps around the statute. There was another shot from behind him, the bolt cutting a hole in the folded rock of the Emperor's robes. He could hear the pursuing soldiers, hear their boots crunching through the stones as they closed the distance on him.

"Take him down!"

He was shoved from behind, pushed by a tremendous heat hitting his upper right shoulder. It pitched him forward, twisted him around and he dropped onto the steps of the statue, shouting out from the sudden intense pain of the laser burn. He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting to retain his consciousness, trying to keep his wits about him, opened them to see a shuttle pass overhead through the wispy clouds and across the blue of the sky. Then the shuttle and the sky was blocked from his view by the first stormtrooper to reach him, by the white armour and the black gun pointed at his head.

"Don't move, scum."

He was grabbed by the shirt, dragged off the steps and thrown onto the gravel path at the feet of the troopers' comrades. Ignoring his injuries, his sharp cries of agony, they turned him onto his belly, kicked his legs wide and spread his arms. They searched him roughly, removing the small pill bottle from his pocket.

His arms were brought behind his back and cuffed tightly despite the blaster burn. He struggled and protested as his boots were removed from his feet. They knelt on him, knocking the breath from him, cracking his healing ribs, holding him down as cool metal fetters encircled his ankles. He struggled more, but could not move, felt as though he was suffocating from their weight, from their armoured knees cutting into his muscles, from the barbed chips of stone digging into his face. Suffocating from the sheer horror of his situation.

"You are under arrest on suspicion of treason..."

As the toneless voice spoke, he was hauled back to his feet, whooping in a gasp of air as the pressure was relieved. A shadow passed overhead and he heard the waning throb of a shuttle's engines as it landed. And then he was being dragged towards its opening maw.

He was lost, severely hurt, absolutely terrified and he knew, this time, there would be no Resistance, no Network to save him. His feet trailed on the steep ramp of the shuttle as they carried him up, and Luke could see no way to escape, no way to avoid what was happening. No way out. Caught in absolute hopelessness, overwhelmed by panic, Luke's mind gave him some moments of relief.

He was unconscious even before they dumped him on floor of the passenger compartment.

Artoo plugged himself into the terminal access port, scanning through and picking up the communications relay. He hummed quietly as he searched. Every day he had done this - being careful to use a different access point - and every day he had picked up some interesting pieces of information; computer access codes, names of personnel, numbers of troopers stationed on Escaal, size of the Navy fleet circling the system, the plans for the redevelopment of the weapons production plant. And, every day he had been happily satisfied that his young master was still safe.

He shifted through the general messages, shunted aside daily reports, and shrieked with horror at the verbal announcement he picked up over the com relays.

"We have him."

He drew the black jacket back on, tugged down its hem, straightening the creases from the fabric. He hadn't been home long when the call came requesting that he return to the prison. He'd only had the chance to take the jacket off, mix himself a soft drink, open a packet of cooked meat to rustle up a quick sandwich when his com had chimed in the silence of his apartment. He was told of the chase in the tunnels, how the troopers were close to catching two suspects and that he was being recalled to duty.

Dade placed his cap back on and, knowing it would be a while before he was able to return home should Taln and the Rebel be taken alive, he tossed the meat in the garbage disposal before closing the door behind him.

Ayrn could barely contain his satisfaction and relief as he stood in the prison courtyard waiting for the shuttle to arrive with the prisoner. He rocked impatiently on his heels, his hands clasped behind his back, a smug smile creasing his lips as he searched the evening sky for the craft. He blinked and turned away as the floodlights of the yard suddenly activated in response to the ebbing daylight. The lights threw the sheer black metallic walls of the buildings around him into joyless relief. He turned at the sound of footsteps behind him and his smile became a grin as Major Rhovan and two prison guards approached.

"Come to take possession?" Ayrn asked, buoyantly.

Rhovan smiled at the man's mood as the Shuttle appeared overhead, its wings folding as it began to descend. "Who have we got, do we know?"

The smile faltered a little. "One was killed, one injured. We're not sure which is which. But I'm convinced that at least one of them was the Rebel pilot."

The shuttle touched down, the ramp lowering.

Rhovan nodded ahead, gesturing toward the ship, returning Ayrn's gaze to the still empty ramp. "Well, it's my job to find out, isn't it?" he said grimly.

The first thing Luke was aware of was a minute vibration rattling against his cheekbone from the cool floor upon which he lay. The next was the pain, which seemed to cover his entire frame. His shoulder burned intensely bringing sharp tears to his eyes; his lower back gnawed and grated; his ribs ached; his ankle throbbed; his face felt gritty and sore.

He was tired, so very tired. His body felt dull and heavy, as though he had no energy, no strength to move or protest at the discomfort he was in. He forced his eyes open, saw a pair of white boots a few centimetres from his head and with a terrible clarity he remembered what had happened. He could feel the cruel, solid binders bite into his wrists and the shackles around his ankles, knew the vibration he felt was the thrumming engines of an Imperial shuttle craft and he knew he was in an appalling situation, one that would result in his eventual death.

He lay still, fighting his suffering, compelling himself to remain silent and not give vent to his feelings. He didn't want to draw attention to the fact he was awake, didn't want to give these troopers an excuse to harm him further, knowing he would need to conserve whatever strength he had left. He flicked a dry tongue over his dry lips as the shuttle shuddered gently on touch down and the resonance against his face stilled. The troopers around him began to move. Armoured hands grabbed at him, clenched his upper arms and pulled him up. Pain burst from the blast wound as it ruptured and he yelled aloud, feeling a warm wetness trickle down his back. His legs faltered, but their hands held him.

"On your feet."

A surge of temper swept through him at the order, a wild anger that set his jaw and gave him strength. He drew himself as straight as he could and walked as well as he could, the short length of thin chain between the bangles on his ankles making it more difficult. He limped, hobbled toward the exit, his anger growing at this humiliation, his deliberate degradation. Then he saw the incline of the ramp, the gradient that he had to manoeuvre down and his anger dissolved into abrupt panic. He hesitated; he would never make it down like this, it was too steep, the shackles alone would...

"Move!"

He was shoved and he fell, rolled and skidded to the bottom of the slope. He lay panting: trying to gather himself, trying to quieten his fear, trying to fight the pain, the nausea which pushed at his throat, trying to find his anger again to get him through this. Boots clattered around him and he was heaved upwards, forced forwards and for the first time he saw his welcoming party waiting by an open door. Two officers: one in black, one in grey and two more black garbed guards. He lowered his head, focused on his feet and moved forward with the troopers.

Rhovan watched, gathering first impressions, as the prisoner was brought closer. He was young, small, dirty and dusty. He was limping badly, was obviously seriously injured and in pain. The Major found himself wondering how he was managing to stay conscious let alone be able to walk.

Ayrn chuckled beside him. "Doesn't look like much does he. All that fuss for..." he gestured with disdain at the shuffling youth. "...that."

"Looks can be deceiving, Ayrn," Rhovan warned. He turned to his own personnel. "Take him to..."

Another shuttle glided overhead, lowered into the courtyard beside the first and even before the ramp had fully lowered the large frame of General Mahkren was clearly visible as he limped from his personal craft. Rhovan groaned. This was not a good idea, but he knew that the General would not be dissuaded from confronting the young man who may be responsible for his son's death.

He sighed. He would have to try. His priority at the moment was his prisoner's welfare. He stepped forward.

"General, Sir, this may not be the..."

"Is this him?" Mahkren swept passed him, his tone one of simmering anger and grief. He headed straight for the captive. "Is this the piece of trash that has caused chaos in this city?"

"We're still waiting on that confirmation, Sir," Ayrn supplied, springing to his superior's side. "Another was killed as they tried to escape."

Mahkren grabbed the prisoner's hair, yanked his head up and regarded him with open hatred. The youth struggled a little but Rhovan's guards moved in and held him. The General studied the dirty, bloodied and scratched face for a moment his expression unreadable, then he dropped his hand, wiped his palm clean against his trouser leg. He frowned, his eyes narrowing and he reached out again and touched the torn and filthy, blue shirt the captive wore. He rubbed the fabric between his fingers. "This is my son's shirt," he observed, quietly.

Luke kept his head down, stared away, suddenly understanding that this was the System Commander in whose home he had been hidden, whose home was now a pile of rubble. This was a man he did not wish to anger further.

"My dead son."

Luke knew then, more than at any other time, that he was truly lost. "I'm sorry," he whispered, knowing he should not speak, that it went against the training the Alliance had given him for captive situations, but he could not help but express his sorrow. Sorrow for the deaths that had occurred because of him, sorrow for this father who had lost a son, sorrow that he was in this mess.

"Sorry," Mahkren echoed tonelessly. He dropped his hand and turned away, walked towards the waiting stormtroopers.

Rhovan sighed a breath of relief and motioned for the guards to remove the prisoner.

"Wait," the General ordered and he reached forward, taking a blaster from the nearest trooper.

Rhovan stepped forward, reacting from sudden realisation. "Sir..."

Mahkren held his hand up, silencing his Primary Interrogator. He held the blaster by the muzzle with both hands, then gave an abrupt roar, spun on his heels and smashed the butt of the weapon into the side of the prisoner's head.

Luke had been aware of very little. He knew something was happening, could feel the tension of the moment, the uncertainty. He heard the howl of anger, caught a blur of movement from the corner of his eye. There was an eruption of light, a brief kaleidoscope of raining colours and then he was plunged into darkness.

The boy dropped soundlessly to the ground and Mahkren raised the blaster above his head, but Rhovan caught hold of it before he could bludgeon the prone figure again. "General, Sir," he spoke softly, sympathetically. "We need him alive."

The General wilted and seemed to shrink into his grief. He nodded and relinquished the gun to the Major. Then he turned and walked back toward his waiting shuttle.

Rhovan tossed the gun back to the storm trooper then he knelt by his prisoner. He felt at the neck looking for a pulse and smiled when he found it, throbbing strongly. He turned the boy's head wincing at the bloody gash at the hairline, at the swelling around the eye and cheekbone. This one was going to be very sorry when he woke up and discovered his headache. He picked at the hem of the filthy blue shirt, drew it up and noted the back brace fastened around the lower torso.

"Well that's one less question you need to ask," Ayrn observed, with a smile. "Looks like we have our pilot."

"Looks like," Rhovan agreed. He stood, nodded at his staff. "Take him below and call a medic down. I need him assessed."

"Yes, Sir."

"Ayrn," Rhovan said while watching his men carry the Rebel toward the waiting turbo lift. "Please make sure the General gets..." he broke off. He was about to say 'home', except the General's home no longer existed. He shrugged, looking across to where the shuttle waited. "You know what I mean."

"Off course," Ayrn nodded, then followed Mahkren into the ship, still smiling with his success.

Rhovan waited until both the trooper's shuttle and the General's had lifted off, until the courtyard floodlights dimmed and died, leaving the area deathly black. Then he turned and followed the path his staff had taken to the maximum security cell block below.