Again my thanks to those who have been kind enough to leave feedback. This chapter is for those who have been wondering when Daddy would appear...

All previous disclaimers apply...

Dark Times: Chapter One

Network

Part 8

He found this place peaceful. It gave him solace, helped him focus his mind, calm his thoughts and feelings which had become unsettled of late, disturbed. He closed his eyes and, if he had been physically able to, he would have drawn in a deep breath and slowly exhaled in an effort to still his heaving emotions, his desire to be elsewhere. Darth Vader's black-gloved fingers curled around the balustrade of the balcony and he opened his eyes to stare out at the city beyond: so peaceful, despite the traffic above and below, so alluring with its lights glimmering in the darkness of night: the city had always helped calm him when he was troubled. Although his vision of it now was so much different due to the ocular imaging of his mask, and his view of the Galaxy, it's worlds and it's people where now only like things and figures enhanced by a macrobinocular.

But the lights still flickered on Coruscant and they still held their attraction as did the darkness surrounding them.

Light from within darkness was an intriguing concept for him. It had become an obsession, a need to know, to understand. Was it possible for light to come from darkness? And did light always succumb to dusk: always relent to nightfall? Or was it the other way around? It was a question that had frustrated him, gnawed at the trailing edge of his mind, ever since...

"He went completely the other way."

The annoyed words from another life rose so abruptly that they shook him. And they appeared to serve no purpose here, no sense of relevance to his previous thoughts. An arbitrary memory thrown up to remind him of his past, a past that, more and more, he felt was catching up on him.

It had been almost two years since Obi-Wan Kenobi had reappeared aboard the Death Star. Reappeared, died, and in doing so revealed a long hidden treasure, one that had been stolen so many years before. One that he had compelled himself to forget, just as he had forced himself to forget who he was, what he had wanted to be. That past belonged to another man, no... to a youth who had wanted too much, desired too much and had ultimately lost everything.

"It would destroy us."

His words, but it had been Padme's warning. And she had been right. The youth's love had destroyed all, and yet it had also created.

The boy's shout of horror and denial at Kenobi's death had come with a swift surge of outrage, rippling outward from within the Force. The power of it had stunned him and it had taken him many hours of solitary contemplation during his journey from Yavin, after the battle, to realise that the shout and surge had come from the same person. The very person whose presence he had felt from the X-Wing that had bobbed and weaved before his gun sights during the battle, and whose life he had been unable to take.

It had not been difficult to trace Kenobi's steps. The freighter on the Death Star had already been reported to Tarkin and himself as coming from Mos Eisley. Tatooine. He had demanded further reports from the troopers assigned there and had learned of the deaths of his stepbrother and his wife; had learned of a boy who had lived there and who had not yet been located. A boy whose name was Skywalker.

The youth on the Death Star, the pilot of the X-Wing, was his own son! The child he had believed he had killed in the womb when he had throttled the life from Padme had somehow survived.

It was so obvious now, so clear, and he wondered why he had never considered the possibility before. His son had been hidden in plain sight. Obi-Wan had used his own arrogance against him and had secreted his child away on a planet which he now considered beneath him, with a family he had chosen to ignore, at place that meant nothing but pain and grief to him. And yet, the boy was clearly untrained. He was strong in the Force, but his talents were barely realised, his potential untapped and unrecognised, easy prey for a skilled hunter.

Or so he had thought.

The boy had eluded him. His presence in the Force had waxed and waned like an ocean wave: there, then gone. He had difficulty grasping onto him, difficulty locating him and then keeping him in focus. It was frustrating and infuriating, as were times like these when the Emperor called him to his side, only to make him wait at His pleasure.

"My Lord Vader?"

Darth Vader turned from the lights of Coruscant and regarded the robed Imperial courtier with impassive loathing.

"The Emperor will see you now."

Pushing all thoughts of his son from his mind lest his master sense them, the Dark Lord strode past the snivelling man, bearing him no further thought and headed purposefully toward the throne room. The double doors swept open before him and he entered the darkened chamber, dipping to his knee at the foot of the royal seat.

"What is thy bidding, my master?" he rumbled the oft spoken question, trying to quell his impatience.

Sidious leaned forward, regarding his servant with hooded eyes. He had been aware of Vader's trailing thoughts, had been aware for a while of the allure that the boy held for him. The child's innocence and light drew Vader to him, his very presence was like a beacon to the Dark Lord. However, the boy meant nothing to Him, the brat was untrained, untested, and did not pose a threat. That he was potentially talented was obvious, but he was certainly not an enemy to be feared despite his outrageous success at Yavin. It was time to bring Vader's focus back to other matters and put his burgeoning obsession with the youth to rest.

He had foreseen it.

"It has come to my attention that there is unrest on Escaal."

"I am aware of the reports, Master," Vader informed him. "The local authorities are handling the situation."

"Are they, indeed?" the Emperor drawled, sitting back. "The weapons development programme destroyed by a Rebel bombing raid, the shipping lanes closed, Imperial troops searching Imperial homes. And now, I hear the System Commander's own son has been killed by a terrorist bomb."

"Unfortunate," Vader noted. He wanted to reach out and touch his master's mind, his feelings, wanted to know why he was being questioned on such a petty incident.

"Most unfortunate, my Lord Vader, that these events have come to My attention. Most unfortunate that these events were not contained within the local system."

He paused, then stated with some emphasis. "And all this chaos caused by one Rebel pilot."

"Yes, Master."

The Emperor hesitated once more before speaking, a thin smile appearing on his lips. "Interesting that one man could cause so much inconvenience," he noted. "Since you have shown an interest of late in captured Rebels, you will go to Escaal, my friend. Route out this pilot, and make an example of him. Draw the local forces into line."

Vader bowed his head lower. "Yes, my master," he complied, rising to his feet and turning to leave, accepting his Emperor's command without verbal questions, but his mind was riddled with them. He was eager to open himself to the Force, to search into its dark folds for the significance of this Rebel, his feelings heaving with a confusing blend of anticipation, disappointment and animosity. This mission was beneath him; he was no longer an errand boy to be sent away on the whim of the Emperor to sort out petty local squabbles and difficulties - that had been the duty of a Jedi, not a Sith lord.

And yet, there was a sense of... something here; an expectation. Could it be possible that this Rebel would lead him to his son? Or - he quickened his pace, the Force thrumming through him with sudden agitation - was it possible that the pilot was his son?

He swept from the Emperor's chamber, passing the lackey by the door. "Have my ship prepared for departure."

Sidious watched as the doors closed behind Vader and he chuckled low in his throat as he sensed his servant's sudden thoughts and feelings. Young Skywalker was callow, undisciplined and weakened by the Jedi's neglect of him. He nothing compared to the powerful youth who had sired him and Vader was going to be sorely displeased by his child's lack of ability, and once he had dispensed with the boy, reeled in any errant fatherly instincts, Vader would indeed be fully his once more.

Murmuring voices, buzzing in his ears sending waves of pain crashing through his skull. Odd words, strange accents. Hands on his arms, sickening movements. Flickers of light with snap shot pictures. A black floor. Blood drips. Black boots. Then darkness again.

Lights in his eyes, bright, lancing. His head throbbed. A hand touching his face, rolling his head sideways. Nausea. Flat coldness beneath him. Arms trapped. More voices, louder. Echoing.

"... consciousness..."

"...burn..."

"...damage..."

A brief sting to his upper arm. Hands on him, fingers digging into his muscles. Movement. Up. Flaring agony. Nothing.

The Primary Interrogator watched as his prisoner was carried through to a holding cell. He turned to the medic who had finished her exam. "How long before he'll be fit for questioning?"

The woman shrugged, looked to her med-pad read out. "He's had a severe blow to the head, Major. His concussion alone may take several weeks to clear properly. His blaster wound isn't immediately life threatening, but it needs bacta treatment. He has compression damage to his spine. It had been healing but the tissue is swollen and his ribs have been cr..."

Rhovan sighed, interrupting her. "How long?"

"When he's able to keep awake," she told him sharply, clearly not liking this part of her job. She shifted her feet on the floor, betraying her discomfort. "I've given him a shot of a strong antibiotic in case the burn becomes infected. Keep an eye on him. At any sign of a high temperature please alert me. You don't want him dying of blood poisoning before you break him, do you?"

"May I remind you, Medic, that I am a superior officer?" Rhovan responded curtly. "And that the prisoner is a Rebel. No matter how you may feel about my duties, my rank demands respect, the boy does not."

She paled visibly. "I... I'm sorry, Sir, I meant no disrespect."

He waved her away. "You may go."

"Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir."

Rhovan watched her go, knowing that should he need a medic in future it would not be her. He turned, catching the eye of the Duty Officer at the computer terminals opposite the elevator shaft. "Observe the Rebel. When he wakes, keep him awake and alert me."

"Yes, Sir," the guard responded, immediately activating the monitors. The picture showed the prisoner lying, bound hand and foot, on the floor of the tiny cell, still clearly unconscious. As the guards who had carried the boy to his cell entered the reception area, Rhovan turned and withdrew to his private office area.

Artoo Detoo detached himself from the computer access port. He had down loaded the schematics of the city, pin pointed where the prison was located, and was now determined to make his way there. He hummed purposefully to himself as he rolled around the corridors of Imperial Headquarters towards the exit.

Dade leaned back into his chair. Closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose in an attempt to fight off his impending headache. Perhaps he should have asked the medic for some painkillers before she left the cellblock. He was tired, grieved at Taln's loss, concerned about the boy now in custody, about the youth's ability to withstand questioning, concerned about how much he knew about the Network, how much Taln had explained to him.

The boy should have been terminated. Taln had disobeyed a direct order and he had died for it, a pointless sacrifice considering where the youth now was. Now the boy would suffer - was suffering - the consequences and he knew that he might have to risk exposing himself to protect the knowledge the Rebel may carry.

If the chance presented itself, he would have to kill the pilot himself.

His head was pounding, thudding heavily with each beat of his heart. He could almost hear the pain as well as feel it, a thrumming pulse rattling his eardrums sending shock waves through his tender brain. He was becoming aware of other feelings: a strangeness about his face, a stickiness, a crust about his eye; an intense throbbing heat about his shoulder, piercing needles in his chest, back and legs. And it was cold, a chill so sharp his feet and hands were numb, his muscles trembling with uncontrollable shudders. Each spasm hurt, sending new convulsions through his body.

Luke opened his eyes. "Ah!"

And shut them. The light was blinding sending a searing agony through his head. His stomach tossed, rolled. A sweet, viscous taste flooded his mouth as nausea rose in his throat. He groaned, fought the feeling, tried to move, realised he was lying on his side, tried to move his arms to push himself up, but they were stuck fast behind his back. He pulled, moved his wrists, realised they were tightly bound. He shifted his legs trying to get some leverage to sit up, but his feet caught, solid fetters biting his ankles. He lay back panting, gasping, fighting the surge of pain which threatened to erupt in his head. His senses reeled. His stomach lurched. His mouth filled and he turned back onto his side and vomited. The force of the retching racking his body further as bile and fluid spattered onto the floor.

He sucked saliva into his mouth and spat, coughed, tried to move away from the vile puddle. Braving the light he opened his eyes again, squinting, and saw black walls, a black floor marked by blood and vomit where he had lain, the ceiling a bank of cold, blazing lights.

Freezing water flooded from above, drenching him. He cried out in sudden fright and confusion, soon finding himself lying in a pool several centimetres deep. There was strange smell, astringent, pungent and his skin tingled, his eyes burned. It got in his mouth and he realised the water was full of a cleaning agent. He spat again as the deluge suddenly stopped, as the water began to leak away into a small drain set into the floor, washing away his blood and sickness.

Soaking wet, with violent tremors shaking his body, he tried to move, tried to keep his wits about him, fought to keep from giving into the pain, tried to get a better view of what this place was. The space in which he lay was tiny: barely a metre wide, less than two metres in length.

But how had he got here? Where was here? He remembered...

What?

Running... He had been running and... and there was pain, like now, but not as bad. There was someone else with him...

Han? No, not Han... There had been a mission, he fell, he...

Stormtroopers! There had been troopers! But not...

Flashes of memories flickered in his mind. A Twi'lek. A simple cot in a sparse room. Taln! He had been running with Taln! He had tried to kill him, and then...

"No." He moaned, shivered, muscles cramping in their attempts to keep his body warm.

He remembered. The tunnels. The flight through them. He remembered climbing into the park; he remembered the statute of the Emperor. The stormtroopers and... a large, heavily bearded man glaring at him, A man who wore the uniform of an Imperial General.

Not everything was clear yet, random fragmented images, jumbled together in his aching head, some things fogged and forgotten. But there was one thing that was very clear, which caused fright to nestle deep within him; he was a prisoner of the Empire and what future he had would be short and bleak. He drew his knees up, attempted to curl into ball to conserve body heat.

A door opened at his head and hands grabbed him, dragged him out into a corridor. He yelled in agony and alarm, tried to fight, to struggle. Two men had him arm locked between them. They held him up, drew him deeper down the walkway. Another door opened and a scream wailed from beyond, startling him. It closed and he was carried on. They stopped, turned him and panic beat from within as his guards took him through a different entrance.

Was this it? Was this where the torture would start?

They dropped him, allowing him to hit the floor with a cry. The door closed after them and he was plunged into darkness. Alone.

Gritting his teeth, fighting a swell of dizziness, he tried to wrestle around, tried to get into a more comfortable sitting position. He managed to sit up, leaned his back against a wall, legs stretched out before him. He inclined his head, attempted to see through the darkness. There was nothing, but this room felt just as small as the last, and there was relief as his previous panic subsided. This was only another holding cell, and not the torture chamber he had expected.

He closed his eyes against the gloom and mentally took stock of his physical condition. His shoulder felt hot, a blistering pain which seared through him with every movement and which beat intensely even when he rested.

He'd been shot, he remembered now, the laser bolt scorching his shoulder. He'd fallen, fallen at the feet of the Emperor. He grimaced at the thought, at the symbolism, but the movement hurt his face, his head. Though he couldn't recall it, he was sure something had hit him, was sure he had a wound that even now trickled warm blood down the side of his swollen cheek. He shifted his buttocks carefully on the floor trying to get more comfortable. His ribs still ached as did his ankles and wrists. The latter, stuck behind his back, felt abraded and raw.

So much for ejecting planet side...

It had only delayed the inevitable. If only he'd ejected in space. They'd have picked him up sooner, but he would have been fitter, better able to withstand their interrogation methods, better able to fight against them. If only he had stayed in his fighter, stayed in it and died as it exploded, then he wouldn't be in this position, in this darkened cubicle waiting for torture, more pain and questions.

He swallowed hard, tried to bring spit into his mouth but he was dry, thirsty. The last time he'd had a drink was when he'd taken his last dose of painkillers, before the run through the tunnels, before Taln had...

He lowered his head at the memory. The Network had wanted him dead. His rescuers had known this was coming, had known capture was inevitable. They had tried to kill him to save their own. But now Taln was dead and he was here, their plans had backfired and he alone was left to pay the consequences. The small consolation was that the Imperials didn't seem to know who he was.

He smiled. If he could get through this without revealing his identity he would have won at least something, stolen from them the opportunity to make an example of the pilot who had destroyed the Death Star. A small victory over the man who had killed his father and his mentor and who had taken a personal interest in him. He remembered the satisfaction he had felt when his identity was revealed, when Leia told him of Vader's attention in the son of Anakin Skywalker, the Jedi hero of the Clone Wars. Satisfaction that the Dark Lord knew that the son of the man he had callously murdered had gained some revenge. This satisfaction had grown as time and again he had dodged Vader's forces, had struck blow after blow against the Empire. Until now.

There was no satisfaction here and he had the feeling he was about to learn a painful lesson in humility. His fear began to rise again, stomach knotting tightly. What would they do? What would they ask? What methods had they planned for him? He was injured, hurting badly. They would make use of that. Cause pain where pain already existed.

He groaned. He couldn't do this. He couldn't go through with this, he had to find another way. There had to be another way.

Didn't there?

Tough shit, Skywalker. You're in this. You're doing this. You don't have any choice

The biting sarcasm of his inner mind drew him up and he pulled himself back from the despair he had been so ready to tumble into. He was allowing them to get to him. He was doing what they wanted. He had to get a grip, control his thoughts, his feelings. He forced himself to relax, heaved in deep, calming breaths trying to control his physical pain, ease his mental anguish. His headache had lessened slightly. The darkness and warmth of this new place had helped to settle the throb. Gingerly, he allowed himself to slide sideways down the wall until he lay once more on his side. He willed sleep to come, knowing that if he could rest and...

A cool breeze fell on him from above and he looked up, shivered as heat lifted from his still damp clothes. Lights suddenly glared, slicing through his eyes, pain exploding in his head. Water cascaded down, an icy blast stinging his already sensitive skin. He coughed, spluttered, cried in bitter frustration and wretchedness. He had been right earlier; this was it. This was where the torture started.

Rhovan, standing behind the seated officer, watched the monitor with interest. "He's scheduled for questioning at oh one hundred hours tomorrow. Move him every hour until then, sooner if he's falling asleep. Make sure he knows which door leads to the interrogation suite."

"Yes, Sir."