All previous disclaimers apply….

Dark Times: Chapter One

Network

Part Nine

It was raining, the droplets coming down in sheets of water, bouncing several centimetres off the ground, off the landspeeders and the beings who ran for cover at the down pour. Artoo Detoo huddled into a corner by a cantina along with two other droids who were waiting for their owners to emerge. It wasn't that the rain bothered him, he just didn't want to appear too conspicuous trundling along by himself when others took shelter. Besides, he also had to conserve his energy levels, find out where he could top up on his power, before heading off towards the prison again. He turned his dome, whistled out a question to the astromech droid beside him, and a musical conversation was struck up.

They were moving him again. He had lost count of the times they had done this. As always, after another soaking the door to the tiny cell had opened and he was hauled out by the legs. He had stopped struggling a while ago, had come to realise that resistance only weakened him further, aggravated his injuries and made him more susceptible to despondency. He let them move him now, let them manhandle him without a fight and in doing so protected his strength. They carried him along the corridor, neared the door he had heard the screaming coming from during previous cell moves. It opened again, and this time he was carried through and down.

Trepidation shivered along his spine, and he stiffened with reluctance as he understood where they were taking him. His guards' grasps tightened on his arms as they responded to his reaction. He wanted to shout out, wanted to struggle and fight, wanted to be able to turn and run. But he swallowed his fright and went along with them. It would do him no good to give in to his feelings now. His eyes darted around the large room taking in its panelled black walls, the one straight-backed metal chair placed in the centre and the man sitting in it.

Luke was taken around the Imperial and stood before him with the guards still flanking either side. He felt himself sway, shifted his feet trying to find balance, not wanting to fall, not wanting to show any sign of weakness than was already physically apparent. He avoided looking directly at the man, but he saw the dark uniform, the polished boots and the clear bottle of water the man held. He fixed his eye on the floor under the chair and waited in silence.

Rhovan let the silence continue, let the tension thicken for the Rebel as he studied him. He was small, slightly hunched in his stance favouring his back and ribs. His hair and clothes were still wet from his many showers and he was trembling badly, shuddering with cold, with shock and fright. His face was bruised, left eye and cheek swollen. He hadn't slept for over thirty hours, he'd been disoriented by all the moves, kept cold, damp and uncomfortable. He'd had nothing to eat or drink and was clearly exhausted and still in pain from his injuries.

The Major leaned forward. "Hello, Luke."

Luke started at use of his name, almost met the man's gaze, horrified that they knew him. What did this mean? Did this mean Vader was coming? How had they identified him? He closed his eyes, trying to think, fighting to keep calm.

Then he remembered Taln's annoyance when he had tried to introduce himself to them; to Taln and the Doc. Hadn't the Doc been captured? That was it! They'd got it from the Doc, the same as they had got his hiding place.

Rhovan had watched the reaction and seen the shock at the mention of his name. He watched as the boy battled with himself, and then as he relaxed as he worked out where his name had come from. The initial response was interesting.

"Or should I call you 'Lieutenant-Commander'?"

Now that had come from his flight suit.

"Remove his binders," Rhovan told his men.

It was a relief to be rid of the metal restraints from both his wrists and ankles. He brought his arms forward, wincing as the movement aggravated his blaster burn on his shoulder. Gingerly, he rubbed at his bruised and blood scabbed wrists with his hands. A guard leaned forward and stopped him, forced his hands down by his side. Luke complied.

"I have some water for you."

The major held the bottle out to him. Luke didn't move, didn't look at the bottle. He swallowed dryly.

"It's clean, fresh. Not full of cleansers like the cell showers. You haven't had a drink for a while, Luke." Rhovan's voice was soft, cajoling.

Luke kept his eyes on the floor, thoughts loose and disorganised. His headache pounded. There would be a catch for the water. If he took it they would want something in return.

Rhovan opened the container and took a drink. "See? Tastes good. Would you like some?" He held the bottle out to Luke once more.

Luke couldn't help but lick his parched lips. He tried to swallow again, gagging a little.

"I'm offering you water, Luke." There was a tinge of warning in his voice now, a little concern too. "You'll need it. Surely your Rebel instructors told you to take whatever was on offer when you were trained on how to resist interrogation?"

He was right, they had. Take water, take food, take rest where you can find it.

Luke reached out and took the bottle. He drank quickly, upending the container, spilling some over the sides of his mouth in his urgency to relieve his thirst. A guard stepped forward and snatched the bottle away before it was emptied, handing it back to the Major who placed it on the floor next to the leg of his chair. Luke's hands were pushed back to his side.

Rhovan regarded him briefly. These early exchanges were tests, an opportunity for him to assess the boy, to consider how the interrogation was going to go. It was also the time where he demonstrated his control to the prisoner, let him know exactly who was calling the shots and what would happen should his demands not be complied with. "Take the shirt off."

A coldness sank through Luke, his stomach knotted tightly. He didn't want to do this. Didn't want to expose himself to these people, didn't want to leave himself open and naked. He remained still and did nothing.

"Take the shirt off," Rhovan repeated, watching the Rebel's reaction, unsurprised by the passive resistance. There were not many beings that would willingly strip for their captors. "Luke, listen," he explained firmly, leaving no room for debate on the matter. "The shirt's damp and must be uncomfortable. And it isn't even yours. Take it off, or my guards will do it for you."

Luke heard the threat and knew that he couldn't afford to be subjected to further hurt. He knew that he could disobey only so far before he angered them. Sense dictated that he did as they said, even if he hated it. Hesitantly he raised his hands and with trembling fingers he undid the shirt fastenings and drew it off. The fabric stuck on his blaster burn and he experienced a fleeting moment of dread before it peeled away taking with it some of the crusting scab. He stifled a cry, took a stumbling step forward to stabilise himself and was drawn back by the guards. Warm blood trickled down his shoulder blade.

Rhovan watched with dispassionate interest as the Rebel righted himself and drew in a few steadying breaths. The boy blinked rapidly and the Major was unsure if he was fighting to keep his consciousness or fighting back tears.

"Now hand it to me."

Luke dropped it onto the floor.

The interrogator's mouth turned down with anger. He was uncertain if the disobedience had been deliberate or if it was due to the boy's physical condition, but he had to assert his control over the youth. He stood, a full head higher than his prisoner, and bent down trying to catch Luke's eye. "Pick it up," he ordered.

Luke wasn't exactly sure why he had dropped the shirt. There had been a brief burst of twisted anger and he'd suddenly wanted to show them he still had a mind of his own. It had been a moment of madness, and although he was going to regret it very soon, he didn't regret it now.

"Pick it up."

I can't bend down! Luke wanted to scream at him.

They were asking him to do something he couldn't. They were setting him up, knowing he couldn't comply even if he wanted to and among his fear the anger returned, a quiet fury began to simmer. He was grabbed by the nape of his neck, and the interrogator stepped back as the guard behind him pushed him down. Pain wrenched through his back and his chest, and he yelled aloud as he was forced to his knees. His hand was taken and the shirt pressed into his palm. Knowing he had no choice, Luke closed his fingers around the fabric and they hauled him back up.

His legs folded again, the room spun hazily and he was scared that he was going to vomit. They held him up, kicked his legs back under him and he struggled to keep his balance against the pain.

"Now, hand it to me," Rhovan instructed again.

Luke held his arm out towards the officer, aware that he was shaking, shivering and hating himself for being unable to control the tremors.

Rhovan took the shirt and dropped it on the floor. He turned and sat back down. "Take the pants off."

He was sure the boy's eyes widened. He saw a slight flush colour the paleness of his face, but the quivering hands undid the fastenings and pushed the garment over his hips. The pants dropped to the floor and the Rebel, with some difficulty, stepped out of them.

"Take the brace off him."

Luke stood, shuddering in the black undershorts Isla had found for him, as the guards undid the clasps on the brace and lifted it off him. They tossed it into his pile of clothes. The Imperial rose and walked around him and Luke stiffened waiting for the order to remove his underwear.

Rhovan circled his prisoner, taking in his physical condition, noting the bruising mottling his torso, the clear imprint of a stormtrooper's knee on the back of his thigh, the angry, weeping burn and the effort it was taking the boy just to remain on his feet. Then he sat again while Luke stood.

"You're in a lot of pain," he stated softly.

Relief washed through Luke, relief he wasn't to be fully exposed.

Rhovan smiled at the obvious reaction on the youth's face. He was in a dreadful physical condition and yet he could still be bashful. Still so very young. "Your injuries are serious. You must be in a lot of discomfort," he noted, injecting concern into his voice.

Luke wished he'd just asked his questions, instead of stating the obvious, instead of reminding him of how he felt. Ask them, and get it done with instead of prolonging it, drawing out this appalling anticipation.

Rhovan shifted onto one buttock, fished in his pocket and withdrew a small container. He held it up for Luke to see. "Taken from your pocket on your arrest. Your medication, I believe," he shook the tiny bottle and the pills inside rattled. "These are good, strong. I could allow you to have a couple, ease your pain a little."

He watched Luke, waited for a reaction. He got none. "Tell me about your Resistance contacts. Tell me who gave the Rebellion the information about the weapons production."

Luke stared at the floor, stared at the shadow of the chair in which the man sat. He gave no reply.

"Look at me, Luke," Rhovan requested softly, ducking his head down to see Luke's face and saw his eyes flit to the side away from him. He rose from the chair to stand before the youth. He bent down again, his cheek almost against Luke's. "Look at me, Luke," he commanded sternly, injecting tones of anger into his voice.

Still Luke refused to meet his gaze.

"Look at me!" the Interrogator suddenly shouted. He smiled when the Rebel flinched, his eyes meeting Rhovan's in a reflex action. He moved back, holding the younger man's gaze. "Your Resistance contacts, Luke. You had to get the information from somewhere. Tell me, and you can have some pain medication. And perhaps a medic to tend to that blast wound."

Luke turned his head away. Rhovan nodded to one of the guards at Luke's side as he moved back. The guard punched Luke in the lower back. He yelled, fell to the floor and was harshly hauled back up. He had trouble finding his feet. He retched, choked on the pain that flared along his spine. The guards held him upright as he heaved and gasped.

Rhovan turned from him and placed the small bottle of pills on the chair. "Give him some time to think." Then he marched from the room without another word.

The guards carried Luke to the far wall of the room, stopping him a pace away from it. They leaned him forward and spread his arms wide above his head. His hands were placed palm down against the dark, metallic surface. They kicked his legs apart and, when satisfied that he wasn't simply going to keel over, they moved off positioning themselves behind him.

And Luke was left with no illusion as to their expectations; he was to remain in this posture until they said otherwise.

Artoo Detoo came to a stop outside the prison gates and wailed in dismay at the massive, solid construction. He scanned the area, looked for a droid access port, for a panel with which he could activate the gate. But nothing showed up on his sensors. He tooted solemnly, moving off slowly along the high wall, following it as it cut a dark path through the centre of the city.

The Dark Lord of The Sith was aware of the increase in tension among the bridge crew of the Executor as he walked toward the waiting Admiral. He smiled grimly behind his mask. There was a rare sense of gratification to be had when other's so blatantly feared you.

"We are prepared to depart, Lord Vader. All stations report ready."

"Not before time, Admiral Ozzel," Vader noted, frustrated by the length of time it had taken for his ship to be re-supplied. "Set course for the Escaal system."

"Yes, Mi' Lord," Ozzel bowed briefly and turned to his Captain, relaying his own orders.

Vader turned to the view port, and to the stars, watching, feeling the tug shiver through the massive ship as they streaked into hyperspace. It was much like the pull his son had on him, unsettling, yet welcome. Soon, very soon, his son would be his and he wished that Obi-Wan were still alive to witness the failure of his feeble attempts to keep father and son apart.

"How long to Escaal?" he questioned.

"Three days, Mi'Lord at current velocity," Ozzel informed him.

Vader quelled his impatience. Even he could not manipulate hyperspace. "Very well, alert me on approach."

"As you wish, Mi'Lord," Ozzel bowed his head again as Vader turned and strode away, relieved to have the Dark Lord off his bridge.

"My Lord Vader!" a Junior Officer called from his station, and Vader stopped.

"What is it?"

"A communicate from Escaal. They have the Rebel pilot."

"Excellent," Vader acknowledged, aware that the message could be hours, if not days, old given the vastness of space. He opened his mind, searched out his son's presence. Sensing nothing, he deepened his search, gathered the Force around him, and...

Pain. Fear. Despair. Determination. Fury...

Thrilled by the darkness he found there, Vader reached for the feelings, reached out to touch…

"Luke?"

and...

No!

The boy recoiled from him, and was then wrenched from him. The youth's tenuous grip on the Force severed. The contact had confirmed for him that the captured pilot was indeed his son, but his situation was difficult. He addressed the young officer. "Send word they may question him as they see fit, but he is not to be allowed to die." He swept from the bridge exhilarated by the meagre contact.

"Yes, My Lord," the junior office replied to the Dark Lord's retreating back.