AN: Again thank you for your kind feedback folks.

All Previous disclaimers apply…

Dark Times: Chapter One

Network

Part 12

The twin suns were setting on the horizon, Tatoo One and Two sinking slowly, shedding golden red hues over the sandy plains surrounding the remote moisture farm. Luke was sitting at the side of the dome, legs lying flat out before him, back against the warm wall. An early evening breezed tugged at stray strands of his hair and pulled at his tunic. The air around him was tepid and smelled of his aunt's freshly baked paq scones that she had made for the next morning's breakfast. Luke was already planning on swiping one for a snack on his way to his room.

He looked down at the small motor in his hands and reached for the set of tools by his side. He had promised his aunt he would take a look at it for her or else they would need to purchase a new extractor fan for the kitchen. All it had needed was a good clean and a little adjustment and he could place it back before bed.

The breeze began to gust and Luke glanced up briefly at the dying suns, catching sight of the graves set away from the homestead, the markers casting long shadows across the sand. His eyes fell on his grandmother's resting place and he found himself suddenly wondering about her, what she was like, what she would have thought of him.

"She would have been proud of you, Luke."

He started at his aunt's voice. He had been oblivious of her rise from the dome and of her approach. "How did you know what I was thinking?" he asked with a smile, looking up at her.

"Because I know you, and she is the only tangible thing you have near which reminds you of your own family."

"You're my family, Aunt Beru. You and Uncle Owen," he told her firmly, lifting a screwdriver and setting about removing the cover to the motor.

She smiled. "We raised you, yes. Your grandmother married Cliegg Lars and brought your father into the family. But we don't have what you have, we don't have what you need."

He looked at her in puzzlement and as he did so the screwdriver slipped and gashed across his wrist. He hissed in pain, dropped both the tool and the motor. His aunt crouched beside him and took his wrist. Lifting a cloth from her pocket she covered the cut.

He took comfort in her closeness, her soft touch, the rustle of her dress, the smell of fresh baking that the breeze lifted from her. It was a feeling, a sound and a smell he relished from his childhood. "I've missed you," he told her, his words thick with grief. "And Uncle Owen. I don't want to leave again."

"But you have too, Luke." She placed a soft palm against his sore face. The winds were picking up, the suns were almost gone and a pure darkness was crawling across the desert. He shivered, feeling suddenly cold as his aunt spoke again. "You have to go back."

He shook his head, pulled away from her a little, fear seeping into his veins, moving through his body, tingling in his legs. "No, I can't do this anymore...I..."

"You are his weakness, Luke," Beru informed him, kindly. "And you have a strength within you that he craves."

"Who...?" he started, and he followed her gaze, turned his head and saw a dark figure standing by his grandmother's grave. A tall figure, hooded and cloaked against the Tatooine winds.

"I..." he turned back to his aunt, but she was gone. He looked around as the farm faded, as the sand beneath him solidified. He struggled to stand, fell as pain flared from his back, he put his hands out to break his fall and as he hit the metal surface of his cell he saw his wrists bound. Black boots stepped in front of his face...

...and he was hauled to his feet.

His dream vanished as hard reality struck home.The guards linked their arms through his, locked his elbows against his body and carried him from the cell, down the corridor and into the interrogation suite. His heart hammered within his chest, his body and mind assaulted by a storm of emotions and conflicting thoughts.

He had to fight the urge to cry out, to deny what was happening, had to fight the urge to struggle and squirm, to pull away. Vader would be here. That's whom he was about to face. How could he resist now? How could he continue in this state? Where would he find the strength when he had none left?

His feet dragged on the steps as they took him down and he saw the chair with a bag on top of it. He saw the line hanging from the ceiling. He saw the droid and he saw Dade and another Imperial soldier watching him with curiosity.

But there was no Vader.

Confusion shook him as the door closed at his back. He should feel some relief, but he didn't. There was only terror.

Rhovan stepped forward hand falling onto his gun belt, resting on the butt of his side arm. He had wanted to avoid this. He had not wanted to subject Luke to any more sessions until the Dark Lord's arrival. The more Skywalker was questioned, the more he was pressured, the more chance there was that he may recall other details not so easily explained away as trickery used in interrogation. But the General had ordered it, and Ayrn - given the task of finding the Network Commander - had insisted he be present. And Mahkren had granted it.

"Luke," Rhovan started softly, watching tremors shudder through the pilot's bruised body. "I've been ordered to speak with you again. Luke, look at me."

Luke lifted his head, obeying to avoid hurt. Rhovan gestured to his counterpart, "This is Major Ayrn. He was instrumental in the investigation of your whereabouts and overseeing your arrest."

Luke's eyes flitted to the other man. He heaved in a breath. "Con...gratulations," he croaked, hoarsely.

Rhovan bowed his head slightly, shook it slowly and held out a hand, stopping Ayrn from moving in on the boy. "I had hoped you had reconsidered your attitude. I had hoped we could speak on more...civilised terms."

He let his words sink in, holding Luke's gaze. The youth was labouring; his breathing coming in hitches and grunts. "If you are willing to talk with us," Rhovan continued, "you may sit down. If not…" He reached out, touching the cable and it swung in front of Luke's face.

Luke lowered his head.

This was an impossible situation and he was utterly desolate, alone and frantic. He had little reserves left. He was badly hurt, bodily and emotionally battered, and he had nothing on which he could focus; nothing that he could use to keep his mind from shrieking their answers; nothing he could utter to keep from spilling those answers. Nothing, except that he knew nothing more about the Network. Nothing except...

He raised his head, gave a little smile. "Sky…walker, Luke…. Lieu…tenant-Commander. 095...59675."

Rhovan understood what Luke was trying to do. He knew why Luke had now chosen to fall back upon the standard name, rank and number. The boy had nothing else and saw little point in protecting his identity. He needed only to protect his mind and the information it contained.

Ayrn chuckled, "I'm sure Lord Vader will be pleased his journey here has not been in vain."

Rhovan watched Luke's reaction. The Rebel's head jerked up in surprise and he glanced at Rhovan in confusion and horror. Only Rhovan had known who he truly was, and now he had given himself away. His head dropped - not that it mattered now anyway.

The Primary Interrogator lifted the bag and the chair and set them to the side. Then he stepped back. "Hoist him!"

Luke could feel the panic beating from within, felt his breathing and heart rate accelerate. The room seemed to close in, press closer, the guards movements exaggerated, slow, but determined...

I can't do this. I can't...

He fought them, tried to wrench his arms away, but they dropped him, beat him and held him. Hopelessness and helplessness engulfed him as the cable was fastened to his restraints. He was jerked aloft, the movement snapping through his back and propelling pain along his spine to his legs, to his cracked ribs, to his arms, to his head where it slammed into his skull. He cried out, blacked out.

The Executor slipped from hyperspace into the Escaal system and Darth Vader, standing by a view port on the bridge, turned to gaze out at the planet as it came into view. His helmet inclined as he stretched out with his feelings, seeking out the elusive presence of his son...

...He was running, feet pounding on metal deck plating, heart racing, breathing coming in panicked gasps. Behind him the boot steps of the following Stormtroopers clattered. As he neared a corner he turned, pulled off a shot from his blaster and dropped one of the soldiers. He ducked around the corner avoiding the responding gunfire that thudded into the wall at his back, and almost drew to a stop at the sight of closed blast doors before him.

He was trapped!

Thinking furiously, he continued to run, looking for the control panel that would open the doors for him. There was nothing either side, but as he approached the doors began to slide apart. He whooped with joy, barrelled onward as the soldiers behind him reached the corner.

Then he was skidding to a stop, sliding to the floor, landing on his tailbone and pedalling backwards as the doors parted to reveal more troopers and behind them, lightsaber drawn and activated, the black figure of Darth Vader...

"...No!" Luke's eyes flew open, pupils dilating due to the effects of the drug that coursed through his system once more. It had brought him round, wrenching him from one nightmare only to dump him into another. Pain enfolded his body; every torn and battered nerve ending screamed its raw, excruciating message to his thudding brain. He burned and blistered, he throbbed, he hurt, and he knew he couldn't endure this much longer. Beads of sweat gathered and spilled from his brow and he blinked them away as the Interrogator stepped back into his line of vision.

Rhovan gestured at the droid to move back behind the hanging pilot and he regarded Luke closely. It had taken a large dose to bring the boy around and he was growing concerned about his ability to keep him conscious if they had to apply more pressure. "Tell me about Dade?" he asked with a pleasant tone.

Luke struggled to find his voice. His mouth was dry, his throat clogged and raw. He had to concentrate to pull the words from within, to force them past his lips. "Y...you...know him...better...than...I…"

The droid was quick to punish.

Pain oscillated through the Force, ripples of despair and anguish washed against his senses and Vader pulled back from his son's suffering, closed his mind to the thoughts and feelings Luke was unconsciously sending out. He turned to Ozzel, barely hiding his impatience. "Have my shuttle prepared immediately. Inform the System Commander I will be going directly to the prison and have the brig prepare for Skywalker's transfer."

Ozzel bowed his assent. "As you wish, my Lord."

"I...can't..."

Rhovan caught the whisper, heavy with pain and doubt. "Can't what, Luke?" he questioned, aware of Ayrn at his back. The soldier was eager, anxious for answers. "Can't what?"

Luke tried to lift himself on the cuffs, tried to find some relief for his stretched muscles. He could feel the drug crawling through his veins, could feel his senses react to its guileful ministrations, its insidious influence on his body. He was awake and coherent, as they wanted, but he was also exhausted, suffering from dehydration and starvation, and very weary of the pain, of the questions. He lowered his head, stared at the floor, at the blood and sweat that dripped there. He was aware he was moaning, grunting softly as he breathed, but he was helpless to stop it.

"Luke?" Rhovan began, then turned as Ayrn stepped forward, eyes glistening, a thin smile on his lips. "Perhaps," he suggested as Ayrn grinned, "if he is reluctant to tell us of the Resistance he will be more willing to discuss his Rebel Alliance?"

Ayrn chuckled, enjoying the look of consternation that slowly spread over the pilot's features.

"With which squadron do you fly?" Rhovan continued.

No! No, not now...Not yet... his squad... friends...He couldn't.

"Skywa... lker," he force through cracked lips, over a thick and swollen tongue. "Lu… Luke. Lieut..." He didn't get to finish. The droid's charge tore through him. He stiffened and convulsed on the line.

Rhovan waited until the cries dulled to panting, then to the quiet moaning of before. "Luke, this isn't going to stop," he advised him. "Not until you give us some answers. Not until we have something of substance to go on."

Luke lifted his head, glared at Dade. "L…ong.. wait," he gasped, as shivers shuddered through him, as his mind screamed at him in disbelief at his own words.

The Primary Interrogator paused as the droid worked, then spoke again before Ayrn could interject. "It's one or the other, Luke. The Resistance or the Alliance."

"Did you meet Dade?" Ayrn asked eagerly. "Did you have contact with any other operatives?"

Luke closed his eyes, but vague images danced before them in the darkness. Red and white circles and streaks moved against his eyelids; the transient shapes swirling and twisting, intermingling and pulling apart. A wave of dizziness washed through him as he watched them prance. He retched, he gagged: feeling wretched. This was too much, too much. This had to stop. He had to stop, he had to...

...what? What do I do? I have nothing... I have nothing...

...Keep going. He had to keep going... He had...

…nothing to lose. And so much to gain...

to fight..he had...

....nothing left to give. I have nothing left...

a memory. A man with red hair. He had...

...I can't. I can't put another where I am...

…patched him up, bandaged his ankle. He had...

... I won't! I won't...

…allowed him to sleep when he had hurt so much. He had...

...left me there. Left me to be brought here again...

..started asking about the Alliance. He had...

... No! I can't give the squad... I can't...

The agony flared once more as the droid stimulated his wounded back. His body curved and contorted with the charge, and his shoulder - barely healed since his ejection - popped as the ligaments ruptured and the joint separated under the stress placed upon it. He wailed, "Muh... Muh... Medic!"

Ayrn laughed at the cry. "Not so cocky now, is he?"

Rhovan ignored him and spoke to Luke. "There will be no more medics, Luke. No more medical attention until you give us some information we can use. The Alliance or the Resistance..."

Alarm trembled through Luke as he realised Dade had misunderstood him, had thought he was calling for a medic. He opened his eyes, shook his head, appealing to the Interrogator and he dragged in a breath, not wanting to be hurt again. "No... no... in... in... troop..." his voice caught, was trapped in a throat and mouth too dry and raw for use.

And it dawned coldly on Rhovan what Luke was trying to tell them, what he was trying to explain. He remembered chewing out the medic in the troop carrier, after Taln had left with the Rebel, for taking his helmet off and, regrettably, he couldn't allow Luke to say more. He couldn't lose another operative. He couldn't risk the medic landing in his cells. He waved the droid in before Luke could find the strength for more words, and turned away as he cried out again.

Luke was struggling badly. Darkness danced elusively at the edge of his consciousness and he so wanted to reach out and grasp it and hold it to him. He wanted to wrap himself in oblivion, but the drug held him back, allowed relief to linger, to taunt him with its alluring quiet, while he suffered the anguish of torture.

"Red... red.. hair," he whispered with sorrow and remorse, eyes closed again.

"What?" Ayrn stepped forward past Rhovan. "What did you say?"

"M... medic... red hair..." The voice was low, ragged with pain.

Rhovan gestured at the droid to move in again.

"No. Wait," Ayrn barked quickly, waving the droid back. "We may have something here, Rhovan. Give him some water and let him speak."

Rhoven knew Ayrn was right. In any other circumstances he would be doing exactly what Ayrn was - giving the prisoner a chance to speak.

This was what he had feared would happen. This was another of his Network Operatives about to be exposed. But, he couldn't raise suspicion by acting against the norm, either. He lifted the bag from the chair, took out a fresh water canister and opened it. Crossing to Luke, he lifted the boy's chin and placed the water against his bleeding mouth.

Luke felt the coolness on his lips and opened his eyes. He knew he needed the liquid. His thirst was incessant, his mouth and throat parched. But he didn't want it from this man. He turned his head away.

Rhovan tightened his hand on Luke's chin, forced him back round. "Take it from me, or you'll take it from my guards," he threatened.

Luke opened his mouth, allowing the water to flow in over his tongue. It was cool and sweet again and he swallowed rapidly, taking as much of the water and its nourishment additive as he could. It dribbled down his chin, over the Dade's hand and dripped onto the floor. Then, too soon, it was taken away.

As Rhovan stepped back and placed the bottle onto the chair, Ayrn moved in. "The medic had red hair?" he quickly questioned.

Luke nodded loosely.

Ayrn licked his lips. The doctor they had questioned did not have red hair. This was something entirely different. "And where did you see this medic?" he inquired further.

Before Luke could muster an answer, one of the guards spoke. "Sir? Excuse me, Sir."

"What?" Ayrn snapped, impatiently.

"He's describing the medic who was called down to him earlier, Sir."

"What!" The Major almost screeched the word as he repeated it.

Rhovan came forward and placed a hand on Ayrn's shoulder. He smiled, hoping his counterpart couldn't see his relief. The guard had unwittingly given the Network a reprieve and, silently, he thanked the medical staffs' duty roster that had placed his operative in Luke's cell. Now he could, so very easily, turn the tables on the boy and discredit him. "What the guard means, Ayrn, is that Luke is still playing with us, telling us what we want to hear. Either that, or he is becoming more desperate as his resolve fails him."

"No!" Luke denied, horror and fury coiling together within, seeing what Dade was trying to do. He forced the words out, drawing on his anger to give him the strength he needed. "You... know what.. you're doing... .You... re using me... Twisting ev... every… thing for your... .Network!"

He gasped for air, and then rasped, "Dade."

Rhovan turned on his heel, closed his fist and backhanded his prisoner across the face. Luke's head whipped back, blood spraying from his mouth as his teeth were driven through the soft flesh of his cheek. His body swung back, but the guards caught him, righted him, grasped his hair and pulled his head up.

"And you," Rhovan spat, angrily. "Don't pay attention!" He leaned in, until his mouth was next to Luke's ear and he whispered, kindly. "Stop this, Luke. Stop fighting me. Give me something I can work with and I'll let you down. You can rest."

He stepped back, turned away once more, smiling at Ayrn's puzzled expression; the man hadn't heard him and was wondering what he had said. "What Squadron do you fly with?" He asked.

Voice barely audible, Luke answered. "Skywalker..."

Sitting by his desk, uniform unfastened and untidy, General Mahkren stared emotionlessly at the wall mounted view screen as it relayed the live link from the detention centre. He had thought he might feel some pleasure from the Rebel pilot's pain, thought he would feel a sense of retribution, of satisfaction that the scum responsible for his son's death was now suffering for his crimes. But he didn't. He didn't feel anything. His son was still dead and the Rebel very much alive.

He turned away, looked out of the office window at the grey rain clouds that had gathered over the city.

At any other time he might have felt a sense of pride that his men had apprehended a celebrity traitor. Skywalker's capture had cost too much in terms of finance and lives; in terms of public feeling about the Empire… Not that this concerned him too much, but it helped when the people were passive and the events of the last few weeks had stirred up the population and created malcontent in many sectors which would have to be dealt with.

Skywalker? Something about that name…

Then there was the concern about how he was now being viewed by Coruscant, and Lord Vader's imminent arrival. In the light of his son's death, though, he had neither pride nor anxiousness. There was only a heavy numbness that dragged at his spirit, that weighted his limbs and he felt as though he was merely operating by instinct, by an automatic response that seemed to get him through the long hours of each day.

Another prolonged howl from the interrogation suite drew his attention back to the screen, and he reached for the console on his desk to turn it off. As he did so the picture was interrupted and he found himself looking at a very young lieutenant.

"Uh, General, sir?"

"What is it?" Mahkren asked wearily, wondering what banal information he was about to be given.

"Ah, Lord Vader's ship has entered orbit..."

Not as mediocre as he had expected. He sighed, pulled his jacket closed. "Then alert me when he is on his way, and prepare a welcoming party."

"Sir…He's already on his way... to… to the prison."

A stir of anger broke through Mahkren's apathy. So, the Dark Lord of the Sith would rather forgo Imperial Procedures and be greeted by Rebel scum than one of His Majesty's Generals? "Inform Lord Vader I will greet him there and have my driver bring my speeder round."

"Yes, Sir!"

Mahkren stood and tided his uniform, pulling his jacket sharply into place. He swept a hand through his hair and reached for his cap, which sat upon the desk. He did not often don it, but one had to maintain appearances for the Emperor's Dark Lord enforcer.

Vader had to quell his mounting impatience. He compelled himself to sit silently behind his nervous pilot and allow the man to perform his duty without interruption, but he was so close, so near… The depths of the Force drew around him and he relaxed into it, focused on one thought, one individual. His son! His emotions swelled with anticipation and satisfaction, with a sense of vengeance and retribution, with anger and pride. He had found his son and was about to take possession of the child who had been stolen away by a man he had regarded as a friend and mentor...

"You're the closest thing I have to a father."

He was about to take from the Jedi the very thing they had tried so desperately to hide from him. But the child had been corrupted, kept ignorant and innocent and he was a Rebel. Obi-Wan had pitted son against father and, he smiled ruefully, the boy had won.

It would have been a humiliation for the Empire had the Galaxy, as a whole, known about the Death Star. In the end, Alderaan became a natural disaster and all knowledge of a super weapon was skilfully denied. However, it remained a private humiliation for himself - an untrained, undisciplined child had bested him and, had thus, become the focus of his anger and his revenge.

He gathered his feelings and probed outward seeking Luke's presence within the folds of the Force…

...Agony slammed into him, ripping him apart, tearing into his defences leaving him open and naked to their inspection. He reeled from the pain, tried to scrabble back, tried to fight, tried to find one thing on which he could trust to protect him since even his name had failed him now. He couldn't do this, anymore. He couldn't sustain this...

... Home... where is home...

... Hot air, and sunlight. Tan sand, golden dunes and red rocks...

... Tatooine...

... Night was falling, the evening winds picking up, swirling tiny grains of sand around his ankles...

... a woman dressed in simple clothing, calling him...

"Annie?"

He drew back, threw the vision aside, discarded it and stilled the forgotten emotions...

...grief and regret. Love and warmth...

that had abruptly risen within. They had no place here. They had no meaning for him.

"Anakin, you're breaking my heart."

Furiously, he pulled himself erect in the acceleration chair and watched as the shuttle drew him closer to Escaal and to his faltering son. He nurtured his anger, kept it close, and drew his strength from its simplicity.

Soon.