AN: I swear on the Force that I wrote this chapter BEFORE the Icelandic volcano sent an Ash cloud our way and closed down the air space of most of Europe!

My thanks again to Kazlynh for her patience and for beta reading. (Check out her fic!!)

All previous disclaimers still apply!

Dark Times: Chapter Five

A Legitimate Target

Part Seven

Luke pulled the panel door shut and rested his forehead against the cool tiles of the shower cubical relieved to be closed off and away from everyone else. His head was thumping, each beat of his heart sending waves of pain through his skull and turning his stomach with nausea. He closed his eyes relishing the peace and quiet, the solitude that the tiny space gave him; it shut him away, even if just for a short while, from the rest of the base.

He had walked with Leia back to his barracks, her arm around his waist, his arm around her shoulder. He couldn't remember anything that she had said to him, could only recall that she had spoken to him, tried to sooth him with soft spoken words of comfort; but all he saw were the looks he got from the personnel they passed in the compound. In the glances sent his way, he saw their grief, their pity and their anger.

Because of you...

At the door of his room Leia's comlink had chimed, he remembered her look of annoyance, her flash of irritation as she answered. All he recalled of her brief conversation was "Mon Mothma," "meeting" and "damage control."

She had glanced at him with guilt, knowing he would have over heard. He didn't want to know what she saw when she looked at him...

...a killer...

...didn't want to acknowledge what had just happened, what she had sent him into.

He had clamped that thought, glanced away from her to hide his guilt and shame. That was a cruel and unfair slur on the Princess who had only tried to do what was best. She had to deal with her own guilt for sending him, for being part of the command structure that had sanctioned the mission in the first place.

"I'm fine, Leia," he had assured her. "I'll have a shower, I'll sleep." In truth he wanted her gone. He wanted to be alone, he wanted...

What? What do I want?

"I want to become a Jedi like my father."

He scoffed, the soft sound breaking the silence of the shower room. Did Jedi kill innocents? Had his father murdered thousands?

You felt them...

He shifted his bare feet, moved his head to press against a fresh tile, wincing at the pain from the mottled bruising on his chest where his harness had caught him during the battle. He twisted the controls with a trembling hand and the water jets hit him on the back, strong and hot; spring water heated by the volcano.

He stood still, allowing the water to cascade over his body, down the back of his neck, easing the muscles that had bunched tight; adding to his headache. He ran his hands through his sweat soaked hair, scrubbed his face, rubbed his eyes and turned, allowing the water to massage his shoulders, to run down his naked back.

It was only when he opened his eyes and reached for the soap that he realised he had forgotten to bring it into the cubicle with him. He smiled, chuckled, began to laugh at the small mishap that had just summed up his entire day. The last joke: he couldn't wash away the dirt, couldn't cleanse himself of the sweat and grime. No tube of soap could purify the stains he needed to remove; nothing had the power to absolve impurities that were not physical.

When the flames arose I felt....

And the laugh caught in his throat. He closed his fists, squeezed his eyes shut against the strength of his pain, his fury. It lay thick within; a bleakness of spirit, an empty grief that twisted into itself, expanded and constricted with each beat of his heart until the agony became too much.

He cried out in rage and punched the tiles of the cubical, relishing the physical pain; it was no less than he deserved.

"Luke?"

The voice caught him, stopped him and his breath caught in his throat. He let it out with a shudder as the hot water scalded his back. He was horrified that someone may have heard his loss of control. His injured hand flexed, blood running and dripping from grazed knuckles.

"Hey, kid?"

There was a tap at the door and it opened a crack. Steam billowed as cool air rushed in.

A hand appeared with his soap. "I think you forgot somethin'."

Luke forced a smiled, took the offered tube. "Thanks, Han." He tried to shut the door, but the hand came through again. This time holding an open bottle of Ebla beer.

"Your cold one," Han's voice told him. "And there's plenty more on the Falcon when you're ready, kid."

ooOOoo

He opened the little blue droid's head and peered into the workings. He smiled, reached in and withdrew the secondary recorder, unclipping it from the wires that fed into the droids optical and audio networks.

He replaced it with a new one and carefully fitted the droid head back on. Like before, the robot would not retain any memories of this time, would believe that he had merely been recharging while deactivated; resting.

He stood, patting the little droid, before he slipped the recorder into his pocket and left the room.

It was time to see what Artoo Detoo had been recording these last few days.

ooOOoo

"You could come with me," Han offered again as Chewbacca moved one of his pieces on the Dejarik board.

Luke, dressed in his fatigues and slouching in the chair next to the engineering station, shook his head. "You know I can't, Han." He absently played with the beer bottle in his bandaged hand, sloshing the bitter liquid within. "I've to see Therriman, remember?" He glanced at the Correllian anticipating the next suggestion. "And, no, I'm not resigning my commission."

The Falcon shuddered, knocking over Han's bottle of beer; its contents spilling over the floor. "Friggin' mountain," he cursed, scrambling after the bottle as Luke laughed.

Solo caught the bottle, cursed as much of the liquid trickled between the deck plates and through the grating. He peered unhappily at the deck.

"Are you gonna get that?" Luke asked him, nodding at the disappearing puddle, as Chewie wailed with displeasure in the background.

"Nah," Han decided, sitting back down and punching in a move on the game to counter Chewie's. "You can get it in the morning, it'll give you something to do with all that spare time Rieekan's given you."

Luke grimaced as he took a drink from his own bottle, unhappy at being reminded. "It'll cost you."

"Nope," Han told him with a grin. "You've been drinking my beer, buddy."

Chewie chuffed, good naturedly, as one of his gaming pieces throttled one of Han's.

"Ah," Solo noted in exasperation. "Chewie, you cheatin' son of a ..."

The Wookiee howled in denial.

Han looked to Luke for back up. "Kid, little help?"

Luke smirked. "Not a chance, you're on your own, Han." He emptied his bottle and reached for another one, opened it and took a long drink.

ooOOoo

Mon Mothma glanced out of the window of her state room as the floor trembled beneath her feet. A light fall of volcanic ash began, dusting the compound beyond. She rubbed the back of her neck and stretched, trying to ease the tension that wound around her like a durasteel coil. The meeting had been a long one, an angry one and, in the long run, a futile one. There was little they could say to a Galaxy outraged by the Cusrean disaster, even if they did suspect that it had all been orchestrated by the Empire itself, and so they had decided to say nothing at all and allow the story to run its course.

She and the Princess Leia had taken holo-conferences from numerous systems that had pledged allegiance after the battle of Yavin. Some they had managed to persuade to continue their support; others they had lost; more still were undecided and she and the other council members still had a lot of work to do to contain the damage that Cusrean had done to their reputation.

Luke Skywalker, who had almost single handily saved the Rebellion two years before, was now responsible for almost pulling it apart with a similar act.

She hissed at her thoughts, at the cruel bite in them; it was she and the rest of the command staff who had sanctioned Skywalker's participation in the attack. If Luke hadn't pulled off the shot another pilot would have and the end result would have been the same. Her thoughts were ungracious and unfair, but unfortunately, they were also true.

Many had identified with the Skywalker name, had looked upon it with awe and celebration: the son of the hero of the Clone Wars; a Jedi Knight. The boy had given hope to those who yearned for it and thousands had flocked to the Rebellion's cause. Unfortunately, as with Anakin Skywalker, the boy was also human and thus flawed. It still remained to be seen if he could live up to the expectations place on him, if he could claw himself out from beneath his father's shadow, or be swallowed by it.

Only she, and now Rhovan, knew what Anakin Skywalker had become; knew how deep and dark that shadow had become.

She sighed, sinking into one of the worn sofas as she waited for Major Rhovan to arrive. She knew that Rhovan was not entirely satisfied by his new duties; knew that he was bored and distracted and would rather be out in the field and in the danger, but she needed him. She needed his ruthlessness and his dedication to duty. Only Rhovan would be single-minded in his pursuit of his objective; or so she had thought.

Her intercom chimed.

"Yes?"

"Mi'lady, Major Rhovan has arrived."

"Send him in."

Rhovan looked strained, exhausted; his appearance mirroring her own. Volcanic ash dusted his hair and shoulders.

Mothma lost no time in getting to the point. "Major, I understand that you did not debrief Skywalker as I had requested."

"No ma'am," he confirmed. He stood just inside the door, not having permission to venture further in or sit. Mothma waved him in and he waited until the door slid closed behind him before explaining, "I did not believe that my presence in the room would be beneficial to Skywalker's state of mind."

She gave no reply, so he continued. "As it was his reaction was... concerning."

She nodded. "Yes, Rieekan informed me. He also informed me that you believe Luke to be dangerous."

Rhovan grimaced: in retrospect his words may have been exaggerated; overshadowed by the stories he had learned of the Jedi on Jabiim, his lack of knowledge about the Force and by his understanding of what Luke had been through… What he had subjected Luke to.

It was also overshadowed by his knowledge that the Jedi padawan who had betrayed Jabiim had become Darth Vader, and Luke's father.

"Therriman diagnosed Post Traumatic Stress Disorder following Escaal," he offered "and the events of Cusrean will likely exacerbate his condition. He has little control, or command, over his power and he is mentally and emotionally unstable. Those factors make him dangerous."

"Dangerous to whom, Major?"

He shrugged. "Most likely to himself."

She considered his words. "Did we make a mistake in sending him on the mission?"

"We have established that Vader is very much aware of Luke and making efforts to capture him alive. That was our objective, was it not, to determine Vader's own intentions toward his son?"

"But our intention was not to destroy the boy in the process, Rhovan," she argued.

"No, ma'am, but that may have to be the end result. You made that very clear when you charged me with this task."

She was silent, contemplating him, contemplating the assignment she had set him and the young man whose fate, whose very life, they held in their hands.

Rhovan shifted his feet, continuing. "Luke's loyalties lie with the Alliance, Mi'lady, there is no doubt about that. The monitoring systems I installed in his droid corroborate the evidence that Luke gave at his debrief. He risked his life to escape Vader." He paused and added. "There was also something else," he gestured at her holoplayer. "If I may?"

"Of course..."

Rhovan loaded the recording. The image flickered, stabilised and Mon Mothma found herself watching Luke Skywalker as he took up a stance and ignited his lightsaber. He pivoted and blocked a shot from a circling remote. He twisted and turned; blocked another. Soon his movements became faster, more relaxed and natural. It was, Mothma reflected, like watching a Jedi of old.

"He's training himself," she breathed, smiling.

"Or trying, too," he confirmed.

She watched the figure parry and pirouette. As the recording ended, her smile fell away and she regarded Rhovan quietly. Luke was trying to train himself. The effort the boy was making both warmed her and chilled her. She knew about the Jedi, had lived and worked among them for much of the Clone Wars, and to have a Jedi among them again would give them the strength of the Force at their back. However, Luke's training would be patchy at best, filled with second guesses and clumsy attempts at control. It might even draw further unwanted attention as the boy's presence in the Force grew.

"Mi'lady?" Rhovan questioned, seeing an inner debate with her.

"Rieekan informed me that Luke claims that he can sense Vader when he is near." She sounded concerned again, anxious.

"Yes," Rhovan confirmed. Luke had hesitated, though, had been reluctant to say anything. He had avoided the whole issue during his debrief and hearing after Escaal and Ra'imar. Rhovan understood why: the boy didn't want to acknowledge that he could sense the Dark Lord, didn't want to bring undue attention, or suspicion, on himself. The boy was scared about what the connection might mean.

"We believe that is how he knew that Ra'imar was in danger," Rhovan offered.

"And can Vader sense Luke?"

Rhovan hesitated, considered his answer carefully. Mon Mothma was concerned that Luke's presence on the base, on any base, may give their location to the Dark Lord. Luke's future with the Alliance could be in doubt, could hinge on the response to this question: which is precisely what Luke had hoped to avoid by keeping that information to himself.

"That is not something that we can predict with any certainty," he started slowly, watching Mon Mothma's reaction. "Luke believes that his ship was tagged in the battle because Vader knew it was him. However, it may just have been coincidental."

He paused, and then reminded her, "Mi'lady, Luke has been here on Adralii for several weeks. I think if the Dark Lord could sense him as easily as that we would not be having this conversation."

Mothma covered her mouth with her hand, massaged her cheeks. Her eyes flicked to the window as the ash fall beyond thickened, obscuring the prefabricated buildings across the compound. She closed her eyes, the pain of regret, the weight of office flashing briefly over her features. She had more to worry about than the wellbeing of just one pilot. However, that one individual may just carry the fate of their entire struggle on his young shoulders: a burden that Luke could do without.

"So," she broke the silence. "Where do we go from here?"

Rhovan was surprised at the relief he felt at Mothma accepting his answer. "Rieekan has suspended him from active duty and ordered further psychiatric evaluation." He knew the General had already told her this. "As I said earlier, the Cusrean mission has not helped his emotional or mental state. He needs to recover and Rieekan has given him an indefinite period of time to do so."

"And if Vader comes looking for his son among us?"

Rhovan shrugged. "Mi'lady," he offered, a little condescendingly, "Vader will be looking for us regardless of his son's location."

She stood and crossed to the window, ignoring his mild insubordination, seeing the truth in his words. The ash was falling heavier, thicker and she asked the question she had asked before, the one that he had failed to truly answer.

"Did we make a mistake in sending him?"

"Yes, Mi'lady, we did."

ooOOoo

The sleep that had so easily claimed him while he waited for General Rieekan and Major Anders now eluded him. He lay on the bunk in the Falcon's crew quarters, hands behind his head staring through the darkness at the ceiling above him. He couldn't close his eyes either, he was afraid to close them; terribly scared of what images he would see behind them.

The flames. When the flames...

He heaved in a breath, dismissed the whispered words before they could fully form. He didn't want that thought completed, didn't want to acknowledge the meaning of it or what it would tell him.

He licked his lips, swallowed as his stomach turned, churning the beer he had consumed earlier with Han and Chewbacca.

He was grateful to them both. They hadn't told him how sorry they were, hadn't tried to placate him with platitudes about how it wasn't his fault, how he was following orders or that the Empire was to blame for what had happened. On his arrival at the Falcon, Han had simply handed him an ice pack for his knuckles, a clean dressing and another bottle of beer.

They had talked, but not about Cusrean, or Escaal, or the war. They had talked of inconsequential things, of little things: the latest repairs the Falcon, setting up a betting pool on when the mountain would finally blow and send a pyroclastic flow too sweep the base away. They had discussed the futility of collecting winnings when everyone would be dead anyway.

Han told a string of bawdy jokes while Luke struggled to breathe as he laughed and snorted beer through his nose. They had played Dejarik into the early hours and Chewbacca beat them both.

Now he was drunk: but not drunk enough. His mind was still sharp, his thoughts still coherent. The warm buzz and haze of alcohol had refused to descend and he had only realised that he was intoxicated when he had tried to stand up and found that his knees had somehow softened and his legs refused to obey his commands to walk.

Han had laughed, helped steady him and they had staggered together toward the crew quarters on the Falcon. Solo had unceremoniously dumped him on one of the bunks and had then fallen into the other. The Corellian was almost instantly asleep leaving Luke lying alone, in the dark, with only his thoughts and the occasional snorts from Han, for company.

He turned onto his side, tried to sit up, winced and waited as the whole world did a slow turning loop around him. He gagged as nausea surged and he barely made it to the small fresher before he vomited. Kneeling on the floor he laid his forehead against the cool metal of the bowl lip waiting for the queasiness to fade. He heaved, was sick again, as cool sweat popped on his brow.

"Shit," he whispered, feel wretched and worn.

There was a soft 'harrumph' from the doorway and the fresher interior light was switched on.

Luke groaned, winced in the light. "Sorry, Chewie."

The Wookiee murmured softly and Luke shook his head. "I'm fine," he said. It was becoming his mantra and he wondered if he kept saying it if would he actually start believing it himself. "I'm fine. Just, you know... sick."

He laughed at that.

Sick...

"'Shoulda had something to eat..." He wiped at his chin with the back of hand and, using the fresher sink for leverage, he pulled himself up. He held onto the wall for support as he waited for the deck to settle, then he ran the water, splashed his face as Chewbacca tried again.

Luke grabbed a towel, shook his head in answer to Chewie and immediately regretted it as a wave of dizziness purled through him. His stomach heaved again, but he fought it, pushed it away and dried his face. "I'm fine," he repeated.

He brushed passed the Wookiee, patting Chewbacca's arm as he stepped into the passage way, grateful for his concern. "I just need some air, I'll be back..."

With the troubled Wookiee watching his back, Luke weaved his way to the exit ramp, punching the hatch open and stepping down to the landing pad. He stopped under the Falcon, gazing out over the dimly lit area as particles of ash fell from the sky, the smell of heat and sulphur scorching the night air. He looked toward the mountain, saw the sky around the volcano's crater blazing red.

"That's not good," he mumbled as he fumbled through his pockets for something to wrap around his nose and mouth. He came up empty, shrugged and pulled the neck of his jacket up instead. He bent his head down to protect his face, his eyes, and stepped out of the Falcon's shelter.

He walked as carefully as he could across the empty landing field, eyes narrowed as he tried to make out directions in the thickening ash fall. It was quiet, eerily so, his footsteps deadened by the rising deposits on the ground. It wasn't long before he was completely disorientated and covered in ash and grit from the mountain. He stopped, looked around and wasn't even sure if he was still on the landing zone. He could see nothing, could make out no shapes that might give him an idea of where he was.

A crack of thunder rolled across the area, a flash of lighting briefly lit up the night: but still the falling ash obscured his way.

I'm lost...

He closed his eyes, tried to pull the Force to him, to use it to guide his way.

"Use the Force, Luke," he whispered to himself and giggled, the sound strained, hysterical.

Now he decides to trust it? Now he decides to listen to it? Where was his trust earlier when he pulled the trigger and ended the lives of twenty thousand people?

You felt them. You felt them...

There was a muffled scrape of footsteps behind him and his eyes snapped opened, the Force forgotten as he turned around and was blinded by a flashlight shining in his face.

"Identify yourself!" The voice was sharp, female.

Luke narrowed his eyes against the brilliance of the light...

Flames. When the flames arose, I felt...

...held up his hand to shade his face and he mumbled, "Lieutenant-Commander Skywalker," through the cloth of his jacket.

The light moved away to the side and Luke peered into the falling ash, trying to make out the soldier who stood close by. She was small, her face and head fully protected by a hat, scarf and goggles.

"You shouldn't be out here, Sir," she admonished. "It isn't safe."

"I needed fresh air," he explained.

"Uh-huh," she replied, sarcasm underscoring her words. "You'll get a lot of that out here tonight, Sir."

Luke frowned at her tone, drew himself straighter, ready to reprimand her when she stepped forward, peering at him from beneath her goggles. He staggered back, had to catch himself.

"Are you drunk, Sir?"

"I'm not on duty, trooper," he told her, annoyed.

"Then you shouldn't be at the landing field, Sir!" she retorted in kind. "You're lucky I didn't shoot first. Come on, you can't stay out here in this," she offered, reaching out and taking his arm. "I'll walk you back."

"You don't know where I've come from," he protested, but he allowed her to move him, allowed her to walk him, her torch light practically useless in the ash fall.

"I think I do, Sir," she replied, softly and Luke knew she wasn't talking about the Falcon, she was talking about Cusrean, about Ra'imar and Escaal.

His throat constricted. He heaved a breath in through cloth, trying to contain his feelings that this soldier had so suddenly brought to the fore with her kindness and understanding. He knew who she was; she was the sergeant injured by Vader's lightsaber on Ra'imar when she had saved him from being captured and returned to an Imperial cell. Thecla.

He walked in silence with her, feet scuffing and scrunching through the deepening ash. They were both covered, both dirty, by the time they reached the closed doors of the X-Wing hangars. Luke's eyes stung and burned from the abrasive particles, tears trailed clean paths through his ash covered face. The soldier hammered on the metal and it shunted to the side.

"I found this wandering," she announced to the grease-smeared face that peered out as thunder rolled and lightening danced above them.

The door opened wider and the soldier led him into the main body of the hangar. Luke blinked through bleary eyes trying to make out the cavernous area. It was a difficult scene to take in; despite the activity, the shouting, the welding, and hammering it seemed quiet. Where there was space for dozens fighters there sat only eight; two that had no pilots and the six that had returned from the battle.

"Is this the last of them?" she asked the Tech. "Because, guys, I have better things to do than round up strays."

Luke blinked trying to clear his vision and hissed with pain as grit scraped his eyes. "Thecla, thank you." And he didn't mean just for helping him, he also meant for saving his life on Ra'imar.

He sensed a smile beneath the protective wrappings. "No problem, Lieutenant-Commander. Good Night, sir."

She turned and left as a voice rang out from somewhere above him.

"Dammit, Skywalker! What the hell were you doing out in that? Look at the state of you."

He groaned: Ysabel. He tried to look up at the X-Wing as someone thumped to the floor next to him.

"Someone fish out the first aid kit. Get me some eye wash before he does any more damage to himself."

Luke stamped his feet, shook himself and brushed at his hair and clothing with his hands dislodging a cloud of ash.

"Get away from my ship!" she reprimanded. "Do you have any idea what damage that stuff can do?"

Strong hands took hold of him, turned him around and propelled him in a different direction.

"And what the hell has Solo been plying you? You smell worse than Antillies and Hobbie combined."

"Yizzi, I..."

"Sit down," her voice order.

Her hands pushed at his chest and he fell back into a soft chair.

"Get your head back."

"Yizzi, I..." he tried again.

She took his chin in her hand, pushed his head back and clean, purified water was poured into his eyes, washing away the particles of ash. He blinked, opened his eyes and saw Ysabel's blurry outline before that too was washed away by more water.

"Dammit, Skywalker, you're lucky not to do yourself permanent damage. You should still see the medics once it clears out there."

A towel was thrown at him, caught him in the face. He dried himself, blinked and looked around. He was in the tech's billet to the side of the hanger and sitting in a scuffed and tatty two-seater that looked as though it had been salvaged from a garbage scow. There were rows of bunks further back and in the ones closest to him he could clearly see the dishevelled heads of Wedge Antilles and Derek Klivian; both asleep.

"Wes?" he asked, his throat dry.

"He's here, two bunks down. The new kid, too." She sat beside him. "They've all found their way here tonight and in the same state as you. Rough day," she finished.

Luke didn't answer, didn't want to acknowledge her words, or the understatement. He was suddenly ashamed. He had been worried for the rest of the squad, he had been horrified that so few had made it home...

...told about home...

... had been relieved that Wedge, Hobbie and Janson had made it through: but he hadn't thought about the impact the attack had had on them. He had been thinking only of himself because he had been the one to take the shot, he had been the one who had...

...felt them...

...destroyed the facility and the lives of twenty thousand civilians.

However, the squadron were all feeling it because the mission had not been about one person, one pilot. It had been about them all.

"They came to check out their 'Wings, or so they claimed," Ysabel was saying. She knew that had only been the partial truth, as they had all immediately asked her about the pilot now sitting beside her: the pilot who was unnaturally quiet, even for him. "So what are you here for?"

"I got lost," he told her, for it was the truth: he had been lost since Escaal. Suddenly, he didn't want to be alone anymore. Alone meant he would have to listen to his own voice, alone meant silence and memories best avoided. "Sit with me?"

"Sure, Luke..."

She sat with him in silence, listening to the other technicians working in the main hangar beyond. She stayed while the alcohol worked through his system and his breathing deepened as he gradually fell asleep. Only then did she get up and lay him down. She grabbed a blanket from the nearest bunk and covered him as he mumbled, whispered in his sleep. She wondered what his dreams were about and what part the words "flames" and "pleasure" played in them.

ooOOoo

tbc