CHAPTER TWO
ACCELERATION
The rate at which the velocity of a body changes with time, and the direction in which that change is acting.
So. It turned out old Ben really was a wizard.
The thought hung over Lars's shoulders no matter how many times he shrugged it off. He had dumped out flight data out of a random datachip he'd found in one of the ships, logged it with the coordinates, and handed it off to Maberust who scurried it off to Vader.
A day cycle later and he was in the cockpit of another TIE Advanced. This one wasn't wrecked, thank the stars, but he was still elbows-deep in the innards of the fuselage trying to sort out whatever Vader had done to Mark 6's landing sequencing. Somehow he'd destroyed both the reverse thrusters and the landing struts and fried the wires between the two.
The smell of all those corpses had filtered up through the vents. Lars hadn't noticed it when he'd been draining coolant and fuel because, unlike Tatooine, there were no suns to roast the bodies like spits turning over a fire.
The old wives used to say that the Tuskens did that. They'd steal beneath the suns and snatch up good men and women and light a fire from the rubble of a homestead. They would bind you to a pike and let you cook before they carved you up to eat.
The Tuskens didn't. Those were stories to scare kids. But whenever Lars smelled burning flesh, sweet and sickly (and once––just once––he'd been hungry enough that it smelled good) he thought of those tales.
The sharp scent of blood and the filth of innards eventually ate up the ozone and burn. Vader hadn't done much damage with his sword. He'd ripped those men apart with his hands.
Or, Lars thought idly, working the damaged fan out of the casing of the fuselage––not fists. The…magic.
Was Kenobi supposed to be able to do that? Didn't seem likely. Lars's mind dredged up a sundrenched half-memory, old Ben hunched over and tottering through Anchorhead's market, his own hand tight in Beru's––
Lars brought the fan closer, running his gloved fingers over the bent blades. Not unsalvageable. But he didn't have any of his welding gear, or even a decent hammer…
It'd be a quick fight. Merciless, maybe, but quick.
Lars cast the fan aside with a quick flick of the hand, and the blades squeaked and squealed as they impaled themselves the casing of Mark 7.
Couldn't be saved. The man was old, anyway, and if it was quick, it might be painless, too.
At some point, the smell burning bodies faded. It was pushed out by the stringent smell of chemicals. Cleaning chemicals, Lars assumed, which was sort of funny.
Last couple places he'd seen a pile of bodies, they didn't get cleaned up. They were part of the palace.
There was a noise behind him and he was happy to ignore it.
In the two-and-a-half days he'd been here, he'd heard every moan and groan a ship could make, and he was starting to think Vader needed to hire a half-dozen more Chief Engineers. He'd never worked on a Star Destroyer before, but he was pretty sure nothing should be making this much noise. Maybe he'd yank out a panel or two to inspect the walls after he was done with Mark 6…
Lars wrenched another outfitting out of position and cursed under his breath as he tried to dodge a splatter of oil coming from him. His safety goggles had been left on Tatooine, thanks again to Vader––
"Sir!" called a voice. Lars yanked himself out from the undercarriage and sat straight up, only to come face to face with Maberust.
"What?" he demanded. How did he even get in here? Hadn't Vader said only he was allowed in here?
"Lord––Lord Vader requires you to attend to him, sir," Maberust said. Figured.
"Fine," he grunted, standing. He'd finally made some progress on those ships, and now this.
Maberust opened and closed his mouth as he walked toward him.
"Sir," Maberust finally said, but didn't say anything else.
Lars wiped his gloved hands down with a rag. If he had something to say, he could spit it out. "Just get this over with."
The last time Lars had been in Vader's chambers was nearly two days ago and he'd never wanted to go back.
Vader's place was dark. And cold. There wasn't a single glowlight in the place, only a white pod that unfolded like a snapping blossom. It was completely bare, except for the holodisplays, and seemed to Lars to only get darker the further in, like the mouth of a cave. It was nothing like the hut he'd had back in Anchorhead, two rooms overflowing with spare parts and extra maybe-usefuls, noontime suns beating down.
Still. Better than a lot of other dark, dank holes he'd been in.
Lars grew more and more irritated every step he took pacing after Maberust. He didn't know if he remembered the way, but he did know better than to mention it to the other man. A job, Vader had said. Ha. Lars was pretty sure most jobs for the Empire didn't involve betraying it.
The minute they had gotten up to Vader's quarters––somewhere just below the bridge by Lars's estimate––Maberust tried to become one with the wall. The split-second the blastdoors slid open into a blank, three-door hallway, empty of even the stormies who seemed to crop up every ten meters, he turned tail and ran after a hasty salute.
That was fine. He went straight for the door at the end, busy pulling stilettos out of his bindings, anyway.
The door slid open, revealing only the shadow of Vader's form somewhere in the back, cast by a holodisplay. Vader's armor and padded had all been replaced, and he had a cape, too, so he looked more or less just like when Lars had pulled him out of the TIE on Tatooine. Fake control panel in front of the modified control box too, he'd bet.
He didn't look up as Lars approached from behind.
"What else do you want."
"I warn you," Vader said idly, crossing his arms, continuing to examine the display in front of him. Star Destroyer schematics, it looked like. "I am not in the most patient mood."
Oh, that was funny. Neither was he.
"I've helped you blow up the Death Star," Lars said, swapping out half of the stilettos in his grip for the longest knife he had. "I've given you coordinates for old Kenobi."
He held the knife up to the light of the holodisplay that snuck behind Vader's back. He flipped it once, twice, in his hand, checking the blade.
"I signed up to be a mechanic. Not a spy."
Sharp enough.
"And either you want me to help you rig up another Death Star to blow. But you're not joining the Rebellion, are you? And you'd kill me, because I know too much. And it seems like you're pretty good at that."
Nothing but Vader's breathing filtered through the gap between them. Lars crossed his arms, hiding the knives only from sight.
"So. What more do you from me?"
Vader turned, slowly, to face him. Lars barely came up to the control box. But he didn't falter, breath even, hands steady.
"I want," Vader said, short. "A mechanic."
"A mechanic that helps you blow up Death Stars."
"Fixing my ships is in your job description, is it not?"
"Isn't Imperial in yours?"
Vader considered him. "You're growing more irritating by the second, mechanic."
He bared his teeth, almost amused. But he waited, hands on the handles of his blades.
"I am the heir to my master, the Emperor," Vader said, almost casually. "My will is that of the Empire's. And the Death Star was a waste. An abomination."
What about the Emperor? If Vader's dead, the Emperor will kill us––Lars remembered the whispers in the engineering bays.
Definitely not joining the Rebellion, then.
"All will be forgotten when I am Emperor. And my Empire will contain no such frivolities."
"I don't give a damn about the Empire," Lars snapped, "I'm here to fix your ships, and I don't even want that."
The air just about froze over, Lars realized belatedly. He didn't much care.
Vader's glare, though, was hot. He was close enough that he thought he saw Vader's eyes, through the mask, meet his.
"This body," Vader's voice scraped like claws ripping through metal. "This wretched form. You have seen its damage. You have…repaired it."
Lars met his gaze. "And."
"Kenobi," growled Vader. "Kenobi, the coward who hid on Tatooine for twenty years, who battled me above the Death Star––he did this."
Old Kenobi––what, wizard and warrior? The old man, tottering around the market, out in a hut in the desert and barely tolerating its heat? Vader dared him to question him.
But. Back, back a lifetime ago, through the screen, huddling to hide himself, and old Kenobi there, paces from him, standing tall and proud––
Lars didn't say anything.
"And you, mechanic, will help me fix it." Vader took a half-step closer. "Fix me, and you have nothing to fear from me. You will be nothing more than my mechanic."
"Your mechanic means more than fixing ships," Lars growled.
"Yes," said Vader. "But don't you like fixing ships that actually fly, mechanic, and don't sit rusting in a junkyard?"
Lars couldn't answer that. You fix, I fly, he remembered, from a long time ago.
Vader turned his back on him. "Begone from my presence. The Emperor awaits me. There are further instructions for you across the corridor."
Across the corridor were a couple of stormies.
"Lord Vader requires you to be in uniform, sir," reported the one on the left.
Did that stormie just call him sir?
"Uniform grays are waiting for you in there, sir," piped up the one on the right, before pointing helpfully to the door at the left of the entrance to Vader's chambers. "Lord Vader also requires that you…bathe."
"What."
The stormies exchanged glances.
"Lord Vader said that there was, uh, sand," said Left. "Sir."
What.
Did Vader think he was fool enough to grit ruin a machine? After he'd put back together his fucking skeleton on Tatooine?
Lars snarled to himself and stormed through to the chamber, shoving the stormies out of the way. The door snapped closed behind him.
It was all black and dark like the rest of Vader's chambers, but at least this place looked like an actual human was supposed to live there. Some rich admiral, maybe. The full room was at least three times as large as his old shop, with the most advanced holoprojectors and holodisplays lining one wall and actual, real wood cabinets lining the other.
Underneath a full viewport sat a dining set laid with porcelain and silver and flowers. A massive, carved wooden desk sat opposite, with a slim computer terminal atop, and a chair that looked leather. An adjoining room held a bed with a landscape overtop.
Maybe he should just rob the place, Lars thought numbly, picking up the gray tunic sitting on the desk next to the leather boots. It was a standard thing he'd seen the drunk off-duty Imperials around Tatooine wear to the bars. It was still nicer than anything he'd ever held.
He cast his gaze to the door and locked the magnetic seal. Then he pulled out a screwdriver, took the casing and a couple wires apart, and decided it was locked better.
Whatever. He didn't like this, but he didn't want to be bothered by every officer on the entire Star Destroyer about his dress, either.
Slowly, he pulled off his singlet and began pulling out the spare, tools, and scraps in his pockets. He unthinkingly tallied and organized it on the desk. He pulled his longest knives––eighteen inches and slightly curved––out of each cloth-bound boot, the other couple knives he had hidden in his boots as well, and a couple of spare wires, before removing his overalls.
He took off his gloves before he pulled out more blades and tools and spares, then unwound the leather binding his arms. The cloth came next.
Lars brought three knives with him into the bathroom.
It was dark, but gleaming tile, and with a shower bigger than an oil vat. Lars flipped the switch, expecting a sonic shower, and sputtered in surprise as droplets hit his head.
No way.
He stared up, wide-eyed, as the water ran down without end. His heart beating fast, he fumbled with the control, until the water was cool and pleasant––he couldn't remember ever having cold water on Tatooine––and rushing straight at him.
He stepped under, hair plastering to his head, staring at the drops running down his hands in a disbelief that was a little more like awe. He looked up, standing straight underneath, until the water cascaded down in a sheet around him.
And––wait––
No––
He couldn't––he couldn't––
He choked, ragged breath after ragged breath seizing his lungs. Water pounded a tattoo against his heart. No, wait, wait, no––he clapped his hands to his mouth, stumbling back until his back hit the wall and his legs gave out.
He breathed in. Water was rushing in, choking him, killing him––
You have pleased the master, Skywalker.
No, no no––the water beat against his head, screaming in his head––he screwed his eyes shut and slammed his head against the wall.
You get first pick today.
He choked and gagged and sputtered and tried to breathe but he was––was he drowning?
You get water today.
He fought for the breath that battered up and out through chest, one hand scrabbling up to grab the wall and dig in, crush and hold it tight up debris and dust sprayed down on his head and he stumbled to his feet and his knees hit the floor of the bathroom.
He breathed. In. Out. In. Out. He could breathe. He wasn't drowning. No, no, not anymore––
Skywalker ––
He vomited into the toilet.
The master has said––
He'd forgotten about that.
"You have disappointed me, Lord Vader," Palpatine said, voice high and cruel and dispassionate.
Vader's limbs––the new prosthetics and real stumps––spasmed from the aftershocks of the lightning.
"It will not happen again, Master," Vader vowed, still on his knees in front of the projection. His HUD was lit up with warning signs. "I will find Obi-Wan Kenobi."
"Will you?" Palpatine scorned him. Vader clenched a fist, tight, and said nothing. "Twice he's bested you. And this time in space, too. What happened to the Skywalker?"
Vader saw red. "Skywalker is dead, Master."
"Then see to it that his master is, as well," Palpatine said, dismissively. "But you are under Grand General Tagge's command, as he is new Supreme Commander of the Imperial Armed Forces."
"Yes, Master," Vader said, teeth gritted.
"Oh?" Palpatine asked, leaning forward, a sickly leer over Vader. "Is that anger, I sense, my apprentice? Do you question my commands?"
"No, Master," Vader said, the words thick and cloying on his tongue. "Only the Dark Side fuels me. I wish to destroy Kenobi for good."
Palpatine's smile broadened. "Well, my apprentice, consider this your punishment for your failure at the Death Star. Your hunt for Kenobi will be only at Tagge's digression."
Palpatine's image vanished with a wink.
Vader let his breaths fill the space. Once, twice.
First Kenobi. And then you, my master.
Something pulsing unfurled in Vader's veins, sending his heart racing beyond the suit's capabilities, something that beat in his ears and drowned out the rest of the world.
Anakin's son, Kenobi's voice whispered. It roared in him, now.
SKYWALKER.
"What happened to you?"
Lars's hair was still damp. He'd put on the damn uniform, all of his blades and tools and most of his spare and scrap smuggled away again, but he'd tied the jacket around his waist in favor of his singlet, bound forearms, and gloves. If Vader wanted him to get any work done, he wouldn't complain about it.
Vader didn't look like he could complain about much of anything. Everything about his stance was off, cape and fake control panel gone, but Vader ignored him and turned around, deeper into his chambers.
The movement was stiff, Lars noted, but not in the legs; around the hips, instead, but he'd removed the crude exoskeleton that had attached there. All of those shitty parts had to have left their mark, but still––the legs were also strangely shaky, like a fuse had blown, but––
The pungent smell of grease and oil was enough for Lars's curiosity to smother his flickers of annoyance, and he slunk behind Vader.
The short corridor opened into a massive, vaulted room, industrial glowlights dangling from heavy durasteel chains, with at least ten different slabs stacked with unfinished projects and drafts. Three walls were lined with meticulously organized drawers labelled with any screw, wire, and bit a mechanic could dream of. The fourth wall was twelve feet by thirty feet of every type of hydrospanner, multitool, and wrench Lars had ever seen in his life, and hundreds that he hadn't.
Looked like the Empire paid well.
A series of projects went crashing off one of the slabs with a flick of Vader's hand. He hefted himself up––not easily, Lars noted––and Vader laying back on the slab involved less flexibility then the stiffest protocol droid.
'Course. More things to fix.
Lars drew a vibroblade and sliced through the armorweave on Vader's thigh the second he went down. He pried open the material the same way he used to gut womp rats for cooking when he was younger.
"The hell happened?"
"The Emperor was displeased with the destruction of the Death Star."
Lars bit back a curse.
The condition of the prosthetics was fine, but the wires had nearly been fried. It was a miracle that Vader wasn't screaming his head off. The small patches where the insulation wasn't tight enough or slipped a bit had let a charge burn through it, and no doubt it was yanking on Vader's nerve endings. The skeleton of the prosthetic hadn't carried the charge much, but the prosthetic port looked like it had blistering around it from burns. Hell knew what had gone on in the rest of his body.
Lars stared at it, blankly. Had Vader hooked himself up to a generator?
"The Emperor wields a secret art of the Force known as Force lightning," Vader supplied.
Lars didn't know what the Force was, but he sure as hell knew what lightning was. And what it did to machines.
"The Emperor's supposed to be on Coruscant," Lars said, a little dumbly.
"He is," Vader replied. "That does not mean he cannot reach me."
"Shit," he said, already reaching for a hydrospanner. "Fine, I'm going to need to redo all this. And the control panel. Wait on killing me till I'm done."
Vader grasped Lars's wrist before he could touch a single thing. Lars switched the grasp of his other hand from the hydrospanner to the handle of a vibroblade.
"What."
"I need something from you," rumbled Vader.
"Yeah, a retuning and an oil bath," snapped Lars.
Vader ignored him. "Kenobi. The last time you saw him."
Lars's hand tightened on the handle of his blade.
"Years ago," he said shortly. "Don't remember where. Or when."
"The Force is the power that I wield," Vader continued, letting go of his wrist, "and it is power beyond your comprehension. All you need to do is think of Kenobi, and I will see him."
Lars…believed that Vader could do that. Why not? He'd slaughtered at least two dozen of his own men a day ago, with nothing but his own hands.
"My life is already in your hands," said Vader, "you could kill me, if you really wanted."
True. A knife through the control panel while Vader was busy mindmelding or whatever the fuck would do it.
Lars twisted the vibroblade in his hand, eyeing its balance as the blade caught the light of the glowlamps.
What's the point of killing Kenobi? Lars wanted to ask. What's the point of becoming Emperor? He wanted to go back down to the TIE Advanced o6 and lose himself in the engine with a multitool in hand.
It wouldn't fix anything. But it wouldn't hurt him. What did he care, anyway?
"Fine," said Lars, suddenly tired. "Let's find Kenobi."
Lars twisted the vibroblade so rested just between two switches on Vader's control panel. Kill shot, he thought. Not even the thought of that could rouse the weariness settling into his bones.
Vader offered up his skeletal left hand. One hand held the blade. With the other, Lars grasped Vader's.
wow, guys! thanks so much for all the positive support, it means the world to me :D hm, lars and vader's relationship seems to be getting better…or is it? kinda funny how lars seems to be more normal the more danger he's in, huh.