notes: Chapter updated 4/22/20
CHAPTER 3
Leia woke abruptly, as if she had been shouted awake. She sat up on her cot, drawing her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around her shins, and listened. Something surely had startled her out of sleep.
When only silence met her ears and stillness met her eyes, she began to relax. She curled back up on the cot, head couched by one elbow, and she let her breathing slow and her eyes slide shut. Sleepily, she checked the iron and glass shields hammered over the Force burning inside of her—she was still determined never again to use it—and found them strong. She sighed, and drifted off to sleep…
Only to be jolted awake again by a surge of adrenaline.
"Luke?" Leia called, thinking it was him. Only Luke's watercolor dreams replied, soft and swirling and alluring. Leia blinked and wrenched herself out of them—she could get lost in Luke's dreams and never surface.
So what was it that had awakened her so abruptly?
The bolt to her cell door slid back, and then the door itself opened. Pale Eyes appeared, carrying a hypo as always. Leia shrank back into the corner of her cot, hands up in a universal gesture of pleading.
"Please," she begged. "I'll be good." The sedative they gave her to suppress the Force, to make sure she didn't actually use it on one of them, made her ill and dizzy. It hurt, and left her weak for hours.
Pale Eyes just grinned and kicked the door shut. He grabbed Leia and pulled her toward him by the ankles, ignoring the way she thrashed under him. He pressed the hupo to her neck and depressed the button, releasing a wash of cold liquid into her blood. Leia clenched her eyes shut and took in a deep breath, fighting not to cry.
Pale Eyes pushed the shirt she wore up over her hips, and unbuckled his belt.
He took his time, reveling in Leia's groans and pleas. He laughed when she begged him to finish, and pumped slower.
"I'll finish when I'm done," he told her, grabbing her by the face to force her to look at him. "And you'll enjoy it in the meantime."
Leia shuddered and looked away, though she still could not turn her head. Pale Eyes growled and, drawing his hand away, slapped her across the cheek.
"Look at me, girl," he ordered.
Leia did not obey.
He slapped her again, stilling within her. "Bad girl," he snarled, and thrust in viciously. Leia grunted and grabbed onto the thin sheet covering her cot with both hands. "You're being a bad girl, and bad girls get punished."
He pulled out of her and grabbed her by the throat, throwing her from the cot to the ground. Then he stood, kicked off his pants and boxers so that he was naked from the waist down, and began to kick Leia with his booted toes.
"Bad girl," he all but yelled. "You're a bad girl, and bad girls need to be punished."
The beating lasted for what felt like hours but could only have been thirty or forty seconds. Leia curled onto her side and tried to protect her face, covering it with her arms. One of Pale Eyes' kicks nailed her in the nose, however, and Leia felt bone crunch. She cried out, hot blood cascading over her lips and chin, before her nose swelled shut.
At last it was over. Pale Eyes knelt on her hips, grabbed her face, and turned her toward him again. "Look at me," he ordered.
This time Leia obeyed.
"Good girl," Pale Eyes said and, leaning down, he kissed her. Then he slid into her once more, finishing within the moment.
Once he was done, he ordered Leia to take off the shirt she wore. She obeyed, knowing now what was coming next.
Pale Eyes led her out of the cell and into the lift, bringing her down to the basement and Vrosha. Leia shuddered at the chill of the sterile room, dreading what was coming. Vrosha motioned for her to get up on the table, and when she hesitated Pale Eyes growled and took a threatening step forward. Fearing another beating, Leia obediently hopped up onto the table.
Vrosha came around to stand in front of her. "The time has come," she said, "that you become useful. You already waste a great deal of Imperial money just to be kept, fed, and clothed. While the other inmates work for their food and clothes, you do nothing but lounge around all day." She sniffed, cold as ice. "So I have found a use for you." She fell silent then and waited.
After a moment, Leia realized she was waiting for her. "What?" Leia asked at last in a small voice.
Vrosha smiled. "We have a number of experiments we need to run on human test subjects. None of the tests should prove lethal to a hominid—a human," she clarified when she saw Leia's confused look, "—and besides, with bacta and your high midichlorian count, you should heal faster than most other potential test subjects. That means it won't kill you," she added snidely, once more seeing Leia's confused face.
Leia drew back, eyes wide and spine bowed in an attempt to get as much of herself as far away from Vrosha as possible. "Experiments?" she asked, voice even smaller.
"Lay back," Vrosha ordered. When Leia did not immediately obey, she pushed the girl down. Reaching across her body, Vrosha locked Leia's right wrist, then left wrist in metal binders affixed to the table. Her ankles followed.
"What are you going to do to me?" Leia asked in a very small voice.
"Not that you'll understand," Vrosha said with a slight sneer, "but a new synthetic bacta patch has been synthesized. It's a red-base, rather than a blue-base, and is far more potent than the bacta patches currently in circulation. Too much of it and it's poisoned the rats and mice that have been used as test subjects. We need to know if it will poison a human in the same way."
"I thought you said the tests wouldn't kill me," said Leia, horrified. She squirmed in the cuffs, whimpering deep in her throat and wanting Luke, but could not break free.
"Oh, it won't kill you," said Vrosha. "Just make you very sick for a few days."
Leia fought again. For a second she thought about trying to break through the iron and durasteel bands that hid the Force from her fingers—but then she clamped down on the idea. No, she told herself sternly. You can't.
Even if she had wanted to, though, she knew she wouldn't be able to reach the Force. The concoction that Pale Eyes or Big burly injected her with whenever they came to see her did its work.
She had lost control one day two weeks after they had first begun injecting her as soon as entering her cell. It was Pale Eyes—it was always Pale Eyes—and the friends he had brought with; they were tormenting her, and Leia had snapped. She had surged inward, formless fingers reaching for the fire of the Force—only to slam into the end of an invisible tether that jerked her back, away from the power. For an instant she had struggled against the cord holding her back, fighting with tooth and nail and breath, seeking to break it, to rend it, to shatter it so that she could shatter the bones of those hurting her.
The bond had not broken.
She had returned to her senses a few seconds later. Horror at what she had almost done had filled her, just as it always did, and in that instant she was glad for the injection. It had kept her from breaking her promise to Shmi once again—had kept her from creeping down the path toward Falling that she already tread so dangerously upon.
Ironically, the longer they used the injection, the better control Leia gained over the Force—or, rather, over her use of it. Now that it was no longer an option available to her—now that she could not access it, whether she wanted to or not—she found that she was better able to resist its pull, even in times of great stress and terror.
I can't, echoed in her mind, now a practicality and not just a matter of morality. Because she could not—really, truly could not—touch it, she found that she was able to pull away, to keep her hands away from the fire that had singed her so many times. It became easier and easier for her to hold her fingers, formless and thoughtful, away from the end of the tether and the durasteel and iron bands that held the Force at bay.
I wonder if they know, Leia thought to herself, laying on the table as she waited for Vrosha to come and inflict misery—and the red-based bacta patches—upon her. I wonder if they know that they're teaching me.
Vrosha turned, a bladed scalpel in one hand. She crossed to Leia's side, and opened a long, weeping gash on her stomach. Then she produced a long strip of bacta woven into a bandage. She stripped off the adhesive which bound one side of the bandage in white, and then laid it over the wound in Leia's stomach.
Pale Eyes had remained in the room, watching. Vrosha triggered the cuff release, freeing Leia from the table, and stepped back. She motioned for him to come close.
"Take her back to her cell," she told him. She turned suddenly cold and imperious. "And no fucking her until my experiment is done. I don't want you confounding the results."
Pale Eyes shrugged. "Fine," he said, and dragged Leia off of the table. She landed awkwardly and stumbled, only for Pale Eyes to yank her upright. "Come on," he growled, and shoved her out of the door and toward the lift and her cell.
~oOo~
Within the hour Leia was sick.
"Mother," Luke hissed, feeling her misery in his own bones, echoed and reverberated like a shout in the dark. "What did they do to you?"
Leia told him in halting syllables, forcing the silent, mental words out between groans and bouts of vomiting. She crouched by the toilet in the corner of her cell, gripping the plasti lip with white-knuckled fingers, sweat pouring down her flushed face. She hadn't put her spare shirt back on, and it lay now on the cot, free of the sweat that gleamed on her skin and gathered in the small of her back.
"Luke," she moaned, and leaned forward to throw up again, the bile splashing into the thin water of the toilet. It swirled and turned the water a murky brown. "Luke, help me."
"I'm here," Luke murmured, pouring himself, in all of his entirety, into Leia's mind and body. Their connection swelled and bulged.
It was not enough.
"Luke, I need you," Leia moaned again, resting her forehead against the plasti lip of the toilet. "Help me," she begged.
"I don't know how," Luke said, pained. "Leia, tell me how to help you."
"Please," Leia whimpered, too far gone to hear Luke's reply.
Luke looked at their bond—at the ember, burning steady orange and red—and grabbed onto it with his mind's fingers. If our bond isn't enough as it is, he thought, then I'll make it into something that is enough. The doorway between their mind gleamed—and Luke set his shoulder against it and shoved, feet sliding against the ember, against the light.
He opened his eyes, and found himself standing on the precipice of the ravine through which the water rushed.
"So," his grandmother said from behind him, "you have come at last to the critical moment."
Luke looked behind himself at her. She seemed to shine in the moonlight, white and silver like a ghost, a ghoul, a phantom. Her dark hair was the night; stars gleamed in her tresses, in her eyes. Her smile was the galaxy, her voice a thousand suns going supernova. She was infinite; she was everything, and nothing, and everything again.
Luke fell to his knees, the overwhelming force of her being overcoming him. He bowed his head.
"Grandmother," he whispered, though he knew in his bones, in his flesh, in his blood, that this woman—this being—was more than his grandmother; was something greater than him, than her, than life itself. It was a force of nature bound by the facsimile of human flesh, was a force of the galaxy wrapped in the mirage of personhood so that he would not be driven mad.
"You must break the wall," Shmi Skywalker said, and Luke knew she spoke of the wall holding back the river. "Still you limit yourself. Still you bind your own power, though the time when you will need it in its entirety draws near and nearer—is upon you, even now.
"Your sister needs you," Shmi said, and her words were the tolling of a thousand bells, the crashing of a thousand waves, the strike of a thousand lightning bolts. "What will you do?"
"I don't understand," Luke whispered, daring to look up at Shmi's face. "What would you have me do?"
Shmi smiled a terrible smile. "Look within yourself," she said. "You will know what to do."
Luke bowed his head again and stared at the ground. Look within myself? he asked himself silently. How?
He closed his eyes. Black shadows stared back at him from the inside of his eyelids. Now what? he wondered.
An image began to form. It was the ravine that was before him, with the river running fast and furious between the walls of stone. Luke stood in the air over it, his feet planted on emptiness a few feet above the splashing foam. Before him loomed the wall. It was cleft in the middle, a great hole gouged out of its center. Still though the wall stood, strong and resolute, holding back the spray.
A hand landed on Luke shoulder. He looked back, and saw his grandmother standing behind him. She smiled—and it was her smile again. She blinked, and the stars were gone from her eyes; the wind lifted curled hair no longer adorned with stars, bound in a simple bun. She was his grandmother again.
"You can do this," she said softly, and squeezed his shoulder gently. "You have the power within you. You simply must unlock it."
"Luke." Leia's soft, cracking voice came to him as if from very far away. "Luke, where are you? I need you. Please."
I have to help her, Luke thought. But how?
He took a deep breath, and lifted his hands, using them to frame his sight. He looked at the wall, and at the foaming water beneath his feet. He looked at the crack, jagged and sharp, and at the river rushing through it.
I can do this, he told himself, and tried to take a step forward.
His grandmother held him still. "No," she said gently. "From here."
"But I can't reach the wall from here," Luke protested. "How am I supposed to move the stones if I can't reach them?"
Shmi reached up and touched his temples. "From here," she said, and then reached an arm around to rest a palm flush against his heart. "From here."
Luke frowned, confused. "But how—"
"Shh," his grandmother hushed. "Focus. Concentrate. You can widen the crack from here. You only must unlock your power—the power you have already begun to unknowingly use."
Luke remembered the Tuskens—remembered reaching out and snapping the Raider's neck with a hand and a fist of power. He remembered Obi-Wan telling him he had the Force.
I have the Force, he realized. I really, truly have the Force.
It was the first time he had thought about it—had really, truly thought about it. Ever before it had been a hypothetical, a "what if". Before it had been a distant dream, a distant possibility. Now, however, it was real—very real.
I have the Force, Luke thought again, and the weight of that statement crashed into him.
Oh, Mother Desert, I have the Force.
"I can't," Luke whispered, to the air, to the water, to the stone. To his grandmother.
"Why not?" Shmi asked.
"Because it's dangerous."
Luke felt his grandmother incline her head. "It is," she admitted. "But it is also a powerful tool."
Luke shook his head. "No," he said. "I won't—I can't."
His grandmother squeezed his shoulder again, then released him. "Then you will leave Leia alone in her misery."
Luke shook. "I can't," he said again, weaker.
He looked at the wall.
"I can't," he said again, and opened his eyes.
"I'm sorry, Leia," he said. "I'll do my best, but—but I can't use the Force. You understand."
Leia vomited again, weak and hurting. "I know," she said. Then, "You're sure you have the Force?"
"Shmi—my grandmother—said I do. I'm sorry, Leia," Luke said, feeling as if he had betrayed her, for all that she and he both knew they could not risk the alternative. "I'm sorry."
~oOo~
Luke awoke the next morning feeling as if he had been struck by a speeder. His head hurt, his body ached, and his eyes were gritty with bad and too little sleep. He sat up in his bunk slowly, rubbing the palms of his hands into his eyes, groaning softly.
Chewbacca was already up and gone, leaving Luke alone in the room. He swung his legs over the edge of his bed and rested his feet on the cold ground. That gave him a jolt, dragging him closer to full consciousness.
The door swung open, letting in a blast of light and sound—sound that Luke's ears and mind took a few seconds to register as words.
"Rise and shine, sleepyhead." It was Han. "Today's the big day."
Luke groaned again and stood, dragging a hand through his hair.
Han hesitated, a small frown that Luke could not see creeping across his face. He took a small step into the room, hesitated, then said instead, "Kid, If you're not up the task, you'd better tell me now."
"I'm good," said Luke, forcing himself to smile. "Really. I just had a bad night. Give me a couple cups of caf and I'll be good as new."
Han hesitated again. This time Luke felt it, and he squared his shoulders. "Really," he said again, and shoved his feet into his boots. "I can do this."
"Okay," said Han, backing out into the hallway. "Well hurry up and get dressed. Chewie's got breakfast ready, and we're about an hour away from the wreckage."
Luke dressed quickly, then used the 'fresher. He emerged with his hair, face, and collar damp from washing, skin pink from scrubbing. His eyes were bright and alert, though they were rimmed in red.
"Leia?" he called, only to get no answer. When he sank into her mind, he found it awash in the greys and blues and purples of her sleep, the colors of her dreams hidden beneath a thin veneer of drabbery. Luke let her sleep.
The galley was awash with yellow light. Chewie hummed as he worked over the stove, and Luke grabbed a chair and sat at the table bolted to the floor. He liked watching the Wookiee cook; it was relaxing and soothing, reminding Luke of many hours spent watching his aunt cook. It made him just a little bit less homesick—and a little more, too, as he missed his aunt most in those moments.
Chewie turned from the stove, a pot in his hands. Luke jumped up and fetched a hot pad from one of the drawers in the counter, racing to place it on the table for Chewie. Chewie put the pot down, then helped Luke pull down three bowls from the cupboard above the sink, and three spoons from another drawer.
Howling for Han, Chewie sat in his customary seat at the table, then motioned for Luke to serve himself. Luke half rose out of his seat and looked into the pot; thick porridge swimming with honey, cinnamon, and dried apples stared back, making Luke's mouth water. Grabbing the ladle sitting in the pot, Luke dished himself up a heaping bowlful, then settled in his chair to eat.
Han arrived a few minutes later, claiming his own seat at the head of the table. Chewie had dished up his bowl of porridge, and Han now blew on it to cool it. He took a tentative bite, ignoring Luke and Chewie both greedily eating theirs, and tasted it primly. He licked his lips once, twice, then dug in with as much enthusiasm as the other two.
Once the porridge was gone and the dishes cleaned, Han sat again and motioned for the other two to do so as well.
"You understand the plan?" he asked them, looking first at Chewie, then more pointedly at Luke.
Luke nodded and Chewie howled. Han raised an eyebrow.
"Yes," said Luke, stressing the word. "You and I go to restore power to the wreckage, while Chewie waits in the Falcon. Once we restore power, Chewie connects the two ships via their hatch tubes, then he and I work on stripping the wreckage while you go for the datatapes."
Han nodded. "And if something goes wrong?"
"We protect your back until you can get back with the datatapes. They're the most important thing."
Han grinned. "Right. Well," he said standing, "let's suit up. I don't want to be there any longer than we have to be."
Luke followed Han out of the galley and towards the lockers located beside the ship's landing ramp. One held breathing masks, another tools meant for outside repairs, a third space suits. It was to this third one that Han led Luke, opening the door with a twist of the latch.
The locker stood higher than Luke's head, made of plated durasteel. Slats in the door provided ventilation, while small lights mounted onto the inside shed bleaching light onto the white suits hanging inside.
They were trim, bulkless things, made of a thick polyester mesh. Jacket, pants, gloves, and boots all sealed together with metal and velcro and magnets. Two helmets sat on the shelf at the top of the locker, as white as the suits, with clear plasti visors to protect the face. Oxygen packs sat on the floor, twin bottles of pressurized oxygen.
Han pulled out the first suit and held it up against Luke. He nodded, satisfied, and then helped Luke fit into it.
It was a long and difficult process. Luke struggled with the thick material, fighting it every step of the way. Finally, though, with Han's help, he got even the gloves on and sealed to the rest of the suit, the velcro wrapped over top the magnetically fastened bits of metal around each wrist.
"Need my help?" he asked Han, before glancing down at the thick padding encasing his hands. He grimaced.
"Naw, Kid," said Han pulling out the other suit. "I've done this once or twice." The wry twist of his mouth told Luke that it had been more than once or twice. "I've got this."
Han slid into the suit as if it was a second skin, making Luke feel even more three-footed and five-handed, unable to move or even breathe without being awkward and clumsy. Han grinned at him as he fastened on a utility belt, seeing something in his face or eyes. He clapped Luke on the shoulder, one hand still free of the glove.
Reaching back into the locker, Han produced two ear radios. The first he hooked over his own ear, the second he fit around Luke's. The metal was cold against Luke's skin, and his flesh prickled. Han fiddled with it for a second, then Luke heard a slight buzz that faded after a few seconds.
"Chewie?" Han said, speaking into his own radio. "Can you hear me?"
In his ear, Luke heard the Wookiee give a howl. Han grinned. "Perfect," he said, then turned to Luke. "Can you hear me, Kid?"
"Loud and clear," said Luke dryly.
Han laughed.
"Okay," he said, and grabbed the first helmet. "How far out are we, Chewie?" he asked.
Chewie warbled. Han nodded, and looked at Luke. "He said about five minutes. Let's get in place."
He slung one of the oxygen packs onto his back, hooked it onto the helmet, then put it on. It hissed as it sealed with the rest of his suit, and Han motioned for Luke to follow his example. Slowly, clumsily, Luke grabbed the second oxygen pack and helmet, connected them, and fit the helmet over his head. His ears popped as it connected with the high, thick collar of his jacket, and for a second he couldn't breathe. Then the oxygen pack gushed to life, and clean, cold, sterile air washed across his lips and cheeks.
They moved slowly down the hall toward the hatch ladder, their actions stiff and exaggerated. Once they reached it they halted, one of Han's hands on the fourth rung of the ladder.
Leia woke.
"Luke?" she asked, miserable. She had spent most of the night dry heaving and shaking, unable to stop, unable to still. Luke had remained with her through all of it, offering what comfort he could give, what reassurance he could find.
"I'm here," Luke said quickly, sending her warmth and comfort through the ember doorway.
Slowly, painfully, Luke felt Leia enter his mind. It took longer than usual—usually a blink of the eye was all it took for them to join the other—and it took more concentration than it ever had before, but Leia finally settled herself into Luke's mind, away from the pain and exhaustion in her physical body.
"I just want to forget," Leia said. "I don't know if I can—I can still feel it, on the other side of the veil. But it's muted like this, at least."
"Good," said Luke. "And maybe I can provide a distraction. We're about to go on my first mission."
Chewie yowled into their ears. Han glanced at Luke, grinned, and said, "Show time."
They climbed the ladder, Luke after Han, boots heavy on the rungs. At the top, Han triggered the hatch tube to close beneath Luke, sealing off the section from the rest of the ship. Then, pressing a second, red button, the hatch door opened onto empty space.
Han carefully pulled himself through the opening, grabbing onto the rung on the lip of the hatch. Luke followed suit, feeling Leia's stomach in her throat. She was excited—as excited as he was—but also trepidatious.
"Be careful," she told Luke.
"I will be," Luke promised—and then he was outside.
It was more beautiful than Luke could have imagined. Countless stars stared at him unabashedly, unconstrained, the full weight of their silver gaze resting upon him. The vast emptiness of the space around them was enormous and awe-inspiring, crushing and exhilarating all at once. There was nothing between him and the cold, sucking space but the thick layers of cloth and plasti on his body.
"It's incredible," Luke breathed, to himself, to Leia, to Han and Chewie.
Han laughed again. "I s'pose it is," he said, taking a moment to look around him. He floated with his feet out, one hand anchoring him to the Falcon, the other at the utility belt at his waist. He glanced at Luke, and Luke grinned.
"Well?" said Han. "Let's go."
The wreckage of what had once been a beautiful ship spread out before them. The main body of the ship was largely intact, though holes had been blasted through the hull in numerous places. The fins, which had once gracefully swept out from two sides, had been blown off and now drifted in a cloud around the body in mangled durasteel spears. Plastiglass spun in haphazard fogs, glittering and deadly with their sharp edges and sharper points. Cargo boxes—Luke could only guess what was in them—hung suspended, spinning in slow, dizzying circles.
"Let's go," said Han again, and he pushed off from the side of the Falcon.
Luke followed, gathering himself and his wits and shoving off from the lip of the hatch. For a long moment they drifted, using their own momentum to drive them. The wreckage drew near and nearer still, looming before them like a great, hulking beast, the empty holes blown through the sides staring like a dozen eyes.
Han hit first. He struck the side soundlessly, grabbing for handholds. His fingers fastened around a protruding pipe, and he jerked to a halt. Luke struck a few feet to his left, scrabbling for purchase. For a second he thought he was going to just bounce off—his fingers slid across slick metal and broken plasti, and he felt himself slip to one side, body turning with the force of his momentum. Then his hands found purchase and he grabbed hold of the broken edge of a jagged wound torn through the hull.
He felt Leia breathe a sigh of relief and he smiled.
"Time to go inside," said Han. His voice came through the radio thin and tinny.
"Okay," Luke said, knowing Han wouldn't see him nod.
They entered the ship through a hole in the cargo bay just to the right of a porthole. "I don't want to risk us cutting up our suits," Han explained to Luke, when he pointed out that a larger hole was blown through the porthole itself. "Plastiglass is the most dangerous for this kind of material."
"Got it," said Luke, and he followed Han to the smaller, smoother-edged hole off to one side.
Once they were inside, it seemed to grow darker. The light from the stars and the Falcon were blocked out, leaving them in shadow. Han fumbled for something at his utility belt; a few seconds later a beam of light appeared, and Han swung the flashlight around in a long arc.
"This way," he said, and pushed off from the wall, sending himself hurtling down the long room, dodging and pushing off of the drifting crates that had not been sucked out of the cargo bay by the venting atmosphere.
Again, Luke followed, though he kept an eye on what he passed. His job, once the power was back up, was to strip the ship—which meant cleaning it out of all valuable supplies, including abandoned cargo.
They found their first dead body in the corridor beyond the cargo bay doors. The face was blue and coated in frost, the body unnaturally shrunk, the tongue that peered through the lips boiled, the skin capillaries ruptured. It was a gruesome and disturbing sight, and Luke clenched his teeth and jaw to keep from vomiting.
More bodies were found throughout the ship: in the galley and in the lounge, in the cockpit, in the corridors, all of them in the same condition as the first. Luke quickly learned to avert his eyes and drift past without looking at them and their sightless eyes. He didn't want to lose his breakfast in his suit—or in front of Han.
The corridors were buckled and broken, the walls and floors caved in, making movement treacherous. They squeezed past the ruptured, ragged spikes of durasteel and plastisteel, edged around holes gaping in the ground. More than once they had to duck and pull themselves along by the floor to avoid glittering clouds of plastiglass.
At last, however, they reached the cockpit. The windshield was buckled and broken in three places, the pilot and copilot still strapped into their seats. The shattering plastiglass had killed them before the vacuum of space had, their faces and chests ripped to shreds. Frozen drops of blood glittered in the air in a haze around them.
Han went immediately to the control panel at the back of the cockpit. He wrenched open the paneling and began to work, pulling out tool after tool from his utility belt. Luke held the flashlight for him, angling the beam over his shoulder so that he could see what he was doing.
A long minute passed. Then another. Still Han worked through gritted teeth, rewiring and soldering and patching.
The lights flickered. Luke looked up and around. For a split second gravity returned, and Luke's stomach swooped.
"You almost done?" he asked Han.
"Almost," Han replied—and then, as if a switch had been flicked, the power came on. Light flooded through the cockpit, and Luke's feet thudded to the ground as artificial gravity returned. "There," Han said, clearly proud of himself. "Chewie, we're online. Hook her up."
Chewie howled, and through the radio they heard the Falcon's engines thrum. A few seconds later the floor shuddered and bucked as Chewie latched their ship onto the wreckage.
He spoke again, this time softer. Han turned and told Luke, "Chewie's attached. Let's get moving."
Luke made his way back toward the cargo bay while Han remained in the cockpit to search for the datatapes. When he arrived, he did so to a mess; the cargo crates had all fallen to the ground when the artificial gravity had returned, many of them breaking open as they landed. Grain had spilled across the floor in a yellow wave, mixing with salted and smoked meats and flash-frozen fruits and vegetables.
"Great," Luke muttered, halting in the doorway to survey the damage.
After a moment's analysis, he picked his way through the mess and began stacking and gathering the crates that had not broken. He would have to move them to the hatch, and up to the tube where Chewie would take over. He was not looking forward to it—but it would be better than wading through slick and treacherous grain, he decided as he slipped for the third time.
More than once throughout the long ordeal of moving crates did Luke curse the cumbersome spacesuit. Because the hull had been breached in so many places, Han had been unable to reestablish atmosphere within the ship itself, leaving it necessary for them to keep their suits on.
"I wonder if he suspected that," Luke told Leia as he gathered the first set of crates to pass off to Chewie.
"What do you mean?" Leia asked.
"Maybe that's another reason he wanted me along," Luke said. "He didn't know what state the ship would be in, and so he wanted someone he knew would be able to accompany him to the ship. Since we don't have a suit that fits Chewie, that just leaves me…"
"Hm," said Leia. She was not up to talking much.
Luke had just set the second load in the middle of the tube connecting the two ships' hatches—Chewie would pressurize the tube from his end, gather the crates, then depressurize it again so Luke could load the next batch in—when Luke heard Chewie howl something. Then: silence.
"Han?" Luke asked, pausing in his retreat down the tube. "What did Chewie say?"
"Kid, get over here." Han's voice was thick and sharp in a way Luke had never heard before.
"Which ship?" Luke asked, realizing he didn't know what Han had meant.
"The wreckage. Now," Han snapped.
Luke bolted, clumsy and slow. He hit the buckled floor outside of the hatch at a run, turning to hit the button to seal the door in one surprisingly fluid movement.
"What's going on?" he asked as the door slid shut. He turned—only to come face-to-face with five men in white and black armor. They carried blasters, which were raised and pointed straight at his chest.
"Hands in the air," said what Luke had to guess was the leader. He obeyed slowly.
"Oh hell," Leia said, her own fear meeting and multiplying with Luke's.
"Han..." Luke began, a tremor in his voice..
"Get clear and hide," Han ordered through the radio. "The Imperials found us."
"Too late for that," said Luke softly, staring down the muzzles of the five blasters pointed at him. Way too late for that.
