Part IV -- Dazed and Confused
Fett approached and stood by Vader's side, having recovered from the Dark Lord's rebuke. "So this rock's populated. What does that mean?"
"It means there could very well be a spaceport or other means of leaving the planet nearby," Vader replied. "Or an ally who can arrange our transport to Imperial Center."
"Impossible," Fett said skeptically. "This system is too heavily guarded for anyone to establish a port without the Empire's knowledge."
"Outposts have sprung up on all sorts of restricted worlds," the Rebel pointed out. "Why not this one?"
Vader stared off into the trees in the direction the boy had fled. "It is doubtful the child would travel deeper into the forest. Most likely he has returned home. Therefore, we shall come across civilization if we travel in his tracks." He gestured toward the astromech. "Cut the droid loose, Fett. Watch it closely. We may need it. You will remain with me," he told the Rebel menacingly.
Fett untied the droid and stalked after Vader and their charge, grinding his teeth in barely suppressed fury. His rage roared within him like a blood-crazed acklay, as turbulent as the Kaminoan seas. Normally Fett was the master of his emotions, holding them easily in check to support his reputation of being the most soulless of bounty hunters. But now his anger had swollen beyond its bonds, wanting to turn the tables, to enslave him to its whims, and he had to struggle to keep it under control.
Not that his anger was unjustified. The past few days had been full of setbacks and frustrations. First that attack on Jabba's sail barge, which had not only led to his employer's death but had left him in the gut of the Sarlaac to be slowly digested over the course of a thousand years. He had managed to kill the beast and crawl out of its gullet despite excruciating pain, but with the crime lord dead he was left jobless. Then he'd accepted Vader's offer of employment, a mistake in itself. Each time he worked for the Dark Lord meant another opportunity to risk death by asphyxiation, even if the pay was impressive. And to top it all off, that blasted droid had sabotaged his ship! Why hadn't Vader simply deactivated the malfunctioning scrap heap? Because it didn't pose a risk? Even Fett knew you didn't leave a loose end like that when making a capture! Now he
was stranded on a back-of-beyond world with a psychotic Imperial, a smart-mouthed Rebel, and a mischievous bucket of bolts for company, and there was little he could do about the situation.
Of all the blows to his pride and patience, the damage done to the Slave rankled the worst. It was far more to him than a modified Firespray craft. Once his father's, the starship was an extension of Jango, a memorial to him, something no lightsaber-wielding fanatic could take from him. When the Slave suffered damage, Fett took it as personally as injury to himself. Now the ship was crippled, a major slap in the face to the younger Fett. His father had been wounded through the attack on the Slave.
His companions halted. They had come to a road, a strip of pebbles embedded in some sort of ferrocrete material, with a broken yellow line sectioning it into two lanes. Cumbersome, foul-smelling wheeled vehicles screamed by at irregular intervals. On the other side of the road stood a vibrant green sign bearing letters in Old Basic printed in reflective white paint -- "White Deer National Park." An arrow pointing left indicated the
direction of "Park Headquarters" while a right-pointing arrow led to "Star City."
"Civilization," Vader noted in satisfaction.
What kind was the question. Fett had visited enough worlds to know the word "civilization" applied to many cultures very loosely.
The boy they had seen earlier was standing by the side of the road, talking excitedly to a woman who must have been his mother and was garbed similarly to the boy, except her shirt was white and had some sort of bright orange, bipedal, feline creature printed on it. Their groundcar, as it were, was evidently suffering mechanical
problems judging from the open hood and copious steam billowing from the rude engine. The child turned around, saw them, and tugged earnestly at the hem of her shirt.
"Mom! Mom! It's them! I told you! They're aliens!"
Fett huffed indignantly. Aliens indeed! He was as human as the boy, clone or not.
"Benjamin, settle down!" the woman barked. "I'm not in the mood for your games."
"But Mo-om!"
"And don't run off again, young man! You could have been hurt!"
Vader stalked off in the direction of Star City, away from the ailing vehicle. The Rebel looked plaintively back as if wishing to help the woman, but Fett nudged him along with a poke from his blaster. He was anxious to get off this backwoods planet and get on with his life.
The Dark Lord halted again.
"What is it?" growled Fett.
Vader gestured for him to see for himself.
Standing beside the road, evidently waiting for a bus or other ride, were three stormtroopers, backs to their party, talking amongst themselves. One had his hand on the back of his thighs and was struggling to pull his bodyglove out of an unmentionable region. Fett thought that action pretty much summed up his opinion of his clone brothers.
Then he did a double take. Stormtroopers? Here?
"Does the Empire have a base here?" inquired the Rebel.
"No," Vader replied. "They must be from my ship. They should be able to lead us to their transport and take us back to the Executor."
The soldier who was having problems with his rear end turned to the comrade on his left, a rather grungy fellow with an orange shoulder pauldon. "Wish Bill'd get here," he grumped. "He's late again."
"Bill's always late," snapped the third, a scouttrooper. "I think you'd know that by now, Doug."
"Shut up, Caden."
They couldn't be legitimate stormtroopers, Fett realized. Stormtroopers had identification numbers, not names, and though some officers had the weird habit of assigning them nicknames, they never called each other by them. No, these had to be elaborate impostors. That fit in with the theory that there was an illegal spaceport nearby. But with Imperial security in Area 51 so tight it squeaked, how could one function without being detected?
"I don't think they're genuine stormtroopers," the Rebel said.
"That's impossible..." Vader began.
A blindingly-red vehicle, sleek and built low to the ground with an open cockpit, shrieked to a halt off the side of the road, narrowly missing a collision with the pseudo-trooper trio. In the front seat were two women -- a chalk-skinned pilot who bore an uncanny resemblance to an old acquaintance of Fett's, Aurra Sing, and a veiled woman dressed eerily like his father's old associate Zam Wessel. Between them, arms around each lady's shoulders, obviously enjoying himself immensely, sat a Darth Vader impostor.
"You guys sure can walk fast," the fake Vader noted. "Three miles from our breakdown site in two hours ain't bad."
"Bi-ill!" Doug cried in disdain. "Not again!"
"What took you so long?" demanded the grubby trooper.
"Oh chill, Andrew, can't a guy have some fun?" protested Darth Bill. "They were the only ones willing to give us a ride."
"The 'only' ones?" Caden inquired skeptically.
"Okay, the only good-lookin' ones," Bill confessed.
"Couldn't you at least find us a bigger set of wheels?" whined Doug. "We're gonna be squished back there."
"Hey, I'm not the one in the back seat with two guys," Bill shot back.
"Shut up and get in," Caden told Doug. "Beggars can't be choosers."
"Shoulda taken my van," grumbled Andrew as he leaped into the back. Once the threesome was inside, the groundcar tore away, leaving a cloud of exhaust and twin black streaks in its wake.
"Tell me I didn't just see that," the Rebel gaped.
"Something's not right here," Vader noted.
/When was your first clue?/ thought Fett.
***
Vader was confused -- and confusion was an emotion almost totally foreign to him. As a master of the dark side he was schooled in many subjects, and it was a rare moment when he didn't know what he was doing or what opponent he was facing. Now, stranded on a virtually unexplored world, one that had not had contact with the rest of the cosmos for millennia, he had just met people who dressed like Imperials and bounty hunters -- when they should have had no knowledge of such matters.
What in the galaxy was going on?
Another groundcar pulled over, this one a gray-gold color with a more blocky frame and a closed cockpit. The window glided open, and the driver stuck his head through.
"Need a lift?" he asked.
/By the Force, he's wearing a Jedi Padawan braid!/
What was this? How could they possibly know about Jedi? It was ludicrous -- yet here was this young man, clothed and groomed in the manner of a Jedi apprentice, not appearing the least bit concerned that he was speaking to a Sith. His stomach tightened with alarm.
"C'mon, I don't bite," the young man insisted. "My cat might, but he's had his shots. Besides, it's a long walk to Star City."
"We would be most grateful for a ride," Vader replied, finding his voice at last. He turned to the others. "Pick your jaws up off the ground and follow my lead," he whispered. "For now, we play along."
"Dig the costumes," the Jedi wannabe said as Fett opened the door and hoisted the Artoo unit inside the vehicle. "Say, you with the Droid Builder's Club?"
"Uh... no," Luke replied. "Why?"
"'Cause that's the coolest Artoo replica I've ever seen. Is it remote-controlled or what?"
"Yes," Vader said hastily as he entered the groundcar after Fett. "We're transporting it for a friend."
"I would put it in a box for safekeeping if I were you," he went on. "But that's just me." His gaze fell on Luke's hands. "That your Rebel captive or something?"
"This one's proven to be a trial during our journey," replied Fett.
"Well, you might wanna untie him so people don't think you're kidnapping someone and call the cops."
Reluctantly Vader removed the bonds, and Luke rubbed his wrists before entering the car.
Their benefactor pulled the groundcar back onto the road, operating it by means of a wheel and several foot pedals. Vader observed his actions carefully -- he might need to use such a vehicle before they left the planet. Music of an unfamiliar type filled the cockpit, and garbage littered the floor. On the front passenger seat reclined a striped gray feline creature, seemingly asleep. Odd belt-like straps lay across their seats. Vader
realized they must be safety harnesses and buckled his across his waist. Luke and Fett followed suit.
"Sorry about the mess," the mock Jedi apologized. "Wasn't expecting to pick up hitchhikers. My name's Trent, by the way."
"Pleased to meet you, Trent," Luke answered. "I'm..."
/It's a good thing Luke's seated between us/ Vader thought as Fett kicked the boy to silence him. If Trent discovered just who was sitting in the back of his vehicle, there would be no predicting his reaction.
"We would prefer not to give our names at this time," he answered instead.
Trent shrugged. "Whatever. You guys mind Linkin Park?"
"Linkin Park?" Vader repeated, puzzled.
"I can put in some different music if you want."
/Ah. Linkin Park must be a band name./ "This will be fine."
They traveled the next half-hour in relative silence, excluding Trent's bizarre choice in music and an occasional coo or squeak from Artoo. The scenery outside the groundcar gradually changed from thick forest to woods interspersed with individual homes and businesses, then finally to urban landscape -- or something close to it, at least. Vader had spent so much time on Corusant that any city he visited seemed small and rural.
"We're here!" announced Trent gleefully.
A sign loomed ahead, one bordered with stars and reading in Old Basic "You Are Entering Star City -- Home of Stellar-Con and Nova-Con." Some vandal had blacked out the "t" in "Stellar" and replaced it with an "m" so it read "Smellar-Con," and written in graffiti beneath the original message was the phrase "Get lost, Trekkie bastards." A retaliating scrawl beneath that read "Nuke the Wookies." Vader's hopes of finding an intelligent ally on this world were beginning to waver.
"So where ya want dropped off?" Trent asked.
"Here," Vader replied.
"Okay, your funeral," he replied as he pulled over, parking on a residential street. "Don't think your Rebel friend'll be welcome here, though."
"Why?" Vader demanded.
"Because this is where Vader's Elite have their annual bash before Stellar-Con."
"And who might Vader's Elite be?" he inquired warily.
"Some local Imperial fan group," Trent replied. "They're too disorganized to be part of the Fighting 501st and too Empire-centered to be much else. Anyone in a bad-guy costume's welcome to the party, but the last Rebel to go in there came out on his butt. Hard."
Vader puzzled silently over this information as he opened the door and slid out of the groundcar. As Luke climbed out after him, a gray and black blur bolted from the vehicle and streaked up a nearby tree.
"Wicket!" howled Trent, leaping out of the driver's seat. "Stupid cat! Get back down here!"
Vader ignored him and approached the nearest residence. Groundcars of all shapes and sizes surrounded the house, and a pounding noise emanated from a warehouse set a short way off the road. Two Imperial troopers -- or at least people dressed like Imperial troopers -- entered the building. That must have been where Vader's Elite gathered.
He seriously doubted this "Imperial group" was actually a faction of the Empire. More likely it was another motley pack of impostors. But he knew they had to contact this Vader's Elite. Someone on this forsaken planet must have some information on how to get back to known space. At the very least, they needed to learn what was going on in this system.
"The Rebel needs a disguise," Fett murmured.
Vader mused over that as he studied Luke. Real Imperials or not, Trent's comments regarding the Elite indicated that Skywalker would be torn apart if he entered the building in his Rebel flightsuit. He did not want the Emperor's prize damaged.
/If you ever see the Emperor again./
Snarling, he crushed that opposing thought.
A drunken snowtrooper scrambled out of his vehicle and staggered toward the building. He only made it a few paces before he gurgled ominously and stumbled into the bushes. Tearing off the helmet, he emptied his stomach on the grass and lurched a few more steps before passing out. Vader smiled beneath his mask. How fortunate. This man was very nearly of Skywalker's build. He motioned to the others, and they dragged
the intoxicated man farther into the brush.
They emerged a few minutes later, Luke adjusting his newly acquired shoulder plates.
Fett approached and stood by Vader's side, having recovered from the Dark Lord's rebuke. "So this rock's populated. What does that mean?"
"It means there could very well be a spaceport or other means of leaving the planet nearby," Vader replied. "Or an ally who can arrange our transport to Imperial Center."
"Impossible," Fett said skeptically. "This system is too heavily guarded for anyone to establish a port without the Empire's knowledge."
"Outposts have sprung up on all sorts of restricted worlds," the Rebel pointed out. "Why not this one?"
Vader stared off into the trees in the direction the boy had fled. "It is doubtful the child would travel deeper into the forest. Most likely he has returned home. Therefore, we shall come across civilization if we travel in his tracks." He gestured toward the astromech. "Cut the droid loose, Fett. Watch it closely. We may need it. You will remain with me," he told the Rebel menacingly.
Fett untied the droid and stalked after Vader and their charge, grinding his teeth in barely suppressed fury. His rage roared within him like a blood-crazed acklay, as turbulent as the Kaminoan seas. Normally Fett was the master of his emotions, holding them easily in check to support his reputation of being the most soulless of bounty hunters. But now his anger had swollen beyond its bonds, wanting to turn the tables, to enslave him to its whims, and he had to struggle to keep it under control.
Not that his anger was unjustified. The past few days had been full of setbacks and frustrations. First that attack on Jabba's sail barge, which had not only led to his employer's death but had left him in the gut of the Sarlaac to be slowly digested over the course of a thousand years. He had managed to kill the beast and crawl out of its gullet despite excruciating pain, but with the crime lord dead he was left jobless. Then he'd accepted Vader's offer of employment, a mistake in itself. Each time he worked for the Dark Lord meant another opportunity to risk death by asphyxiation, even if the pay was impressive. And to top it all off, that blasted droid had sabotaged his ship! Why hadn't Vader simply deactivated the malfunctioning scrap heap? Because it didn't pose a risk? Even Fett knew you didn't leave a loose end like that when making a capture! Now he
was stranded on a back-of-beyond world with a psychotic Imperial, a smart-mouthed Rebel, and a mischievous bucket of bolts for company, and there was little he could do about the situation.
Of all the blows to his pride and patience, the damage done to the Slave rankled the worst. It was far more to him than a modified Firespray craft. Once his father's, the starship was an extension of Jango, a memorial to him, something no lightsaber-wielding fanatic could take from him. When the Slave suffered damage, Fett took it as personally as injury to himself. Now the ship was crippled, a major slap in the face to the younger Fett. His father had been wounded through the attack on the Slave.
His companions halted. They had come to a road, a strip of pebbles embedded in some sort of ferrocrete material, with a broken yellow line sectioning it into two lanes. Cumbersome, foul-smelling wheeled vehicles screamed by at irregular intervals. On the other side of the road stood a vibrant green sign bearing letters in Old Basic printed in reflective white paint -- "White Deer National Park." An arrow pointing left indicated the
direction of "Park Headquarters" while a right-pointing arrow led to "Star City."
"Civilization," Vader noted in satisfaction.
What kind was the question. Fett had visited enough worlds to know the word "civilization" applied to many cultures very loosely.
The boy they had seen earlier was standing by the side of the road, talking excitedly to a woman who must have been his mother and was garbed similarly to the boy, except her shirt was white and had some sort of bright orange, bipedal, feline creature printed on it. Their groundcar, as it were, was evidently suffering mechanical
problems judging from the open hood and copious steam billowing from the rude engine. The child turned around, saw them, and tugged earnestly at the hem of her shirt.
"Mom! Mom! It's them! I told you! They're aliens!"
Fett huffed indignantly. Aliens indeed! He was as human as the boy, clone or not.
"Benjamin, settle down!" the woman barked. "I'm not in the mood for your games."
"But Mo-om!"
"And don't run off again, young man! You could have been hurt!"
Vader stalked off in the direction of Star City, away from the ailing vehicle. The Rebel looked plaintively back as if wishing to help the woman, but Fett nudged him along with a poke from his blaster. He was anxious to get off this backwoods planet and get on with his life.
The Dark Lord halted again.
"What is it?" growled Fett.
Vader gestured for him to see for himself.
Standing beside the road, evidently waiting for a bus or other ride, were three stormtroopers, backs to their party, talking amongst themselves. One had his hand on the back of his thighs and was struggling to pull his bodyglove out of an unmentionable region. Fett thought that action pretty much summed up his opinion of his clone brothers.
Then he did a double take. Stormtroopers? Here?
"Does the Empire have a base here?" inquired the Rebel.
"No," Vader replied. "They must be from my ship. They should be able to lead us to their transport and take us back to the Executor."
The soldier who was having problems with his rear end turned to the comrade on his left, a rather grungy fellow with an orange shoulder pauldon. "Wish Bill'd get here," he grumped. "He's late again."
"Bill's always late," snapped the third, a scouttrooper. "I think you'd know that by now, Doug."
"Shut up, Caden."
They couldn't be legitimate stormtroopers, Fett realized. Stormtroopers had identification numbers, not names, and though some officers had the weird habit of assigning them nicknames, they never called each other by them. No, these had to be elaborate impostors. That fit in with the theory that there was an illegal spaceport nearby. But with Imperial security in Area 51 so tight it squeaked, how could one function without being detected?
"I don't think they're genuine stormtroopers," the Rebel said.
"That's impossible..." Vader began.
A blindingly-red vehicle, sleek and built low to the ground with an open cockpit, shrieked to a halt off the side of the road, narrowly missing a collision with the pseudo-trooper trio. In the front seat were two women -- a chalk-skinned pilot who bore an uncanny resemblance to an old acquaintance of Fett's, Aurra Sing, and a veiled woman dressed eerily like his father's old associate Zam Wessel. Between them, arms around each lady's shoulders, obviously enjoying himself immensely, sat a Darth Vader impostor.
"You guys sure can walk fast," the fake Vader noted. "Three miles from our breakdown site in two hours ain't bad."
"Bi-ill!" Doug cried in disdain. "Not again!"
"What took you so long?" demanded the grubby trooper.
"Oh chill, Andrew, can't a guy have some fun?" protested Darth Bill. "They were the only ones willing to give us a ride."
"The 'only' ones?" Caden inquired skeptically.
"Okay, the only good-lookin' ones," Bill confessed.
"Couldn't you at least find us a bigger set of wheels?" whined Doug. "We're gonna be squished back there."
"Hey, I'm not the one in the back seat with two guys," Bill shot back.
"Shut up and get in," Caden told Doug. "Beggars can't be choosers."
"Shoulda taken my van," grumbled Andrew as he leaped into the back. Once the threesome was inside, the groundcar tore away, leaving a cloud of exhaust and twin black streaks in its wake.
"Tell me I didn't just see that," the Rebel gaped.
"Something's not right here," Vader noted.
/When was your first clue?/ thought Fett.
***
Vader was confused -- and confusion was an emotion almost totally foreign to him. As a master of the dark side he was schooled in many subjects, and it was a rare moment when he didn't know what he was doing or what opponent he was facing. Now, stranded on a virtually unexplored world, one that had not had contact with the rest of the cosmos for millennia, he had just met people who dressed like Imperials and bounty hunters -- when they should have had no knowledge of such matters.
What in the galaxy was going on?
Another groundcar pulled over, this one a gray-gold color with a more blocky frame and a closed cockpit. The window glided open, and the driver stuck his head through.
"Need a lift?" he asked.
/By the Force, he's wearing a Jedi Padawan braid!/
What was this? How could they possibly know about Jedi? It was ludicrous -- yet here was this young man, clothed and groomed in the manner of a Jedi apprentice, not appearing the least bit concerned that he was speaking to a Sith. His stomach tightened with alarm.
"C'mon, I don't bite," the young man insisted. "My cat might, but he's had his shots. Besides, it's a long walk to Star City."
"We would be most grateful for a ride," Vader replied, finding his voice at last. He turned to the others. "Pick your jaws up off the ground and follow my lead," he whispered. "For now, we play along."
"Dig the costumes," the Jedi wannabe said as Fett opened the door and hoisted the Artoo unit inside the vehicle. "Say, you with the Droid Builder's Club?"
"Uh... no," Luke replied. "Why?"
"'Cause that's the coolest Artoo replica I've ever seen. Is it remote-controlled or what?"
"Yes," Vader said hastily as he entered the groundcar after Fett. "We're transporting it for a friend."
"I would put it in a box for safekeeping if I were you," he went on. "But that's just me." His gaze fell on Luke's hands. "That your Rebel captive or something?"
"This one's proven to be a trial during our journey," replied Fett.
"Well, you might wanna untie him so people don't think you're kidnapping someone and call the cops."
Reluctantly Vader removed the bonds, and Luke rubbed his wrists before entering the car.
Their benefactor pulled the groundcar back onto the road, operating it by means of a wheel and several foot pedals. Vader observed his actions carefully -- he might need to use such a vehicle before they left the planet. Music of an unfamiliar type filled the cockpit, and garbage littered the floor. On the front passenger seat reclined a striped gray feline creature, seemingly asleep. Odd belt-like straps lay across their seats. Vader
realized they must be safety harnesses and buckled his across his waist. Luke and Fett followed suit.
"Sorry about the mess," the mock Jedi apologized. "Wasn't expecting to pick up hitchhikers. My name's Trent, by the way."
"Pleased to meet you, Trent," Luke answered. "I'm..."
/It's a good thing Luke's seated between us/ Vader thought as Fett kicked the boy to silence him. If Trent discovered just who was sitting in the back of his vehicle, there would be no predicting his reaction.
"We would prefer not to give our names at this time," he answered instead.
Trent shrugged. "Whatever. You guys mind Linkin Park?"
"Linkin Park?" Vader repeated, puzzled.
"I can put in some different music if you want."
/Ah. Linkin Park must be a band name./ "This will be fine."
They traveled the next half-hour in relative silence, excluding Trent's bizarre choice in music and an occasional coo or squeak from Artoo. The scenery outside the groundcar gradually changed from thick forest to woods interspersed with individual homes and businesses, then finally to urban landscape -- or something close to it, at least. Vader had spent so much time on Corusant that any city he visited seemed small and rural.
"We're here!" announced Trent gleefully.
A sign loomed ahead, one bordered with stars and reading in Old Basic "You Are Entering Star City -- Home of Stellar-Con and Nova-Con." Some vandal had blacked out the "t" in "Stellar" and replaced it with an "m" so it read "Smellar-Con," and written in graffiti beneath the original message was the phrase "Get lost, Trekkie bastards." A retaliating scrawl beneath that read "Nuke the Wookies." Vader's hopes of finding an intelligent ally on this world were beginning to waver.
"So where ya want dropped off?" Trent asked.
"Here," Vader replied.
"Okay, your funeral," he replied as he pulled over, parking on a residential street. "Don't think your Rebel friend'll be welcome here, though."
"Why?" Vader demanded.
"Because this is where Vader's Elite have their annual bash before Stellar-Con."
"And who might Vader's Elite be?" he inquired warily.
"Some local Imperial fan group," Trent replied. "They're too disorganized to be part of the Fighting 501st and too Empire-centered to be much else. Anyone in a bad-guy costume's welcome to the party, but the last Rebel to go in there came out on his butt. Hard."
Vader puzzled silently over this information as he opened the door and slid out of the groundcar. As Luke climbed out after him, a gray and black blur bolted from the vehicle and streaked up a nearby tree.
"Wicket!" howled Trent, leaping out of the driver's seat. "Stupid cat! Get back down here!"
Vader ignored him and approached the nearest residence. Groundcars of all shapes and sizes surrounded the house, and a pounding noise emanated from a warehouse set a short way off the road. Two Imperial troopers -- or at least people dressed like Imperial troopers -- entered the building. That must have been where Vader's Elite gathered.
He seriously doubted this "Imperial group" was actually a faction of the Empire. More likely it was another motley pack of impostors. But he knew they had to contact this Vader's Elite. Someone on this forsaken planet must have some information on how to get back to known space. At the very least, they needed to learn what was going on in this system.
"The Rebel needs a disguise," Fett murmured.
Vader mused over that as he studied Luke. Real Imperials or not, Trent's comments regarding the Elite indicated that Skywalker would be torn apart if he entered the building in his Rebel flightsuit. He did not want the Emperor's prize damaged.
/If you ever see the Emperor again./
Snarling, he crushed that opposing thought.
A drunken snowtrooper scrambled out of his vehicle and staggered toward the building. He only made it a few paces before he gurgled ominously and stumbled into the bushes. Tearing off the helmet, he emptied his stomach on the grass and lurched a few more steps before passing out. Vader smiled beneath his mask. How fortunate. This man was very nearly of Skywalker's build. He motioned to the others, and they dragged
the intoxicated man farther into the brush.
They emerged a few minutes later, Luke adjusting his newly acquired shoulder plates.