WARNING -- Contains major Vader-centered mush. Those who don't like stories in which Vader's lighter side is explored would be advised to not continue reading past this point.
Part XIV -- Life Goes On
Trapper had explained his father's computer habits to Luke, so he could pretty much judge Austin's progress on his weekly newspaper column by looking at the monitor. If he was actually working on a piece, he was in his "men at work" mind frame and not to be disturbed. If he was playing a game that required some amount of strategy -- "Zoo Tycoon," "Warcraft," "Age of Empires" -- he was done with this week's column. If he was playing a Star Wars game -- "Yoda Stories," "Galactic Battlegrounds," "X-wing Vs. TIE-fighter" -- he was looking for inspiration. If he was playing a low-key game -- "Mahjongg," "Freecell," "Solitaire" -- he had an idea but was waiting for the pieces to fall together.
If he was whacking his head against the monitor -- like he was now -- it was Deadline Day and he hadn't even started.
"I'm not much on psychology," Luke stated, "so I hope you can clarify this for me. Does giving yourself a concussion stimulate the thought processes?"
"Drop dead," Austin replied.
"Well, what have you got written so far?"
Austin showed him the screen. In bold letters he had typed "Life As a Geek -- by Austin Powers."
"That's a start," Luke replied optimistically.
"Just write about Stellar-Con, Dad," Trapper suggested from the couch, where he was playing with his action figures.
"Stellar-Con?" Austin repeated. "I can sum that up in four words -- better luck next year."
"What about your fan club?" Luke asked.
"Done several. And the editor tells me to keep them few and far between so I don't make the column a sales pitch."
"Costume making?"
"Done that."
"Your son's collection?"
"Done that too." He groaned and slammed his forehead against the keyboard, filling the monitor with rows of the letter "j." "If only I could write about you! 'Luke Skywalker Spends Month in Stargeek's House.' That would up circulation. But I can't."
Luke left him to his moaning and decided to have a look at what Trapper was doing. He had quite the elaborate setup going with his toys, with a stormtrooper wielding a purple lightsaber leading a dozen battle droids against a blaster-toting Kit Fisto and his army of Jawas and Sandpeople, and a Darth Vader figure astride a nexu dueling a
speeder-bike-riding Admiral Ackbar.
"What's going on here?" Luke asked, kneeling beside the couch.
"I'm having fun," Trapper replied, trying to jam a stormtrooper helmet on Obi-wan Kenobi's head. "I like to make things up, do weird things."
"Hmmm." Luke knelt and picked up a Boba Fett figure with Darth Vader's cape on and a Gungan energy lance clutched in his hands. "Thought as much. Stormtroopers don't normally carry lightsabers."
"They do in THIS story!" Trapper gave up on Obi-wan and tossed him aside. "Sometimes its fun to imagine what went on before or after or between the movies, or to just pretend Darth Maul didn't die or Yoda trained Leia instead of you."
Luke chuckled. "I can tell you what happened between Movie Four and Movie Five if you want."
"No way!" Trapper barked, then grinned. "I prefer to imagine. Everyone does. Some people take the books' word for it, but not me. I hate the books. I hate 'Vector Prime.' I haven't read it, but Dad says they kill Chewbacca in that one. They wanted to add realism. Hello? People watch Star Wars to get away from realism!"
"It's more real than they think, but I can see your point," Luke replied, examining a figure that was supposed to be him. /This doesn't look anything like me!/
"There's hundreds of people on the Internet that write stories about Star Wars -- they call it fan fiction," Trapper went on. "Some of the stories are scrud. Some are okay. A lot of them are better than the books. And some are even better than the movies." He wedged a blaster rifle into Sebulba's paws and placed him near the droid army. "It's a great way to share your thoughts and opinions on the movies and characters."
"Have you actually written any of this fan fiction?" asked Luke.
"Not yet. But I'm making up a story about how Darth Sidious found Darth Maul and began training him, and I'm hoping to get it online sometime."
"Sounds interesting."
The clatter of fingers on the keyboard attracted their curiosity. Austin was hunched over the keyboard, rapidly typing something.
"Inspiration strikes back?" Luke quipped.
"Hey, he's copying our conversation!" Trapper realized, miffed. "You'd better be giving me co-author credit, Dad!"
Austin laughed heartily. "Don't worry, Trapper, you get your due mention. You're actually a regular contributor."
"May I use the computer after you're done?" asked Luke. "I'd like to read some of this fan fiction myself."
"Looking for ideas on how to bring your old man back to the light?" inquired Austin.
"No, I'm just curious," Luke replied. "I mean, if someone wrote a story about you, you'd want to check it out, wouldn't you?"
"Austin Owen Powers in a fanfic?" Austin said with a skeptical snort. "That'll be the day."
"It's called 'Goldmember,' Dad," teased Trapper.
"Hey, don't bring Mike Myers into this," ordered Austin as Luke enjoyed a hearty laugh.
***
Fett had the run of the Osmond's house now that the brothers were at work, and he was bored out of his skull. Normally he would spend his infrequent spare moments upgrading or recharging his weapons or making minor repairs or maintenance to the Slave. But the ship was off in the woods somewhere, currently inoperable, and he lacked the proper equipment to either repair the starfighter or tend to his weaponry. Now, with almost an entire day at his disposal and no activities to fill it, he thought he would go mad.
He quit pacing long enough to rummage through the stack of DVDs and videos by the television. Perhaps something here would help him kill the time.
"What Women Want" and "Never Been Kissed" were obvious rejects. So was "Jackass -- the Movie" -- the title was a dead giveaway of the film's quality. He considered "Reign of Fire" but put it aside in favor of "Toy Story." The premise of live, talking children's playthings was offbeat but interesting, and he was intrigued.
Now for some lunch. Jason had given him complete freedom regarding his meals, but he wasn't in the mood for cooking or reheating anything. Maybe there was some tuna fish left over from two nights ago. He reached for the refrigerator door handle -- and spotted a list of telephone numbers attached to the door. Among them were listed the phone codes for the police and fire departments, the local hospital, poison control, animal control, their mom's house and work phone, Austin's home, the zoo where Patrick worked, the garage where Jason worked, and a pizza delivery service.
Tuna fish or pizza? Anyone could make that decision.
He had never used a telephone before, but he had seen Jason operate it when he called in "sick" the day of the barbecue. It couldn't be too terribly difficult. Carefully lifting the receiver, he punched in the code and awaited a reply.
No answer. Had he skipped a vital step? Looking at the receiver again, he spotted a button marked "talk." He pressed it and put the receiver to his ear again, and he was rewarded with three rings and a pleasant female voice.
"Walmart Photo Center. How may I help you?"
Uh-oh. He hadn't anticipated this. "Do you offer services besides photos?" he asked.
"Pardon me?"
"I was trying to order a pizza."
"I'm sorry, sir, but you've dialed a wrong number."
"Oh." He considered that a moment. "What do I do now?"
"Well, I usually hang up and try again in this situation."
"Yes, thank you ma'am." He pressed the "talk" button again to cut the transmission. Earthlings! And they had given up the Holonet to do this the hard way? He entered the code again, taking time to do it correctly. A male voice answered this time.
"Pizza Hut. This is Brad."
"I would like to order a large pizza," he informed Brad.
"All right, what kind?"
Puzzled silence. "Round?" he tried. In his experience, that was the only kind.
"I mean what toppings would you like, sir?"
That stumped him too. He had learned the names of a few Earth foods, but aside from cheese he couldn't identify any that went on pizza.
"Tuna fish?" he tried.
Brad's silence told him that he'd flubbed. "Ah, sir, we don't put tuna fish on our pizzas, and I don't know of any restaurant around here that does. Would you like to try our Ham and Pineapple Hawaiian Special today?"
Fett didn't know what Hawaiian meant, but he knew about pineapple, and in his honest opinion pineapple just didn't belong on pizza. "What do you like on your pizza?" he asked cautiously.
It must have been a slow day at the restaurant for Brad to put up with such a clueless customer. "Two of our most popular toppings are pepperoni and sausage."
"Sausage," Fett repeated, rolling the word around in his mouth and savoring it. "That sounds good. What is it?"
"We use pork sausage on our pizzas, sir."
"Pork? What's pork?"
"Ummm... that's pig meat, sir."
"Pigs!" He grimaced. Disgusting creatures! They reminded him too much of Ugnaughts and Gamorreans. "Make that a large pepperoni pizza."
"You've got it, sir! Is this a pickup or a delivery?"
"Delivery."
"May I have your name and address, sir?"
"Boba Fett." To himself he said /Stang. Nice one, Fett./
Luckily, Brad took it in stride. "Ha ha. Your real name, sir."
"Robert Francis, number 452 off Highway 48. Look for a white house with gray trim and a large gray shop out back."
"Okay, we'll have that to you within half an hour. Goodbye, sir."
It was actually twenty minutes into the movie when the doorbell rang.
"Whoa, cool costume!" the delivery man exclaimed. "Okay, so that's one large pepperoni pizza. That'll be $12.53."
He started to pull credits out of his leg pouch before recalling that this planet didn't accept Imperial currency.
"What are those?"
"These?" Fett replied, thinking fast. "Republic credit chip props -- ones used in the making of 'The Phantom Menace.'"
"Get out of here!" The pizza guy fumbled for his wallet. "Are they for sale? I only got fifty bucks..."
"I can spare one in exchange for the pizza."
"Uh, can't do that. The pizza money has to go to the boss, and he won't exactly appreciate a movie prop as payment."
"Then a deal. I'll part with this for $12.53." Fett held up a single chip. "You give me the money, I give it back to you, and you give me my pizza. You, your boss, and I come out of this situation satisfied. Deal?"
"Sweet! Good thinking, dude!"
As Fett took the pizza inside and shut the door, he could hear the delivery man say "Sucker! Wonder how much this'll get on e-Bay!"
"Sucker yourself," Fett said with a grin. "There's plenty more where that one came from."
***
Conrad had just left for work, and Diana had shooed Rachel into the living room to watch cartoons. Once they were both gone, she confronted Vader.
"I hate to sound paranoid about yesterday's... incident, but I'd appreciate it if you made sure Rachel can't get to your lightsaber," she requested. "I'm afraid she'll think its a toy and hurt herself."
"An understandable fear," Vader acknowledged. "She is a smart child and knows my weapon is off limits."
Diana sighed with relief. "Thank you. I need to start a load of laundry, so I'll be in the basement if you need me. I'm sure you can keep yourself busy."
After she had departed he went into the living room. Rachel stared, transfixed, at some brightly colored animated children's program. Excluding the fact that it was on a two-dimensional screen rather than a 3-D holovid, it didn't seem any different from any children's holovid show. Even the basic premise of the show -- two children visiting a land of dragons -- had been used in a holovid program on Corusant when he was still a
child.
He browsed the bookshelf while she watched TV. Despite Conrad's undignified job as a construction worker, their family was quite educated, and they prized books and reading highly. Even Rachel, who couldn't read, loved books and couldn't go to sleep without a bedtime story. He smiled privately as he examined the titles and tried to discern their meanings -- "A Midsummer Night's Dream," "Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets," "Blood of the Fold," "The Time Machine," "Oliver Twist," "The Call of the Wild," "Heir to the Empire," "Ender's Game," and countless others.
One shelf in particular intrigued him. There were no books here, only a few framed pictures and two decorative vases. One of the photos showed a tired-looking young couple, ecstatic smiles on their faces and three newborn babies in their arms. Two others were portraits of single babies, framed alongside such statistics as their names,
birth weights, hair and eye colors, and exact dates and times of birth. Snippets of each child's hair had been pressed between the picture and the glass in a corner of each frame.
He leaned closer and studied the couple. If he wasn't mistaken, those were Conrad and Diana. Did Rachel have siblings? If so, where were they?
"That's my brothers."
Rachel was standing beside him, regarding the shelf with a solemn expression.
"Really," Vader mused as he lifted the family photo. "So that's you in the picture with your parents."
"Yup. I'm part of triplets. My brothers were Noah and Eli."
"Where are they now?"
She stared at him as if he were dense, then pointed at the urns.
"Oh," he breathed, catching on. Deep inside him, a heart he didn't remember having ached for his hosts.
"Daddy said it was something called SIDS," she went on in her usual matter-of-fact tone. "I don't remember what it means. Mommy says that sometimes babies just die."
With infinite care Vader returned the picture. The two boys looked so young, so angelic. They had both died so young, still innocent souls. He clenched a fist in growing anger. It wasn't fair. Neither child had done anything to deserve their fates.
Padme. Shmi. Noah. Eli. Innocents all. All brutally wrenched from this life. Why? There was no justice in it. Why were guilty, evil men allowed to walk alive and free while the blameless, the innocent, suffered? Why did the Force allow the Sandpeople to kill his mother and an infantile disease to kill Rachel's brothers? Why hadn't the Force kept Padme from death?
The Jedi... how he hated them! When he had first begun having nightmares about his mother he had wanted to go back to Tatooine and help her, but they had assured him that the dreams were meaningless. What they had really meant by that was "She's not a Jedi, she's not worth saving, we need you around to do Jedi work, not saving slaves." Their stupid archaic laws forbade him from loving, dooming him and Padme the moment they exchanged wedding vows. It was their fault he was in this awful position, their fault that he was little more than a Force-strong droid-man in the clutches of a deranged megalomaniac...
/No, Vader. It's your fault. They kept you from saving your mother, but it was your decision to let grief consume you. They forbade love, but it was your decision to put a ring on Padme's finger. They made the rules, but it was your decision to break them./
He had to sit down. His anger was fading, the protective barrier against grief and shame was coming down, and both emotions swept through him with unrelenting force. He cradled his masked face in his hands and tried to ignore the sensation of hot fluid coursing down his cheeks. Stars, what had he done? He had suffered horrendous losses, and in response to those losses he had lashed out and destroyed himself and all he came in
contact with. But the Church family, too, had lost something dear and precious, yet they continued to live happy, productive lives.
/I will be the most powerful Jedi ever. I will even learn to keep people from dying./
Ha. What a joke. He, who had vowed to free slaves and save lives, had instead become the bringer of death. At his hand countless thousands had perished, not all innocent, yet many not deserving of their fates. What made him think that he was a victim? Others were victims of his cruelty, and he dared call himself a victim! Now where was justice in that?
/Luke/ he thought bitterly, /what good can you see in me? What is in this wretched armor that you deem worth saving?/
Rachel tapped his knee. "You alright?"
He gave a slow nod.
She didn't buy it. "When I hug Mori, I always feel better." She offered him the Wookie doll.
He stared blankly at the toy and received an equally blank stare in return -- the paint had worn off the doll's plastic eyes long ago. Its fur was matted and snarled and thinning in odd places. He doubted the thing had ever seen any kind of cleaning agent in its lifespan. Nonetheless, to Rachel the doll must have been more priceless than a freighter of Corusca gems.
"Come on!" Rachel urged, practically throwing the doll into his hands. "Mori wants to help you feel better!"
Feeling rather foolish, he squeezed the Wookie briefly against his chest.
"That's not a real hug!" She scrambled onto his lap and threw her arms around him. "Like this!"
Tears began afresh as he returned the girl's embrace.
/Dear Luke/ he thought, /how I wish I could have held you like this when you were a child./
He sensed another presence in the room, and he looked up to see Diana at the doorway. She was smiling gently at the scene. Then she saw the Wookie doll beside him, just out of Rachel's grasp.
"Hand me that?" she mouthed.
Vader carefully floated it toward Diana on a ribbon of the Force, and she took it downstairs to give it a long-needed bath.
When Rachel released him, she seemed not to notice Mori's absence. "I'm watching 'Dragon Tales.' Wanna watch it with me?"
"Not at the moment..."
"Please?"
"Oh, all right." He patted her shoulder as she made himself comfortable on his lap. "Just this show, though."
Part XIV -- Life Goes On
Trapper had explained his father's computer habits to Luke, so he could pretty much judge Austin's progress on his weekly newspaper column by looking at the monitor. If he was actually working on a piece, he was in his "men at work" mind frame and not to be disturbed. If he was playing a game that required some amount of strategy -- "Zoo Tycoon," "Warcraft," "Age of Empires" -- he was done with this week's column. If he was playing a Star Wars game -- "Yoda Stories," "Galactic Battlegrounds," "X-wing Vs. TIE-fighter" -- he was looking for inspiration. If he was playing a low-key game -- "Mahjongg," "Freecell," "Solitaire" -- he had an idea but was waiting for the pieces to fall together.
If he was whacking his head against the monitor -- like he was now -- it was Deadline Day and he hadn't even started.
"I'm not much on psychology," Luke stated, "so I hope you can clarify this for me. Does giving yourself a concussion stimulate the thought processes?"
"Drop dead," Austin replied.
"Well, what have you got written so far?"
Austin showed him the screen. In bold letters he had typed "Life As a Geek -- by Austin Powers."
"That's a start," Luke replied optimistically.
"Just write about Stellar-Con, Dad," Trapper suggested from the couch, where he was playing with his action figures.
"Stellar-Con?" Austin repeated. "I can sum that up in four words -- better luck next year."
"What about your fan club?" Luke asked.
"Done several. And the editor tells me to keep them few and far between so I don't make the column a sales pitch."
"Costume making?"
"Done that."
"Your son's collection?"
"Done that too." He groaned and slammed his forehead against the keyboard, filling the monitor with rows of the letter "j." "If only I could write about you! 'Luke Skywalker Spends Month in Stargeek's House.' That would up circulation. But I can't."
Luke left him to his moaning and decided to have a look at what Trapper was doing. He had quite the elaborate setup going with his toys, with a stormtrooper wielding a purple lightsaber leading a dozen battle droids against a blaster-toting Kit Fisto and his army of Jawas and Sandpeople, and a Darth Vader figure astride a nexu dueling a
speeder-bike-riding Admiral Ackbar.
"What's going on here?" Luke asked, kneeling beside the couch.
"I'm having fun," Trapper replied, trying to jam a stormtrooper helmet on Obi-wan Kenobi's head. "I like to make things up, do weird things."
"Hmmm." Luke knelt and picked up a Boba Fett figure with Darth Vader's cape on and a Gungan energy lance clutched in his hands. "Thought as much. Stormtroopers don't normally carry lightsabers."
"They do in THIS story!" Trapper gave up on Obi-wan and tossed him aside. "Sometimes its fun to imagine what went on before or after or between the movies, or to just pretend Darth Maul didn't die or Yoda trained Leia instead of you."
Luke chuckled. "I can tell you what happened between Movie Four and Movie Five if you want."
"No way!" Trapper barked, then grinned. "I prefer to imagine. Everyone does. Some people take the books' word for it, but not me. I hate the books. I hate 'Vector Prime.' I haven't read it, but Dad says they kill Chewbacca in that one. They wanted to add realism. Hello? People watch Star Wars to get away from realism!"
"It's more real than they think, but I can see your point," Luke replied, examining a figure that was supposed to be him. /This doesn't look anything like me!/
"There's hundreds of people on the Internet that write stories about Star Wars -- they call it fan fiction," Trapper went on. "Some of the stories are scrud. Some are okay. A lot of them are better than the books. And some are even better than the movies." He wedged a blaster rifle into Sebulba's paws and placed him near the droid army. "It's a great way to share your thoughts and opinions on the movies and characters."
"Have you actually written any of this fan fiction?" asked Luke.
"Not yet. But I'm making up a story about how Darth Sidious found Darth Maul and began training him, and I'm hoping to get it online sometime."
"Sounds interesting."
The clatter of fingers on the keyboard attracted their curiosity. Austin was hunched over the keyboard, rapidly typing something.
"Inspiration strikes back?" Luke quipped.
"Hey, he's copying our conversation!" Trapper realized, miffed. "You'd better be giving me co-author credit, Dad!"
Austin laughed heartily. "Don't worry, Trapper, you get your due mention. You're actually a regular contributor."
"May I use the computer after you're done?" asked Luke. "I'd like to read some of this fan fiction myself."
"Looking for ideas on how to bring your old man back to the light?" inquired Austin.
"No, I'm just curious," Luke replied. "I mean, if someone wrote a story about you, you'd want to check it out, wouldn't you?"
"Austin Owen Powers in a fanfic?" Austin said with a skeptical snort. "That'll be the day."
"It's called 'Goldmember,' Dad," teased Trapper.
"Hey, don't bring Mike Myers into this," ordered Austin as Luke enjoyed a hearty laugh.
***
Fett had the run of the Osmond's house now that the brothers were at work, and he was bored out of his skull. Normally he would spend his infrequent spare moments upgrading or recharging his weapons or making minor repairs or maintenance to the Slave. But the ship was off in the woods somewhere, currently inoperable, and he lacked the proper equipment to either repair the starfighter or tend to his weaponry. Now, with almost an entire day at his disposal and no activities to fill it, he thought he would go mad.
He quit pacing long enough to rummage through the stack of DVDs and videos by the television. Perhaps something here would help him kill the time.
"What Women Want" and "Never Been Kissed" were obvious rejects. So was "Jackass -- the Movie" -- the title was a dead giveaway of the film's quality. He considered "Reign of Fire" but put it aside in favor of "Toy Story." The premise of live, talking children's playthings was offbeat but interesting, and he was intrigued.
Now for some lunch. Jason had given him complete freedom regarding his meals, but he wasn't in the mood for cooking or reheating anything. Maybe there was some tuna fish left over from two nights ago. He reached for the refrigerator door handle -- and spotted a list of telephone numbers attached to the door. Among them were listed the phone codes for the police and fire departments, the local hospital, poison control, animal control, their mom's house and work phone, Austin's home, the zoo where Patrick worked, the garage where Jason worked, and a pizza delivery service.
Tuna fish or pizza? Anyone could make that decision.
He had never used a telephone before, but he had seen Jason operate it when he called in "sick" the day of the barbecue. It couldn't be too terribly difficult. Carefully lifting the receiver, he punched in the code and awaited a reply.
No answer. Had he skipped a vital step? Looking at the receiver again, he spotted a button marked "talk." He pressed it and put the receiver to his ear again, and he was rewarded with three rings and a pleasant female voice.
"Walmart Photo Center. How may I help you?"
Uh-oh. He hadn't anticipated this. "Do you offer services besides photos?" he asked.
"Pardon me?"
"I was trying to order a pizza."
"I'm sorry, sir, but you've dialed a wrong number."
"Oh." He considered that a moment. "What do I do now?"
"Well, I usually hang up and try again in this situation."
"Yes, thank you ma'am." He pressed the "talk" button again to cut the transmission. Earthlings! And they had given up the Holonet to do this the hard way? He entered the code again, taking time to do it correctly. A male voice answered this time.
"Pizza Hut. This is Brad."
"I would like to order a large pizza," he informed Brad.
"All right, what kind?"
Puzzled silence. "Round?" he tried. In his experience, that was the only kind.
"I mean what toppings would you like, sir?"
That stumped him too. He had learned the names of a few Earth foods, but aside from cheese he couldn't identify any that went on pizza.
"Tuna fish?" he tried.
Brad's silence told him that he'd flubbed. "Ah, sir, we don't put tuna fish on our pizzas, and I don't know of any restaurant around here that does. Would you like to try our Ham and Pineapple Hawaiian Special today?"
Fett didn't know what Hawaiian meant, but he knew about pineapple, and in his honest opinion pineapple just didn't belong on pizza. "What do you like on your pizza?" he asked cautiously.
It must have been a slow day at the restaurant for Brad to put up with such a clueless customer. "Two of our most popular toppings are pepperoni and sausage."
"Sausage," Fett repeated, rolling the word around in his mouth and savoring it. "That sounds good. What is it?"
"We use pork sausage on our pizzas, sir."
"Pork? What's pork?"
"Ummm... that's pig meat, sir."
"Pigs!" He grimaced. Disgusting creatures! They reminded him too much of Ugnaughts and Gamorreans. "Make that a large pepperoni pizza."
"You've got it, sir! Is this a pickup or a delivery?"
"Delivery."
"May I have your name and address, sir?"
"Boba Fett." To himself he said /Stang. Nice one, Fett./
Luckily, Brad took it in stride. "Ha ha. Your real name, sir."
"Robert Francis, number 452 off Highway 48. Look for a white house with gray trim and a large gray shop out back."
"Okay, we'll have that to you within half an hour. Goodbye, sir."
It was actually twenty minutes into the movie when the doorbell rang.
"Whoa, cool costume!" the delivery man exclaimed. "Okay, so that's one large pepperoni pizza. That'll be $12.53."
He started to pull credits out of his leg pouch before recalling that this planet didn't accept Imperial currency.
"What are those?"
"These?" Fett replied, thinking fast. "Republic credit chip props -- ones used in the making of 'The Phantom Menace.'"
"Get out of here!" The pizza guy fumbled for his wallet. "Are they for sale? I only got fifty bucks..."
"I can spare one in exchange for the pizza."
"Uh, can't do that. The pizza money has to go to the boss, and he won't exactly appreciate a movie prop as payment."
"Then a deal. I'll part with this for $12.53." Fett held up a single chip. "You give me the money, I give it back to you, and you give me my pizza. You, your boss, and I come out of this situation satisfied. Deal?"
"Sweet! Good thinking, dude!"
As Fett took the pizza inside and shut the door, he could hear the delivery man say "Sucker! Wonder how much this'll get on e-Bay!"
"Sucker yourself," Fett said with a grin. "There's plenty more where that one came from."
***
Conrad had just left for work, and Diana had shooed Rachel into the living room to watch cartoons. Once they were both gone, she confronted Vader.
"I hate to sound paranoid about yesterday's... incident, but I'd appreciate it if you made sure Rachel can't get to your lightsaber," she requested. "I'm afraid she'll think its a toy and hurt herself."
"An understandable fear," Vader acknowledged. "She is a smart child and knows my weapon is off limits."
Diana sighed with relief. "Thank you. I need to start a load of laundry, so I'll be in the basement if you need me. I'm sure you can keep yourself busy."
After she had departed he went into the living room. Rachel stared, transfixed, at some brightly colored animated children's program. Excluding the fact that it was on a two-dimensional screen rather than a 3-D holovid, it didn't seem any different from any children's holovid show. Even the basic premise of the show -- two children visiting a land of dragons -- had been used in a holovid program on Corusant when he was still a
child.
He browsed the bookshelf while she watched TV. Despite Conrad's undignified job as a construction worker, their family was quite educated, and they prized books and reading highly. Even Rachel, who couldn't read, loved books and couldn't go to sleep without a bedtime story. He smiled privately as he examined the titles and tried to discern their meanings -- "A Midsummer Night's Dream," "Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets," "Blood of the Fold," "The Time Machine," "Oliver Twist," "The Call of the Wild," "Heir to the Empire," "Ender's Game," and countless others.
One shelf in particular intrigued him. There were no books here, only a few framed pictures and two decorative vases. One of the photos showed a tired-looking young couple, ecstatic smiles on their faces and three newborn babies in their arms. Two others were portraits of single babies, framed alongside such statistics as their names,
birth weights, hair and eye colors, and exact dates and times of birth. Snippets of each child's hair had been pressed between the picture and the glass in a corner of each frame.
He leaned closer and studied the couple. If he wasn't mistaken, those were Conrad and Diana. Did Rachel have siblings? If so, where were they?
"That's my brothers."
Rachel was standing beside him, regarding the shelf with a solemn expression.
"Really," Vader mused as he lifted the family photo. "So that's you in the picture with your parents."
"Yup. I'm part of triplets. My brothers were Noah and Eli."
"Where are they now?"
She stared at him as if he were dense, then pointed at the urns.
"Oh," he breathed, catching on. Deep inside him, a heart he didn't remember having ached for his hosts.
"Daddy said it was something called SIDS," she went on in her usual matter-of-fact tone. "I don't remember what it means. Mommy says that sometimes babies just die."
With infinite care Vader returned the picture. The two boys looked so young, so angelic. They had both died so young, still innocent souls. He clenched a fist in growing anger. It wasn't fair. Neither child had done anything to deserve their fates.
Padme. Shmi. Noah. Eli. Innocents all. All brutally wrenched from this life. Why? There was no justice in it. Why were guilty, evil men allowed to walk alive and free while the blameless, the innocent, suffered? Why did the Force allow the Sandpeople to kill his mother and an infantile disease to kill Rachel's brothers? Why hadn't the Force kept Padme from death?
The Jedi... how he hated them! When he had first begun having nightmares about his mother he had wanted to go back to Tatooine and help her, but they had assured him that the dreams were meaningless. What they had really meant by that was "She's not a Jedi, she's not worth saving, we need you around to do Jedi work, not saving slaves." Their stupid archaic laws forbade him from loving, dooming him and Padme the moment they exchanged wedding vows. It was their fault he was in this awful position, their fault that he was little more than a Force-strong droid-man in the clutches of a deranged megalomaniac...
/No, Vader. It's your fault. They kept you from saving your mother, but it was your decision to let grief consume you. They forbade love, but it was your decision to put a ring on Padme's finger. They made the rules, but it was your decision to break them./
He had to sit down. His anger was fading, the protective barrier against grief and shame was coming down, and both emotions swept through him with unrelenting force. He cradled his masked face in his hands and tried to ignore the sensation of hot fluid coursing down his cheeks. Stars, what had he done? He had suffered horrendous losses, and in response to those losses he had lashed out and destroyed himself and all he came in
contact with. But the Church family, too, had lost something dear and precious, yet they continued to live happy, productive lives.
/I will be the most powerful Jedi ever. I will even learn to keep people from dying./
Ha. What a joke. He, who had vowed to free slaves and save lives, had instead become the bringer of death. At his hand countless thousands had perished, not all innocent, yet many not deserving of their fates. What made him think that he was a victim? Others were victims of his cruelty, and he dared call himself a victim! Now where was justice in that?
/Luke/ he thought bitterly, /what good can you see in me? What is in this wretched armor that you deem worth saving?/
Rachel tapped his knee. "You alright?"
He gave a slow nod.
She didn't buy it. "When I hug Mori, I always feel better." She offered him the Wookie doll.
He stared blankly at the toy and received an equally blank stare in return -- the paint had worn off the doll's plastic eyes long ago. Its fur was matted and snarled and thinning in odd places. He doubted the thing had ever seen any kind of cleaning agent in its lifespan. Nonetheless, to Rachel the doll must have been more priceless than a freighter of Corusca gems.
"Come on!" Rachel urged, practically throwing the doll into his hands. "Mori wants to help you feel better!"
Feeling rather foolish, he squeezed the Wookie briefly against his chest.
"That's not a real hug!" She scrambled onto his lap and threw her arms around him. "Like this!"
Tears began afresh as he returned the girl's embrace.
/Dear Luke/ he thought, /how I wish I could have held you like this when you were a child./
He sensed another presence in the room, and he looked up to see Diana at the doorway. She was smiling gently at the scene. Then she saw the Wookie doll beside him, just out of Rachel's grasp.
"Hand me that?" she mouthed.
Vader carefully floated it toward Diana on a ribbon of the Force, and she took it downstairs to give it a long-needed bath.
When Rachel released him, she seemed not to notice Mori's absence. "I'm watching 'Dragon Tales.' Wanna watch it with me?"
"Not at the moment..."
"Please?"
"Oh, all right." He patted her shoulder as she made himself comfortable on his lap. "Just this show, though."