Disclaimer: Same old, same old.
A Change of Plans: Chapter 4
Han rubbed his weary eyes, and glanced at the chrono. A half-hour remained until they jumped out of hyperspace and into orbit around Krall. A little more than half an hour before Luke received any medical attention. And a good hour until Han would be able to walk up to Her Highnessness and bid her a fond farewell. In the past hour, Han's resolve to leave the rebellion had hardened and become something akin to an ice-cold diamond that rested uncomfortably in his chest. Equally uncomfortable was the silence that Chewie now favored him with.
From his seat in the cockpit, Han craned his neck in the direction of the sleeping cabin where the Wookie now sat watching over the ailing rebel. Han had grown too frustrated with the futility of trying to take care of someone whose condition continued to deteriorate in spite of all the effort being spent, and had given up. He was no doctor, and he was thoroughly ill at ease with trying to nurse a sick friend. A sick rebel, he mentally corrected himself. He'd only known the kid a few months, and he was more of a pain than anything else. He seemed to follow Han around like some sort of adoring shadow, trying to pick up as much as he could from the smuggler while he could. Han had assented, figuring that if the kid wised up in the process, it would strengthen his chances of surviving this war he was hell-bent on fighting. Throwing a glance back toward the rest of the ship once more, Han frowned as he wondered what the kid's chances were now.
He shook his head wearily, trying to rid himself of the strange feeling that had crept over him at the thought. He must be feeling sorry for the kid, he figured. After all, it was understandable to feel pity for someone who'd come from nowhere to become a hero, only to fall victim to a mysterious illness. Hell, he'd feel sorry for anyone who had to go that way. He'd almost done it himself as a kid. He remembered just how close he'd come to death, and shuddered. If Dewlanna hadn't paid for . . ..
Han clenched his fists and shut his eyes. He wasn't going to think about that now. He wasn't that scared kid anymore. He'd fought his way out of more dire circumstances than people twice his age, and he'd managed to finally carve out a decent life for himself. He had a ship, he had a job, he had a reputation, and he had Chewie. He didn't need anything else. He certainly didn't need this war and the inevitable pain it would bring. After all, how upsetting would this whole situation be right now if he actually cared for the kid? He might be as nervous and tense as Chewie was.
As if on cue, Chewie's nervous howl suddenly broke into his thoughts.
"What, Chewie?" Han called back, wearily getting to his feet and moving out of the cockpit.
The Wookie's reply had Han sprinting back toward the bunk where Luke had been resting since they'd left Ryall.
"He's what!" Han quickly entered the cabin only to have Chewie's words confirmed. He wouldn't have thought it possible, but the kid had taken a drastic turn for the worse.
The cabin was filled with the sound of Luke's raspy breathing as he tossed restlessly upon the bed. The fevered flush was gone from his cheeks, replaced with a deathly pallor that enveloped his features. Combined with the sheen of sweat that covered his face, it gave Han the impression of a grotesque wax carving of the young rebel. Tentatively placing a hand on the kid's forehead, Han flinched as he noted that in spite of his colorless appearance, the fever had spiked. He was hotter than ever, and Han could see the vein in Luke's neck pulsing rapidly as his head arched, eyes rolling backward under trembling lids. His lips moved as though mumbling something that could be neither heard nor understood.
Han dropped to his knees beside him. "Oh, shavit!" he swore, grasping the kid's face in his hands. "Don't do this, kid! Luke, do you hear me? Don't you dare do this!"
The kid continued to thrash feverishly, his breathing becoming more rapid and shallow. Han rose shakily, frantically searching for anything he could do at this point. He wasn't about to let the kid die!
"Ice!" He shouted suddenly, dashing out of the cabin and heading toward the galley. Fervently hoping that there was any ice to be found, he was shocked and relieved to find that there was. Grabbing the ice and wrapping it in the washcloth that had been used earlier to sponge him down with cool water, he ran back to the bunk. He gently placed the wrapped ice against Luke's forehead, hoping it would be enough.
"No," came a hoarse groan. The kid seemed to be struggling to get away from the ice in his delirium. "Cold."
Han frowned. "It's supposed to be cold, kid," he said, keeping the ice against his skin. "Don't fight me."
"No," Luke continued to moan, wriggling away from Han's hand.
Han swore. "Chewie, grab the rest of the ice, will ya'." Chewie darted out and was back with the ice in record time. Han quickly pulled down the blankets that were covering Luke and grabbed the ice that Chewie held in his hands.
Chewie growled in confusion.
"It's called desperation," Han replied curtly before dumping the ice on Luke's torso. He wasn't sure it was the best idea, but it was the only one he could think of to get the kid's fever down.
Luke reacted instantly. His body arched, trying to escape the frigid substance he'd been doused with. However, his fevered struggle finally succumbed to the fact that there was nowhere to go to escape the ice that now covered the bed. Weak and trembling, he slowly stopped thrashing and collapsed upon the icy bed.
Han held his breath, placing his hand on the kid's forehead once again. To his disappointment, the fever did not seem to have come down at all, even though Luke had ceased struggling. Han waited a tense moment, hoping that the shock of the cold ice had not done more harm than good. Maybe he shouldn't have done that. Han looked up at Chewie questioningly. Had he just unwittingly killed Luke?
"Han?"
The whispered question was barely audible, but Han reacted to it as though it had been blasted into his ear with an amplifier. He quickly searched Luke's pale features for signs of awareness. Was the kid delirious, or asking for him?
"Han?" Luke repeated, eyelids fluttering slightly as glassy blue eyes struggled to scan the room.
"Right here, kid," Han replied gently, placing his hands upon the kid's shoulders. His tunic was damp with sweat and melted ice. As Han held him that way, Luke began to shiver.
"Cold," he groaned, trembling with a sudden onslaught of chills.
"I know, kid," Han soothed. "It's ice. To bring down the fever."
"Ice?"
Han nodded. "Yeah, so just relax." He reached up to touch his forehead again, and noted that, although still hot, it was slightly less feverish than before. Han relaxed slightly, relieved that he hadn't accidentally killed him.
"Han don't leave," Luke whispered.
Han shook his head, replying, "Shhh, I'm not going anywhere. Just relax, kid."
"No," Luke protested. "Don't leave."
Han's shoulders sank in disappointment. The kid was still delirious. He looked up at Chewie for reassurance. The Wookie simply looked back at him sadly. Turning back to Luke, he said, "Kid, I already told you, I'm not going anywhere."
Luke shook his head, his blue eyes struggling to focus on Han. "The Rebellion, Han."
Han frowned. "What do you mean?"
"Don't leave us," Luke managed in a weakening voice. "She needs you."
"She?" Han asked in confusion, trying to follow the kid's train of delirious thought. "You mean, the Princess?"
Luke nodded weakly. "Got to help her, Han." His voice was barely audible, and his eyelids drooped shut.
"Hey, kid," Han prompted, shaking his shoulders gently. "Stay with me, here."
Luke didn't open his eyes, but instead whispered, "Help Leia."
Han scowled. The last thing he needed was to be told what to do by a delirious kid. But before he could reply with anything suitable that wouldn't upset the kid, Luke opened his eyes again.
He moved his lips in a near-silent whisper, before dropping off into unconsciousness once more.
Han sat staring down at the pale, sick form in the bunk in front of him, trying to figure out what the kid had meant. "Victory?" He glanced up at Chewie once more. "What's that supposed to mean?"
************************
"Chewie, bring us out of hyperspace," Han called out to the copilot and first mate and he heard the proximity alarm sound from the engineering console. Knowing Chewie had either heard him or the alarm, Han turned back to the young man on the bunk in front of him. Luke was still at the moment, having been mumbling incoherently only a few minutes earlier. For nine hours, the young rebel's condition had steadily deteriorated, and Han could only hope that the medics at the Rebel base on Krall could do something to help him. After all, surely they would know more about bringing down a seemingly relentless fever than he did.
Draping a cool, damp cloth over Luke's forehead, Han rose from his seat. Muscles that had tensed in frustration groaned in protest. "I'll be back, kid. Soon as I talk to that princess of yours." He headed out of the cabin, more than just a little bit eager to get Leia Organa on the comm. Chewie's earlier warning that the Rebellion may be wary about letting a deathly ill passenger land without knowing the cause of the illness had him nervous. The kid's only chance rested with that uppity princess who seemed to be almost as devoted to Luke as he was to her. If he played his cards right, her Worshipfulness would be the key to getting Luke the attention he needed.
And he needed it soon.
Upon entering the cockpit, he slumped into his seat with relief at the sight of the planet that hovered in front of them. "Punch me through to them, Chewie."
In a flurry of motion, Chewie had activated the comm and was transmitting to the Rebel base.
"Delta One, this is the Falcon," Han spoke loud and clear. "Do you read?"
"Copy, Falcon," a voice on the comm replied seconds later. Han smiled at the swiftness of their response. These Rebels were vigilant. "Having fun yet, Solo?"
Han raised an eyebrow as he recognized the voice. "Wedge, what the--" He laughed. "Who stationed you in the command center, kid?"
Han heard the young man laugh. The kid was another hero of Yavin, and nearly as idealistic as Luke was. Quite a pilot, though. His youthful voice squeaked as he spoke. "Hey, we've kinda' gone to hell in a landspeeder down here! We're handling fifty tasks at once. Come on down and join the chaos!"
"Had enough chaos up here, pal," Han quipped. "Just tell me where to land my ship and have a medical team standing by."
There was a pause on the other end. "We're kinda' short on medics right now. Is it serious?"
Han frowned. Trust things to be difficult in an emergency. "Pretty serious, kid. I've got a very sick Skywalker on board."
There was another pause. Han looked to Chewie as the silence drew on, hoping that what was going on down on the planet's surface wasn't what he feared it was.
"You still there, Wedge?" Han pressed when there was no reply, a feeling of dread creeping over him.
When a response finally came, it was in a different voice. "Solo, this is General Rieekan. What's the situation?"
Han fought back the tension that was gathering in his neck and the tightness that had crept into his stomach. Rieekan had taken over? This wasn't good. "General, I have a passenger who desperately needs medical attention. He's been feverish for nine hours and is having difficulty breathing as well."
Silence followed, during which Han began to legitimately worry that Chewie might have been right after all. He waited with forced patience, drumming his fingers on the console as the seconds stretched by. If they didn't land, Luke was as good as dead. Especially if they didn't land soon.
"Solo," Rieekan's voice came back over the comm. "Maintain your orbit."
"What?!" Han cried, his voice filled with disbelief. He hadn't actually expected to be denied like that. What were these people thinking? "Listen here, General. I've got Luke Skywalker up here! And he's going to die unless he gets some medical attention."
"I'm aware of that, Captain," Rieekan replied with obviously forced calm. "However, we cannot risk a potential epidemic. Maintain your orbit."
Han slammed his fist upon the console in frustration. "Then put her Worship on! Lemme talk to her!"
"Captain, please."
"Put her on!" Han ordered. He was overstepping his bounds as a hired pilot, but this was absurd. He wasn't about to stand around and do nothing while a mere kid was left to languish untreated! Even mercenaries were never this unfeeling!
"Captain Solo," came Rieekan's crisp reply. "She is unavailable at this moment, but we're sending a medic up to you. Maintain your orbit and a medical shuttle will dock with you."
Still raging, it took a moment for Han to comprehend what was being said. At this unexpected piece of information, he was left speechless. His cheeks flushed hotly as he struggled to maintain his dignity amid his mixture of embarrassment and relief. "The airlock is topside," he finally managed.
"I'll inform the shuttle crew, Captain," Rieekan answered, none too pleasantly.
Han swallowed. "And thanks, General." He knew it really wasn't enough to smooth things over, but it would have to do for now. Not waiting to hear the general's reply, he cut the transmission. He ran a tired hand across his sweaty forehead and grimaced. It had been a long day and he was growing more frustrated with the situation than he was used to getting. Not to mention, he'd done things that weren't exactly in his normal routine. He'd struggled to help someone, and they continued to get worse. He'd stuck his neck out for results, and had made himself a fool instead. And the day wasn't even over yet. What exactly had gotten into him?
He turned out of the cockpit, refusing to meet the Wookie's gaze. He didn't even want to know what his friend was thinking. "You heard him, Chewie," he said over his shoulder as he left. "Maintain orbit, and I'll prepare for their arrival."
It did not take long for the medical crew to arrive. Han stood waiting in the starboard cargo hold as a young man in a self-contained survival suit scrambled out of the lift platform to the upper air-lock hatch. Momentarily disoriented, it took the young medic a few moments to get his bearings before he turned to face Han.
"Captain Solo, I presume," the young man said, shifting a med-kit under his left arm and extending his right hand in greeting.
Han, however, refused to accept it, taking in the young man's unique attire. "Interesting getup," he said with a snort. "Is it really necessary?"
The young man smiled beneath his mask. "Just taking precautions."
Han nodded with thinly veiled disgust. "Wouldn't it have been simpler, then, to just send up a droid?"
The young medic shook his head. "All the 2-1Bs have been deployed to the Victory."
Han's blood suddenly began to run cold. "The what?"
The medic looked baffled. Arching his eyebrows in disbelief, he asked, "You don't know?"
Han stepped forward menacingly. "Know what?"
Brilliant green eyes suddenly widened in sympathy as the young man shook his head. "A quarter of the base was destroyed, Captain. The ship lost control while entering the atmosphere, and it plowed right into the South Wing."
Han stared at the young man blankly as his brain frantically tried to piece together the information that was being given to him. Already on edge from fatigue, he could feel his heart begin to race and his nerve endings buzz as he struggled to find his voice. "Are you talking about the transport, The Victory? It crashed?"
The young medic nodded. "Yes, Captain."
A cold knot began to form in Han's stomach as he recalled Luke's delirious rantings from earlier in the day. This was all too unreal and unnatural. Surely, this couldn't be one of those Force things the kid was always talking about. Partly to dismiss this all as coincidence and partly fearing the worst, Han ventured to ask, "Was the Princess involved in this somehow?"
He was deeply cognizant of his thudding heartbeat in the precious seconds it took before he received his answer.
"Yes. She was on board."
Years of gambling and smuggling had ingrained in him an instinctive physical control to suppress any reaction to even the most shocking of news. But, never the less, Han placed a hand against the familiar interior wall of the Falcon to steady himself. Fortunately, he was saved the task of asking any more questions by the young medic who seemed eager to fill him in on the details.
"She was injured, but not badly. The pilot was killed, though, and so were several of the officers in that wing at the time of the crash. Lots of injuries, too."
Han only listened half-consciously to the young man's words. First and foremost in his mind was the information that she had only been mildly injured. That meant she was alive, and probably bossing those poor 2-1B droids around in her usual annoying manner. A slight smile tugged at the corner of his lips at this thought, even as he suppressed the urge to shudder at her irritatingly domineering ways. He could almost picture her in his mind's eye: hair perfectly braided and coiled atop her head, undisturbed in spite of the bruises on her face and the bandage on her leg as she hobbled around shouting commands and maintaining order in the midst of chaos. That was her Worshipfulness, all right.
"Are you all right, sir?"
The softly spoken question jarred Han back to reality. What had he been doing visualizing the princess? Why had he seen her so clearly? And why did she suddenly and unexpectedly seem to matter? He shook his head in self-disgust. He must really be tired. Speaking of being tired . . ..
"Yeah, I'm fine," he answered. "But my passenger definitely isn't."
The medic nodded. "Show me the way, Captain."
Han turned and headed out of the hold, a nagging feeling inside telling him that he wasn't simply tired. He knew it was much more than that. But the last thing he would admit to himself was the notion that he cared about these people. Pushing the idea back into the furthest recesses of his mind, he silently led the medic toward Luke's bunk.
A Change of Plans: Chapter 4
Han rubbed his weary eyes, and glanced at the chrono. A half-hour remained until they jumped out of hyperspace and into orbit around Krall. A little more than half an hour before Luke received any medical attention. And a good hour until Han would be able to walk up to Her Highnessness and bid her a fond farewell. In the past hour, Han's resolve to leave the rebellion had hardened and become something akin to an ice-cold diamond that rested uncomfortably in his chest. Equally uncomfortable was the silence that Chewie now favored him with.
From his seat in the cockpit, Han craned his neck in the direction of the sleeping cabin where the Wookie now sat watching over the ailing rebel. Han had grown too frustrated with the futility of trying to take care of someone whose condition continued to deteriorate in spite of all the effort being spent, and had given up. He was no doctor, and he was thoroughly ill at ease with trying to nurse a sick friend. A sick rebel, he mentally corrected himself. He'd only known the kid a few months, and he was more of a pain than anything else. He seemed to follow Han around like some sort of adoring shadow, trying to pick up as much as he could from the smuggler while he could. Han had assented, figuring that if the kid wised up in the process, it would strengthen his chances of surviving this war he was hell-bent on fighting. Throwing a glance back toward the rest of the ship once more, Han frowned as he wondered what the kid's chances were now.
He shook his head wearily, trying to rid himself of the strange feeling that had crept over him at the thought. He must be feeling sorry for the kid, he figured. After all, it was understandable to feel pity for someone who'd come from nowhere to become a hero, only to fall victim to a mysterious illness. Hell, he'd feel sorry for anyone who had to go that way. He'd almost done it himself as a kid. He remembered just how close he'd come to death, and shuddered. If Dewlanna hadn't paid for . . ..
Han clenched his fists and shut his eyes. He wasn't going to think about that now. He wasn't that scared kid anymore. He'd fought his way out of more dire circumstances than people twice his age, and he'd managed to finally carve out a decent life for himself. He had a ship, he had a job, he had a reputation, and he had Chewie. He didn't need anything else. He certainly didn't need this war and the inevitable pain it would bring. After all, how upsetting would this whole situation be right now if he actually cared for the kid? He might be as nervous and tense as Chewie was.
As if on cue, Chewie's nervous howl suddenly broke into his thoughts.
"What, Chewie?" Han called back, wearily getting to his feet and moving out of the cockpit.
The Wookie's reply had Han sprinting back toward the bunk where Luke had been resting since they'd left Ryall.
"He's what!" Han quickly entered the cabin only to have Chewie's words confirmed. He wouldn't have thought it possible, but the kid had taken a drastic turn for the worse.
The cabin was filled with the sound of Luke's raspy breathing as he tossed restlessly upon the bed. The fevered flush was gone from his cheeks, replaced with a deathly pallor that enveloped his features. Combined with the sheen of sweat that covered his face, it gave Han the impression of a grotesque wax carving of the young rebel. Tentatively placing a hand on the kid's forehead, Han flinched as he noted that in spite of his colorless appearance, the fever had spiked. He was hotter than ever, and Han could see the vein in Luke's neck pulsing rapidly as his head arched, eyes rolling backward under trembling lids. His lips moved as though mumbling something that could be neither heard nor understood.
Han dropped to his knees beside him. "Oh, shavit!" he swore, grasping the kid's face in his hands. "Don't do this, kid! Luke, do you hear me? Don't you dare do this!"
The kid continued to thrash feverishly, his breathing becoming more rapid and shallow. Han rose shakily, frantically searching for anything he could do at this point. He wasn't about to let the kid die!
"Ice!" He shouted suddenly, dashing out of the cabin and heading toward the galley. Fervently hoping that there was any ice to be found, he was shocked and relieved to find that there was. Grabbing the ice and wrapping it in the washcloth that had been used earlier to sponge him down with cool water, he ran back to the bunk. He gently placed the wrapped ice against Luke's forehead, hoping it would be enough.
"No," came a hoarse groan. The kid seemed to be struggling to get away from the ice in his delirium. "Cold."
Han frowned. "It's supposed to be cold, kid," he said, keeping the ice against his skin. "Don't fight me."
"No," Luke continued to moan, wriggling away from Han's hand.
Han swore. "Chewie, grab the rest of the ice, will ya'." Chewie darted out and was back with the ice in record time. Han quickly pulled down the blankets that were covering Luke and grabbed the ice that Chewie held in his hands.
Chewie growled in confusion.
"It's called desperation," Han replied curtly before dumping the ice on Luke's torso. He wasn't sure it was the best idea, but it was the only one he could think of to get the kid's fever down.
Luke reacted instantly. His body arched, trying to escape the frigid substance he'd been doused with. However, his fevered struggle finally succumbed to the fact that there was nowhere to go to escape the ice that now covered the bed. Weak and trembling, he slowly stopped thrashing and collapsed upon the icy bed.
Han held his breath, placing his hand on the kid's forehead once again. To his disappointment, the fever did not seem to have come down at all, even though Luke had ceased struggling. Han waited a tense moment, hoping that the shock of the cold ice had not done more harm than good. Maybe he shouldn't have done that. Han looked up at Chewie questioningly. Had he just unwittingly killed Luke?
"Han?"
The whispered question was barely audible, but Han reacted to it as though it had been blasted into his ear with an amplifier. He quickly searched Luke's pale features for signs of awareness. Was the kid delirious, or asking for him?
"Han?" Luke repeated, eyelids fluttering slightly as glassy blue eyes struggled to scan the room.
"Right here, kid," Han replied gently, placing his hands upon the kid's shoulders. His tunic was damp with sweat and melted ice. As Han held him that way, Luke began to shiver.
"Cold," he groaned, trembling with a sudden onslaught of chills.
"I know, kid," Han soothed. "It's ice. To bring down the fever."
"Ice?"
Han nodded. "Yeah, so just relax." He reached up to touch his forehead again, and noted that, although still hot, it was slightly less feverish than before. Han relaxed slightly, relieved that he hadn't accidentally killed him.
"Han don't leave," Luke whispered.
Han shook his head, replying, "Shhh, I'm not going anywhere. Just relax, kid."
"No," Luke protested. "Don't leave."
Han's shoulders sank in disappointment. The kid was still delirious. He looked up at Chewie for reassurance. The Wookie simply looked back at him sadly. Turning back to Luke, he said, "Kid, I already told you, I'm not going anywhere."
Luke shook his head, his blue eyes struggling to focus on Han. "The Rebellion, Han."
Han frowned. "What do you mean?"
"Don't leave us," Luke managed in a weakening voice. "She needs you."
"She?" Han asked in confusion, trying to follow the kid's train of delirious thought. "You mean, the Princess?"
Luke nodded weakly. "Got to help her, Han." His voice was barely audible, and his eyelids drooped shut.
"Hey, kid," Han prompted, shaking his shoulders gently. "Stay with me, here."
Luke didn't open his eyes, but instead whispered, "Help Leia."
Han scowled. The last thing he needed was to be told what to do by a delirious kid. But before he could reply with anything suitable that wouldn't upset the kid, Luke opened his eyes again.
He moved his lips in a near-silent whisper, before dropping off into unconsciousness once more.
Han sat staring down at the pale, sick form in the bunk in front of him, trying to figure out what the kid had meant. "Victory?" He glanced up at Chewie once more. "What's that supposed to mean?"
************************
"Chewie, bring us out of hyperspace," Han called out to the copilot and first mate and he heard the proximity alarm sound from the engineering console. Knowing Chewie had either heard him or the alarm, Han turned back to the young man on the bunk in front of him. Luke was still at the moment, having been mumbling incoherently only a few minutes earlier. For nine hours, the young rebel's condition had steadily deteriorated, and Han could only hope that the medics at the Rebel base on Krall could do something to help him. After all, surely they would know more about bringing down a seemingly relentless fever than he did.
Draping a cool, damp cloth over Luke's forehead, Han rose from his seat. Muscles that had tensed in frustration groaned in protest. "I'll be back, kid. Soon as I talk to that princess of yours." He headed out of the cabin, more than just a little bit eager to get Leia Organa on the comm. Chewie's earlier warning that the Rebellion may be wary about letting a deathly ill passenger land without knowing the cause of the illness had him nervous. The kid's only chance rested with that uppity princess who seemed to be almost as devoted to Luke as he was to her. If he played his cards right, her Worshipfulness would be the key to getting Luke the attention he needed.
And he needed it soon.
Upon entering the cockpit, he slumped into his seat with relief at the sight of the planet that hovered in front of them. "Punch me through to them, Chewie."
In a flurry of motion, Chewie had activated the comm and was transmitting to the Rebel base.
"Delta One, this is the Falcon," Han spoke loud and clear. "Do you read?"
"Copy, Falcon," a voice on the comm replied seconds later. Han smiled at the swiftness of their response. These Rebels were vigilant. "Having fun yet, Solo?"
Han raised an eyebrow as he recognized the voice. "Wedge, what the--" He laughed. "Who stationed you in the command center, kid?"
Han heard the young man laugh. The kid was another hero of Yavin, and nearly as idealistic as Luke was. Quite a pilot, though. His youthful voice squeaked as he spoke. "Hey, we've kinda' gone to hell in a landspeeder down here! We're handling fifty tasks at once. Come on down and join the chaos!"
"Had enough chaos up here, pal," Han quipped. "Just tell me where to land my ship and have a medical team standing by."
There was a pause on the other end. "We're kinda' short on medics right now. Is it serious?"
Han frowned. Trust things to be difficult in an emergency. "Pretty serious, kid. I've got a very sick Skywalker on board."
There was another pause. Han looked to Chewie as the silence drew on, hoping that what was going on down on the planet's surface wasn't what he feared it was.
"You still there, Wedge?" Han pressed when there was no reply, a feeling of dread creeping over him.
When a response finally came, it was in a different voice. "Solo, this is General Rieekan. What's the situation?"
Han fought back the tension that was gathering in his neck and the tightness that had crept into his stomach. Rieekan had taken over? This wasn't good. "General, I have a passenger who desperately needs medical attention. He's been feverish for nine hours and is having difficulty breathing as well."
Silence followed, during which Han began to legitimately worry that Chewie might have been right after all. He waited with forced patience, drumming his fingers on the console as the seconds stretched by. If they didn't land, Luke was as good as dead. Especially if they didn't land soon.
"Solo," Rieekan's voice came back over the comm. "Maintain your orbit."
"What?!" Han cried, his voice filled with disbelief. He hadn't actually expected to be denied like that. What were these people thinking? "Listen here, General. I've got Luke Skywalker up here! And he's going to die unless he gets some medical attention."
"I'm aware of that, Captain," Rieekan replied with obviously forced calm. "However, we cannot risk a potential epidemic. Maintain your orbit."
Han slammed his fist upon the console in frustration. "Then put her Worship on! Lemme talk to her!"
"Captain, please."
"Put her on!" Han ordered. He was overstepping his bounds as a hired pilot, but this was absurd. He wasn't about to stand around and do nothing while a mere kid was left to languish untreated! Even mercenaries were never this unfeeling!
"Captain Solo," came Rieekan's crisp reply. "She is unavailable at this moment, but we're sending a medic up to you. Maintain your orbit and a medical shuttle will dock with you."
Still raging, it took a moment for Han to comprehend what was being said. At this unexpected piece of information, he was left speechless. His cheeks flushed hotly as he struggled to maintain his dignity amid his mixture of embarrassment and relief. "The airlock is topside," he finally managed.
"I'll inform the shuttle crew, Captain," Rieekan answered, none too pleasantly.
Han swallowed. "And thanks, General." He knew it really wasn't enough to smooth things over, but it would have to do for now. Not waiting to hear the general's reply, he cut the transmission. He ran a tired hand across his sweaty forehead and grimaced. It had been a long day and he was growing more frustrated with the situation than he was used to getting. Not to mention, he'd done things that weren't exactly in his normal routine. He'd struggled to help someone, and they continued to get worse. He'd stuck his neck out for results, and had made himself a fool instead. And the day wasn't even over yet. What exactly had gotten into him?
He turned out of the cockpit, refusing to meet the Wookie's gaze. He didn't even want to know what his friend was thinking. "You heard him, Chewie," he said over his shoulder as he left. "Maintain orbit, and I'll prepare for their arrival."
It did not take long for the medical crew to arrive. Han stood waiting in the starboard cargo hold as a young man in a self-contained survival suit scrambled out of the lift platform to the upper air-lock hatch. Momentarily disoriented, it took the young medic a few moments to get his bearings before he turned to face Han.
"Captain Solo, I presume," the young man said, shifting a med-kit under his left arm and extending his right hand in greeting.
Han, however, refused to accept it, taking in the young man's unique attire. "Interesting getup," he said with a snort. "Is it really necessary?"
The young man smiled beneath his mask. "Just taking precautions."
Han nodded with thinly veiled disgust. "Wouldn't it have been simpler, then, to just send up a droid?"
The young medic shook his head. "All the 2-1Bs have been deployed to the Victory."
Han's blood suddenly began to run cold. "The what?"
The medic looked baffled. Arching his eyebrows in disbelief, he asked, "You don't know?"
Han stepped forward menacingly. "Know what?"
Brilliant green eyes suddenly widened in sympathy as the young man shook his head. "A quarter of the base was destroyed, Captain. The ship lost control while entering the atmosphere, and it plowed right into the South Wing."
Han stared at the young man blankly as his brain frantically tried to piece together the information that was being given to him. Already on edge from fatigue, he could feel his heart begin to race and his nerve endings buzz as he struggled to find his voice. "Are you talking about the transport, The Victory? It crashed?"
The young medic nodded. "Yes, Captain."
A cold knot began to form in Han's stomach as he recalled Luke's delirious rantings from earlier in the day. This was all too unreal and unnatural. Surely, this couldn't be one of those Force things the kid was always talking about. Partly to dismiss this all as coincidence and partly fearing the worst, Han ventured to ask, "Was the Princess involved in this somehow?"
He was deeply cognizant of his thudding heartbeat in the precious seconds it took before he received his answer.
"Yes. She was on board."
Years of gambling and smuggling had ingrained in him an instinctive physical control to suppress any reaction to even the most shocking of news. But, never the less, Han placed a hand against the familiar interior wall of the Falcon to steady himself. Fortunately, he was saved the task of asking any more questions by the young medic who seemed eager to fill him in on the details.
"She was injured, but not badly. The pilot was killed, though, and so were several of the officers in that wing at the time of the crash. Lots of injuries, too."
Han only listened half-consciously to the young man's words. First and foremost in his mind was the information that she had only been mildly injured. That meant she was alive, and probably bossing those poor 2-1B droids around in her usual annoying manner. A slight smile tugged at the corner of his lips at this thought, even as he suppressed the urge to shudder at her irritatingly domineering ways. He could almost picture her in his mind's eye: hair perfectly braided and coiled atop her head, undisturbed in spite of the bruises on her face and the bandage on her leg as she hobbled around shouting commands and maintaining order in the midst of chaos. That was her Worshipfulness, all right.
"Are you all right, sir?"
The softly spoken question jarred Han back to reality. What had he been doing visualizing the princess? Why had he seen her so clearly? And why did she suddenly and unexpectedly seem to matter? He shook his head in self-disgust. He must really be tired. Speaking of being tired . . ..
"Yeah, I'm fine," he answered. "But my passenger definitely isn't."
The medic nodded. "Show me the way, Captain."
Han turned and headed out of the hold, a nagging feeling inside telling him that he wasn't simply tired. He knew it was much more than that. But the last thing he would admit to himself was the notion that he cared about these people. Pushing the idea back into the furthest recesses of his mind, he silently led the medic toward Luke's bunk.
