Disclaimer: Just a recap--These characters are the property of George Lucas, the lucky fellow, and don't belong to me. I'm also not making any money off of this strange little story. Also, my birthday is tomorrow, so as a present from me to you I hope to be able to transcribe 2 chapters for Wednesday, depending on the schedule of the rest of the family.


Two: Drinking to a Deal

"Starkiller Skywalker is feeling rather ill this evening," the young officer explained in a quick, nervous voice, "but he still requested your presense."

He keeps looking over his shoulder, Han thought curiously. Could this little visit with Skywalker be unofficial?

They approached the door at a brisk walk, the sort that threatened to become a panicked run. With a last look over his shoulder the officer ushered Han inside and locked the door behind them.

"The prisoner, my lord, as requested."

"Thank you, Piett. You took great risk, and will be duly compensated, as per our previous engagements."

"Thank you, Lord Skywalker." With a snap of his heels Piett stood at the door.

"Aside from his other duties, Captain Piett is something of a smuggler for me--bringing me things I need and desire when other venues are unavailable." Luke coughed weakly and flashed Han the smile which created the only lovely thing about the Empire. He gestured toward a stool near his bed. "Sit."

"You're awful trusting," Han said, crossing the room cautiously to sit where instructed. "Inviting to your sickbed the guy you spent the evening tortured for information last night."

"If you try anything, Piett will kill you. Anyway, it would be fitting if you were to kill me now--the use of force lightening always takes a wretched toll on my health."

"Really sapping on the strength, huh?" Han muttered, glancing at the pale face nestled among the soft looking grey blankets.

"Not for the fully trained--the Sith, the Dark Jedi, their powers are mature enough to do it with no ill effects. My father and our Master can handle it, but I am a Starkiller, a neutral user of the Force." He paused for a moment for thought. "I also tend to have poor health, as you could probably tell."

"So that's what a Starkiller is? Just someone who can't decide whether they're good or evil?"

Skywalker stiffened visibly. "It is one who uses both sides of the Force. Simple tasks like moving objects or communicating over distances cause no ill effects, but so precarious a balance makes more difficult tasks very trying on the nerves. That is why the position is called a Starkiller--so risky a position would surely kill even a scar."

"I thought it was just another brutal sounding title the Empire came up with because you weren't a Darth."

"That, too, is the truth."

"So, Starkiller Skywalker--"

"Call me Luke."

"Uh, okay. So, Luke, why did you call me out here?"

"By now you must be aware of my father's plan to have you executed?"

"Yeah, I've heard."

"I must say, I'm intrigued by you, Han Solo. I am considering making an appeal to my father to spare your life."

"But I thought I was wanted for all that treason and stuff."

"It shouldn't be too difficult for me, as long as I promise you stay here. I want to keep you."

Han sat up with a start--he put too much stock in his freedom for a comment like that. "What, as a pet, like?"

"More of a comrade. A friend." Luke smiled winningly again. "That's why you're here tonight. Prove to me that you're worth keeping."

"Ah, how?" This, Han reflected, was how things got ugly. Stars only knew what perverse kinks a half-Dark Jedi could have up his sleeve.

Luke leaned close and a wicked smile spread slowly across his face. "Ever play Sabbacc?"

"Sure, but Sabbacc for two gets real boring, real fast."

"Piett can play." Luke gestured toward the man stationed at the door. "Piett, set up the table."

"Can you cross the room, sir?" Piett asked as he pulled cards and gambling chips from a small locked drawer. "Or should I set up on the bed table."

"I think I could make it," Luke said, pushing the heavy blankets off of him. "Han, give me your hand."

Relying heavily on the offered arm, he pulled himself to his feet, locking his knees to stay standing.

"My stars," Han whispered, looking down at the bare legs and arms, visible from the loose tunic and short pants formerly hidden beneath the bedding, "What the hell happened to you?" Luke's slender limbs were traced with horrid looking scars and what appeared to be old chemical burns.

"I have already told you, I am weak. This is part of the reason why." He gestured casually with his free hand. "They have been there since I was a child, and cover most of my body." He snorted indignantly at the alarmed look on Han's face. "Don't worry, Solo, it isn't catching. Help me to the table."

God, doesn't he ask for anything? Probably used to having everything handed to him.

"Y'know," Han started carefully, "there's a real good fourth player floating around this station somewhere."

"Oh?" Luke said with an air of amusement.

"Not one of the officers," Piett said hurridly, eyeing Luke with at least a bit of worry. "It's considered below an Imperial officer to know such a game. I only know it from my youth--betting tree nuts and the like."

"Nah. Chewbacca."

"Your beast?" Luke raised a disbelieving eyebrow.

"My copilot. He plays a damn good game of Sabbacc."

Luke considered this a moment thoughtfully, then nodded. "Very well. If he is civilized enough to play I should very much like to experience a classic four-player game. Piett, bring it here."

"Yes Lord." The nervous, rabbity look came back to his face and he disappeared out the door.

"Let me be frank, Solo," Luke said once Piett was gone. "I would greatly regret losing you, but other than Sabbacc I have no use for your carpet of a copilot."

Han shrugged. "He's good in a fight. Not that you'll need that much around here."

"Precisely. So tell me why I shouldn't allow him to die."

"Well, for one thing, you and I have no deal without him. If he dies, I die too."

"Are you two that loyal to each other?"

"I'm not just ditching him. I owe him a lot."

"I see." Luke smiled. "Your loyalty to your Wookie friend doesn't give me any reason to keep him. So you'll have to earn his keep as well as yours."

"What d'ya want, like, a slave?"

"No." Luke sighed deeply, seeming very annoyed. "There are enough people around who seem to exist solely to make my life secure, comfortable, and dull. Like Captain Piett--I know my father is aware of his little smuggling missions. But he knows there are things he cannot justify giving freely, so he turns a blind eye to it. Neither of us have informed Piett though--it is amusing to see him behave so much like a persued rabbit."

"So then, uh, what do you want, exactly?" Han wet his lips nervously.

"Excitement." Luke's eyes glowed. "Adventure. I want your time, your stories of smuggling and space, of real men and tough women roughing it out on the edges of the galaxy."

"You're an officer, don't you get your share of excitement?"

"Not as much as you might expect. Because of my illness I am considered too weak for the interesting missions. I am a diplomat, the kinder, gentler officer because I am too weak to be a real officer."

"And nothing bad happens to Chewie?"

"He will not be bothered for anything other than Sabbacc games. Or whatever he can add to your tales." Luke eyed Han excitedly over his cards, looking more like an excited child than anyone dangerous. "Do we have a deal?"

"Can you get your guy Piett over the commlink? Tell him to get a bottle of the good stuff outta my ship. We'll drink to it."