Force of Destiny
Summary:
An accident reveals an old deception, and Darth
Vader must make a decision that will change not only his life.
Chapter 15
Near Miss
Darth Vader entered the tattoo parlor with somewhat mixed feelings. Here was a chance to get rid of his scars, the lasting reminders of that fateful duel with his master Obi-Wan Kenobi more than twenty years ago.
All those years, he had hidden his face behind a breathmask not out of vanity, but necessity. Until his life was given back to him as a result of a dumb accident.
After the shock of seeing himself in a mirror for the first time in years had worn off, the scars had not bothered him much. His crew had seen worse, had imagined his appearance to be much worse under that dreadful helmet.
But here, even in a rough place like Nar Shaddaa Space Port, people stared at him, constantly reminding him of the ghastly keloids that disfigured his once handsome face and snaked over his scalp. He did not see the mixed fear and respect in the civilians' eyes that his mask had commanded, but horror at his disfigurement, and, all too often, pity. There were but a few exceptions to that rule.
Vader imagined that look mirrored in Luke's eyes, and decided he never wanted to see it.
Although he had his doubts about a tattoo artist performing cosmetic surgery, or a cosmetic surgeon who stooped so low as to work as a tattoo artist, Darth Vader knew he had little choice. In a regular hospital, too many questions would be asked. No, it was either this, or keeping the scars.
The Sith looked around in the brightly lit, high-ceilinged room. The walls were covered with framed pictures of fresh tattoos. A sofa stood in one corner, a desk and chair faced the entrance. The whole room was exceptionally clean, as one should expect from a place like this.
The young Zabrak behind the desk looked up from his magazine and quickly schooled his face into a neutral expression. His bare arms were covered shoulder to wrist with tattoos depicting the wildlife of several planets.
Good day and welcome, he greeted Vader. You want to see Master Drell. Please wait here while I get him.
Vader nodded and settled on the sofa to wait while the Zabrak disappeared through a door into a back room.
He was back in a few moments with a person who had to be Master Drell. Vader looked up at the being... and up... and up, for Drell was a Ho'Din and as such well over three meters tall. Even a Wookiee would have been dwarfed standing next to the giant alien. Well, that explained the high ceiling, Vader thought drily.
, the Ho'Din said. My apprentice here tells me you are here for cosmetic surgery.
We have not talked, but yes, he is correct. Vader stood, taking a closer look at Drell and noticing the small Master Healer's insignia on the Ho'Din's collar. He relaxed. The Ho'Din did not take the Master title lightly. As a non-human, Drell was probably forced into his current line of work because no hospital would hire him out of racial prejudice, not because he was not qualified. It seemed the Force had led him to the right place. Your apprentice is very perceptive, Master Healer.
The Ho'Din inclined his head. Please follow me, Master Jedi. You can leave your things here. Kharim will lock the door, so they should be safe enough.
Vader started slightly at Drell's address. What makes you think I'm a Jedi? he inquired.
I saw your weapon. Lightsabers are not very common anymore.
Perhaps I killed a Jedi and took it from him, Vader replied.
I don't think so. Drell led Vader into the back room and indicated the examination table that was standing in the center of the room on a raised dais. Vader climbed on the table.
Your scars are old, and very deep, Master Jedi, Drell said after examining the keloids on Vader's face and scalp both with a scanner and his fingers. I will not be able to heal them completely.
Vader's face fell. I... understand. Thank you for your honesty, Master Healer. It was not the Ho'Din's fault that he, Vader, had foolish dreams. He prepared to get off the table when Drell stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.
That does not mean I can do nothing, Jedi. I cannot remove the scars completely, that is true, but I can remove much of the scar tissue.
And that means? Vader asked.
It means they will be much better than they are now. Mind you, I cannot give you a guarantee on how much will be left, but I believe I can reduce them to a fraction of what they are now. Allow me to show you a simulation.
The Sith inclined his head, and Drell produced a data pad and programmed it with the scan results. Soon a computer generated image of Vader's face stared at the Sith staring back at it.
This is how you look now, the Ho'Din explained unnecessarily and pressed a few buttons on the pad. The image changed, the thick, ropy keloids disappeared, leaving only thin pinkish lines. This is how you would look after the swelling subsides, Drell continued and pressed more buttons. The image changed again, the pinkish lines turned white, almost invisible, and very short, sandy hair mixed with grey covered the formerly bald head, framing a face that was once again handsome. And this is how you would look in a few weeks, if you decide to let your hair grow back.
Vader's swallowed. He had not known what to expect after Drell told him he was not able to heal him completely, but certainly not this. This was better than anything he could have dreamed! Almost reverently, the former Jedi touched the screen. , he whispered. Can you do it now?
The Ho'Din smiled. Nobody comes here to schedule for a later date. Yes, I can perform surgery within the hour, if you wish it. But I must warn you that there will be some swelling at first, and you will be quite uncomfortable for a few days.
I'm aware of that. And I want the operation.
Good. I shall administer a local anesthetic. I don't suppose you prefer going under for this, or do you?
, Vader answered. A local anesthetic is fine with me.
Drell gestured to his apprentice, Kharim, and the young Zabrak brought a tray with sterile instruments.
, Drell told Vader. This will not hurt a bit.
---One hundred and thirty two urns were placed on an antigrav sled that hovered half a meter above the floor of the Executor's main hangar. Each and every one of them contained the ashes of one crew member killed in the fights following Admiral Piett's speech. Now Piett had to make another speech, but he doubted that he would find the right words this time. What did you say about the men your actions had killed? What did you say to their friends, their comrades? Piett lifted his gaze from the sled and regarded the Stormtrooper squad that served as an honor guard. A camera on the far side captured the ceremony for all those who could not attend in person, as well as for the ship's log. The Admiral ran his tongue over his dry lips.
We are gathered here to honor the memory of our fallen comrades, he began. It does not matter on which side they fought. They were all members of this crew, and they fought and were killed for what they believed in. He paused.
Usually, I would read the names of our fallen at this point, and give a short summary of their careers. This is not possible today. But, we shall not forget our dead. He stepped back to a portion of the hangar wall which was covered by a large tarp. Moving next to it, Piett continued: Instead of a fleeting moment's mention, we will have a constant reminder of our fallen comrades' courage and determination. The Admiral lifted his hand, and, pulling sharply on the cloth, revealed a large tablet with all one hundred and thirty two names on it, in alphabetical order. No difference was made between loyalists and defectors; only the names and ranks were listed.
May this serve to keep the memory of our friends fresh in our minds. Dropping the corner of the tarp, Piett saluted the tablet while a technician started the sled's engine. The antigrav sled slowly set into motion, gliding out of the hangar and into space in a graceful arc. Eventually, it would fly into a sun, or burn up in a planet's atmosphere, taking the last remains of the men who died on board the Executor with it.
---Wrenga Jixton paced the confines of his cabin. He had been assigned officer's quarters, in deference to the fact that he had been Lord Vader's agent, and it amused him to no end.
But he had no time for amusement now. Even a Force-blind like himself could see that his employer was in danger. And he was stuck here on the Executor while that crazy Admiral was plotting to go over to the Alliance! Not that he had a clue as to where Vader was. The Sith Lord could be on any of several dozen planets by now. The only thing that Jixton could be certain of was that Vader, too, was planning to join the Rebellion. He had said so himself in his recorded message to Piett. How he thought he could accomplish this, however, was a complete mystery to everybody. Piett at least had a capital ship to offer the Rebellion, a ship that would provide enough protection until they could get the Alliance leaders to listen to them. Vader, of course, had the Force, but Jixton doubted that the Sith Lord's command of a mystical energy field would save him when the whole Rebel fleet was set to blast him out of space.
No, Vader must have a plan. He always had. But what hare-brained scheme could possibly convince the Alliance council of Vader's sincerity? It had to do something with Skywalker, of that Jixton was certain. The boy was Vader's son, and as Force-sensitive as his father. As a Jedi, Skywalker's word ought to have some weight with the Rebels. The boy was also part of Leia Organa's inner circle, and the former Senator of Alderaan was one of the Alliance's known leaders. But what could ever sway the Princess to accept Darth Vader as their ally, after everything he put her through? After he had her lover tortured and frozen in carbonite and allowed the bounty hunter Boba Fett to take him to Jabba the Hutt? Jixton had, of course, learned all about that in preparation for one of Vader's little jobs. In a sudden flash of insight, the answer presented itself to him.
Jixton exclaimed, and dropped on the sofa. Vader must truly be mad if he believed he could pull that on off alone.
---Master Healer Drell finished dressing Vader's cheek and scalp with bacta packs after surgically removing the old scars.
Keep the wounds clean, and leave the bacta packs on until tomorrow, he advised his patient. There will be some swelling and discoloration for a couple of days, and the wounds will itch when they heal. Do not scratch, or you might risk infection.
I understand, Vader replied. His speech was somewhat slurred because half of his face was still numbed by the anesthetic. How much do I owe you, Master Healer?
Kharim will discuss payment with you, Master Jedi, Drell replied. He bowed and left Vader alone with his Zabrak apprentice.
Please come with me to the front desk, Jedi, Kharim asked politely. Vader slid off the table and followed him.
The Zabrak presented him with a bill which Vader gladly paid. Silently, the Dark Lord vowed to make a different kind of payment to the Healer later. There were still a few connections he could use once he had joined the Alliance, and a certain clinic specialized on burn victims he had anonymously supported for a number of years now. A good cosmetic surgeon like Drell would be welcome there, no matter what his species was. He would see to that.
Picking up his various bags and packages, Vader left and, still deep in thought, ran right into a small shrouded figure around the next corner. His bags all spilled to the ground, and the diminutive woman who had not been paying any more attention than him on where she was going, also fell. She probably could not even see where she was going with that shawl wrapped around her head and face, as effectivly obscuring her features as the bandages obscured Vader's.
Chess ko, Vader rumbled good-naturedly (Careful). Bending down, he offered the woman his hand to help her up, but she smacked it away, got to her feet and hurried on without a word. Vader looked after her retreating form, then shrugged and gathered up his belongings. Some people are in an awful hurry, he mused and pitied anybody who got in the way of this shrew. It was strange, though. All of a sudden, he had the nagging feeling that he had missed something vitally important. And he could not shake it.
---Padmé returned to her ship in a foul mood. Not only were the port authorities dense as dwarf star matter, some big oaf just had to run her into the ground on her way back. Could this day turn any worse? In the privacy of her cabin, Padmé Naberrie Skywalker ripped the shawl from her head and let out a string of blue language that would have turned a Toydarian purple. It did not solve the problems, but it did make her feel better.
---To be continued.