CHAPTER FOUR

TORQUE

The "moment of force;" the rotational equivalent of linear force.

Lars shoved Maberust to the side with one hand as he dove in the other direction, blaster bolt whizzing above his head.

Slave I's master was here, too.

The stormtroopers shouted in alarm but were easily outpaced when Fett ignited his jetpack and landed on the catwalk above, ten paces in front of Lars.

Long time, no see.

Lars drew his two longest knives as he threw himself up to his feet just in time to meet Fett.

Fett had a pistol pointed at Lars's chest in a split second, but Lars didn't blink. He threw Fett's wrist off course with flat of his blade, another blaster bolt hurtling over his shoulder, and flipped the knife in his other hand to punch it in through Fett's shoulder joint.

Fett hissed and jerked out of Lars's grip, swiping a leg at Lars's feet and forcing Lars to tear back, taking his knife with him––Lars scowled. Fett had gotten out of range quickly enough to leave only a hole in his armorweave and a splash of blood on the tip of Lars's knife.

"Of all the places to find you," drawled Fett, drawing a second pistol, a half-meter from Lars. "I didn't expect it to be an Imperial Star Destroyer."

Lars snarled.

Fett shot at the same time Lars broke away to his side. He wasn't fool enough to try Fett's arms again, a too-easy target extended to shoot. He jabbed a blade right at Fett's chin.

Then Lars swung around, twisting under his own arm and leaving his back open to Fett just so he could stab the other knife underneath the beskar breastplate––it punctured armorweave and then, yes!––hit skin––Fett jerked back, switching a pistol for a grappling line––Lars faced him head-on again, flipping his knives around––

––but an iron grip wrenched Lars's wrist above his head and he stumbled.

"What," growled Darth Vader, "is the meaning of this."

In Vader's other hand he had Fett's wrist, squeezing the beskar vambrace until Lars could hear it creak.

"You have a fresh bounty on your ship, Lord Vader," said Fett, his free hand still training the blaster at Lars's chest. "Jabba's prize."

Lars bit his tongue so hard he tasted blood and switched his blade around again, ready to throw, when Vader yanked at his arm again.

That same blade snapped out of Lars's fist––dashing on its own straight into Vader's hand.

"He has been officially pardoned for any crimes he may have committed," Vader said coldly. "You'll remember, Fett, that the Empire does not recognize any Hutt lord's idea of crime. Lars works for the Empire. And if you would like to work for me, you'll drop that bounty."

He released Fett's wrist, who rotated it carefully, the electronics of the vambrace sparking. Fett locked eyes with Lars. Vader didn't drop Lars's arm.

"I pay much better. But you're welcome to go crawling back to Jabba."

"Understood, Lord Vader."

"And you," Vader looked down at Lars, who ripped his gaze away from Fett to match Vader's glare. "Chief Engineer. Don't you have work to do?"

Lars clenched his jaw until one of his teeth cracked.

"Yes."

Vader's hand tightened around his wrist in warning.

"Lord Vader," he ground out.

Vader dropped his arm. Lars felt Vader's gaze on him as he unwillingly sheathed his knives, one by one, eyeing Fett the whole time.

He didn't want to turn his back on Fett, but he knew there was no way in hell Vader wouldn't throw him out.

Lars dragged his eyes away, and across the rest of the hangar.

It was dead silent. There wasn't a single tool moving, no men working, and the eyes of every mechanic and stormie were on him, Vader, and Fett. Maberust, further down the catwalk, looked white enough to pass out.

Vader still had his other knife, glove closed around the bare blade.

Lars turned his back on Vader and Fett, every bone in his body protesting, and stalked in the other direction, pulling at Maberust's shoulder and dragging him out with him.

The blast doors snapped shut behind him.

The tension in his shoulders didn't fade. Maberust straightened up, dusting off his uniform from when Lars had shoved him to the ground.

Lars walked on. He knew the way to Vader's hangar by now. He drew a blade before he even realized he'd done it, just to feel the weight in his hand, but his stance felt off without the second blade.

Second time he'd survived a Mandalorian bounty hunter. And Vader––had saved his life, or something.

For now.

There was no guarantee Vader wouldn't kill him for it, though.

"Vader," repeated Mon Mothma.

Aboard Home One, surrounded by the odd collection of generals and senators––Mon Mothma and Leia; Dodonna, Rieekan, and Madine all in a ring of chairs around the room, Captain Solo awkwardly beside him––Obi-Wan felt like he might be back in a Jedi Council meeting.

The blank, judging stares really weren't all that different from the Council.

"You're certain," Mothma asked; it wasn't truly a question, but a lack of anything else to say.

Obi-Wan dipped his head. "I know it's unbelievable, but I assure you, it's the truth. Vader's presence is like none other in the Force. It's…unmistakable."

It was, but that wasn't the reason Obi-Wan was sure.

Obi-Wan would have rather pulled his own teeth out than have this conversation, but he was becoming quickly and cruelly reacquainted with the realities of war. Namely: if the sentry didn't speak fast enough, everyone else's deaths were on his head.

"Yeah, Senator," Solo chipped in. He and Chewbacca looked so visibly uncomfortable in the stark white of Home One's chamber that they almost made Obi-Wan look at ease. "All right, not about the Force stuff, but I could hear Kenobi shouting over the comms. I saw it with my own eyes––a TIE Advanced went in the trench and shot. None of us were in position to make it. Nobody else who saw it made it out alive."

Mothma sat, slowly, face carefully blank and eyes trained on the holoprojection of Yavin IV and the Death Star. The generals were exchanged looks with one another, but Obi-Wan snuck a glance only at Leia: her eyebrows drew together, her lips pursed, and she said nothing.

"I heard stories in the Clone Wars about what Jedi could do," Rieekan began, "but this is––" He shook his head.

"The only thing that could take down the Death Star was proton torpedoes," interjected Madine, "and no TIE is outfitted with those. This wasn't some last-second hairbrained scheme that accidentally worked out. This was planned. But if it really is Vader––Vader, betraying the Empire––he's the Emperor's iron fist––"

"I believe General Kenobi," interrupted Leia. Obi-Wan gave her a small, grateful smile, which she returned with a studied look. "It's…nonsensical, perhaps, but I believe he is telling the truth."

The Force was whispering to her, Obi-Wan thought, not without sadness.

"Besides," Leia continued, "Imperial politics are deadly, especially among the Joint Chiefs. Many of the brass would sell out the Emperor's own plans for a little more power from the Emperor himself. Vader wasn't on the Death Star at all, not even when Tarkin fired on Alderaan."

There was a little hitch in Leia's voice, and the Force trembled with her, but no one said anything. Mothma only steepled her fingers together.

"True," she allowed. "But Vader has never been…proactive before. And he has certainly never betrayed the Emperor like this. Dogfighting, yes––but not blowing up his own military installations in a secret coup."

Unease rested like leaden weights on her shoulders before Mothma straightened up. "Our spies have been scattered since the Death Star blew, but I'm sure the reshuffling of the ranks will include Vader somewhere at the top. Ultimately, it doesn't matter. The Alliance will celebrate Master Kenobi and Captain Solo as the pilots who destroyed the Death Star."

Obi-Wan offered a genial smile while he could feel Solo rolling his eyes behind him.

"We can't look a gift horse in the mouth for publicity," agreed Dodonna, "and any leak about Vader would only create chaos in the ranks. Needless to say, you're both sworn to secrecy."

"If I may, High Command," Obi-Wan stepped forward. "You should know that Vader and I have had some…bad blood. He knows very well who he was fighting above the Death Star and he will tell the Emperor about my survival. I only survived the dogfight because I caught him off guard. Vader will be looking for me, and his hunt will be ruthless. If the Alliance attempts to step between us, you may only end up offering yourselves for slaughter."

The Force shifted beneath his feet, like vines creeping up and trying to tie him down. Leia––she wanted him to stay. Well. That was an unexpected feeling…nice, too, he supposed.

"Bad blood," Mothma repeated, leaning forward, her gaze sharp and narrow like the crosshairs of a sniper rifle. "So, I take it that it was you who put him in that suit, Master Kenobi."

There was a gasp somewhere in the room, and Obi-Wan felt everyone's attention on him, piercing as blasterfire. His throat felt dry and parched, suddenly, like breathing in air of Tatooine. Or Mustafar.

"Yes," he said. The cool, pristine white of Home One helped him dispel the smoke of the burning Temple. "A duel gone…very wrong. But let me tell you now: I can't do it again. I can't defeat Vader." Obi-Wan felt like he swallowed half-molten glass and lava was dripping off his tongue as he spoke. "And I certainly can't defeat the Emperor."

The generals' questions began at once, a whole rush that Mothma stopped effortlessly with a raised hand.

"Tell us more about the Emperor," she entreated.

"He's the Sith Lord," Obi-Wan said simply. "Darth Sidious. The one the Order was looking for all those years ago. The Clone Wars were orchestrated entirely by him to put him where he is now. He was Maul's master, Dooku's, and now Vader's. He's more powerful than any of them––except maybe Vader. Master Windu, Grand Master Yoda––they all went up against him. They failed."

He blinked away security recordings of Anakin kneeling––no, Vader––

"But you succeeded," said Leia, quiet.

"Against Vader," Obi-Wan agreed. "After––after Order 66, Master Yoda and I were the only ones left. He chose the Emperor. I chose Vader."

I thought I could reason with him.

"And Vader still lives, after all that. I didn't have the power to kill him." Or maybe it was just strength he lacked.

"The Emperor," said Mothma, drawing the attention back to herself. "He must be defeated? For the Empire to die?"

Obi-Wan sighed. "I don't know how old Palpatine truly is, but I doubt he'll be dying from age––and his patience has always been his strength. If he isn't killed, he will try again, no matter how many years it takes."

"Can anyone kill them?" asked Dodonna. There was a quaver of fear in his voice that had the whole room trembling in the Force. "The Emperor. Vader."

Obi-Wan carefully didn't look at Leia.

"No chance they'd kill each other," Madine muttered to himself, slumping back in exhaustion.

"Vader would never betray the Empire," said Obi-Wan. Vader had burned down the rest of world to get it. "It is all he has in the world."

Not anymore. There was––there was a chance that Vader would betray the Emperor, but it would only be to replace Palpatine with himself and his son.

"As for the Emperor––the Dark Side is fueled by death, destruction. As long as war wages, he is powerful. Believe me," warned Obi-Wan, "the Dark Side––the Force––are very real. Have you seen Vader fight? Even alone, with only the Dark Side at his call, Vader can wreck planets."

Madine cursed.

"Then all we can do is win the war," said Mothma, with finality. "And leave Vader and the Emperor for the last." She stood. "If you are willing, Master Kenobi, I would like to offer you a place in this Alliance. Vader will be after you, yes, but your knowledge and experience make you an invaluable ally. How does Command vote?"

Ayes followed, one by one, Leia first.

Was there any way Obi-Wan could say no? He was too old for another war. Too tired. He'd lost the first one, anyway.

But Mon was as old as him, these men just as tired, and they had all lost the same war. Maybe not in the same way. But Leia, at least, knew what he felt.

And Princess Leia, with fire in her eyes and steel in her spine, would never leave the Rebellion.

"You have me," Obi-Wan said with a bow, "Or whatever is left. Lightsaber, advice, life––you may have it all."

Six of the galaxy's best bounty hunters he'd gotten––good enough for a handful of leads on a few Rebel bases. But Vader needed better.

"When they said there was an Imperial buyer interested in my droids," said Dr. Aphra, "I didn't think they meant you, Sir Darth Vader."

He didn't need a bounty hunter. He needed an archaeologist.

"I'm a big fan. Huge. How can I help?"

"Private business," Vader said, curt. He had seen some of her reactivated droids and gone to the trouble of chasing her down before the Death Star, but now he wanted her services for a different purpose. "I destroyed some of your reactivated droids. They impressed me––even for antiques. You are an archaeologist, correct?"

"Thank you, Mr. Lord Vader," said Aphra, touching her hand to her heart. "Sir? Your Majesty? Your Illustriousness? Honestly, no idea. I'm a rogue archaeologist, not a protocol droid."

"I have some digging for you to do," said Vader, ignoring her yammer. He took a step forward, shadow looming over her.

"Yes, sir!" Aphra said with a chipper salute. There was suspicion in her eyes she hid well when she asked, "Anything else?"

He opened his hand. The datachip lit up.

"You…" Dr. Aphra looked down, the holo dancing in the reflection of her wide eyes. "…are even more interesting than I could have hoped, Sir Vader."

"Lord Vader," Vader corrected. "If you live."

Zero-three-hundred hours. The forge was empty except for the beskar. And he wasn't dead yet, so he might as well get to work while his good luck lasted.

Lars lit up the forge. It alone was bigger than his entire shop, a vat made for mass-producing starfighter parts and gunnery pieces; when the ring of blue flames bloomed to life it cast a strange glow over the rest of the dark workshop. The rest of the smithy was nothing raw metal ingots, each marked with the Empire's seal, arranged into pyramids that towered far above him. The stack of beskar––tiny compared to the colossal mounds of everything from gold to durite to chromium––laid at the feet of the forge.

Lars picked up a single ingot of beskar, dropping into the vat. He watched it melt. The Imperial crest oozed away into nothing but liquid silver.

Then came the rest: durasteel, carbonite, tungsten, bismuth, titanium, and more. Lars felt a strange feeling of satisfaction as he watched them meld––or maybe even something like excitement.

The regulation ingots were more precise than anything he'd ever forged on Tatooine, which had all been made of scrounged and bartered scrap. He could do more than just prostheses––specialized circuits or converters, hell, the forge was big enough maybe he could even manage a few starship parts…

Lars punched in the correct dimensions for the prosthetic arm into the terminal next to the forge. The display rippled, a million miniature columns of cast steel rearranging themselves and solidifying into the hollow cast of an arm.

He couldn't help but stare, marvelling. When he'd first forged Vader's prostheses, he'd had to use desert sand for a mold. Now, it seemed almost too easy.

Lars plunged a foundry ladle into the molten metal before pouring it into the premade cast, watching as the liquidized alloy––burning as bright as the blue flames of the forge––filled the rivulets of the cast. Lars pulled down the top of the cast with a pressurized hiss just as another mechanical hiss filled the room.

Lars didn't turn around, clamping metal braces to the cast.

"Don't bother killing me yet," he called over his shoulder. "I'm not finished."

"Believe it or not, mechanic," said Vader, voice rumbling over the growling of the forge. "You require the least of my ire. For now."

Lars snorted, unlocking the cast. With a pair of tongs, he pulled the new arm out of the mold, still glowing with blistering orange heat. He plunged the prosthetic into the cooling vat, hot steam billowing, before he locked it in place on an anvil.

"I observed your orders for repairs to the fleet and your modifications to the Advanced Weapons Research projects. I was impressed."

Lars picked up the striker that leaned against the anvil, gripping with two hands as he hefted the hammer over his shoulder and brought it down in one clean stroke. The shriveled metal hangers-on from the mold fell off the prosthetic with a shudder.

Lars straightened up, striker still held loosely in one hand. He looked over at Vader, suspicious. Vader stood opposite the forge; the pinpricks of blue flame reflected in his mask. An impressed Vader was not a good thing. It only meant more work for him.

"I have given the order to begin production on Project Hive, effective immediately," continued Vader. Lars grunted and turned back around, replacing the striker with a smaller one as he began work out the rounding of the joints. "And I require your oversight on another matter. Project Pax Aurora."

Vader's tone left no room for argument. Lars didn't care. He looked up, but didn't drop the hammer or tongs.

"I'd get this done a lot faster if you stopped interrupting me," Lars said sourly.

Vader made a noise of impatience, garbled through his vocoder.

"Fine." Lars dropped the tongs and crossed his arms, hammer still in hand. He added the vocoder to the growing list of projects, if he lived past this conversation. "What is it."

A holodisk drifted through the air and lit itself up in front of him. Vader followed shortly after.

"You might even like this one, mechanic."

Unwillingly, Lars's eyes slid over the projection. Twelve Star Destroyers, but only…almost. He looked at the scale and blinked.

"Those are––"

"Super Star Destroyers," Vader replied, almost eager. "Project Pax Aurora. All in construction at Kuat. The one nearest completion is my new flagship. And you will make it mine."

At his words, the holodisplay readjusted itself, refitting to the schematics of the Super Star Destroyer, the engine core displayed most prominently. Lars stared, feeling his heart beat a little faster. The hyperdrive alone…

"And what do you think?" asked Vader, impatient. "Will it work?"

Lars's eyes slid unwillingly back to Vader. He wasn't really sure how he was still alive, and he wanted Vader to get on his execution. If this hurried it up, whatever.

"It couldn't dock anywhere but space," Lars granted, with a grumble. "Too big. It'd destroy half the planet if it entered the atmosphere, let alone landed."

"Very well," Vader said, sounding pleased as the holodisplay shut off itself off and dropped itself in front of Lars's feet. "I have some alterations for you to make to the blueprints."

Lars had things to do and no time to waste. "Are you gonna kill me or not?"

Vader made a sound of annoyance. It was becoming vaguely familiar.

"Do not make me repeat myself. As long as you do my bidding, you have nothing to fear except from me. Since you have yet to irritate me enough to snap your neck for the inconvenience of your existence, I believe you can consider your life safe," Vader informed him with a touch of impatience. Lars snorted. "I have projects for you, mechanic, and larger plans. There are men in the galaxy bigger than Jabba the Hutt. I am one of them. Whatever the bounty is, I will buy it out."

Lars dropped the hammer back on the anvil. "It's not a bounty. You can't buy it out."

"And why not?"

Between Vader's bulk and the vast still-hot forge, there wasn't room for escape.

"It's not a bounty," Lars repeated, gaze on the half-shaped arm. He would have to melt the prosthetic down and remake it. It had already cooled too much for him to be able to pattern it. "It's a prize. I escaped. Jabba didn't like that. The only reason I'm here is I killed everyone he sent after me. Now, it's an honor."

Vader said nothing for three long, steady breath cycles. Lars's breathing wasn't so steady.

And then: "I will kill Fett myself if he proves an irritant. Until then, I believe this belongs to you."

Lars looked up. Vader drew Lars's blade from his belt and held it parallel, silver catching the light as he tested the weight in his hands.

"One of a pair. Your vibroblades are Mandalorian make," said Vader. His gaze raised from the blade to Lars.

"They're good knives," he said, folding his arms. "Clean cut through almost anything."

"And how might you have acquired them?"

Lars grinned with all teeth and no smile.

"Skinned a Mando," he said, almost joking.

Vader flung the blade at him. It reeled around itself, vibration ringing in the air. Lars reached out caught it by the handle.

Lars raised it eye level, running his gaze along the blade's gentle curve, and opened his hand. The blade dropped unceremoniously into the forge. The beskar spit and hissed with a vengeance as it bubbled away into molten silver.

"Why," said Vader, unamused. "Did you do that."

"Because," said Lars. "I can make it better."

Her dreams promised her. Her dreams lied to her.

When Leia slept, there were no nightmares. Only dreams. That was why Leia never slept, though no one needed to know that.

Because, when she slept, her dreams offered her nothing but the most precious, thoughtless, beautiful things. Alderaan in all its glory: the Hanging Gardens, green branches heavy under fresh fruit, her aunts laden with baskets to harvest for the city's people; the golden light breaking in iridescent crescents across the floor of her mother's throne room, high in the purple mountains of Aldera; the too-blue cloudless sky as her father's ship broke the clouds.

When she slept, she thought nothing of it. Leia smiled in her sleep. Her father embraced her, her mother kissed her cheek and there was not the slightest inkling they might be dead and gone. It was too sweet and too soft and too kind for Leia to bear those dreams in her waking hours. Instead, when she woke, Leia wept.

So Leia never slept.

In the scant week since the Death Star, Leia had taken her mandatory eight-hour night shifts without a fight. Everyone was watching her, Princess of the Late Alderaan, and she couldn't afford any hint of weakness, of pity or sympathy or even care. Not right now.

So, when her door chimed with a knock, Leia made sure to take the time to look properly sleep-ridden before she answered.

"General Kenobi," she said, surprised. General Kenobi's eyes looked bluer in the dim glow of the night cycle lights and the bags under his eyes even heavier.

"Princess Leia," he responded, dipping his head in a slight bow. "My apologies for waking you."

"No––" Leia said, but before she could stop herself, the truth stumbled out. She let her façade fade as she slumped against the doorway, head dropping against the wall. "I…wasn't sleeping, anyway."

"Ah, yes," said General Kenobi, the hint of sad smile sketched on his face. "Forgive me––I did not believe you were."

"Oh," Leia said, "that obvious, huh?"

"I disagree." Strangely, Kenobi's smile got a little wider. "A fine ruse. Well-played. Forgive my intrusion: please, Princess, there is something I want you to have."

Leia watched with wide eyes as General Kenobi unclipped the second saber from his belt and held it out to Leia. She blinked. It couldn't be!

"This is––this is––"

"A lightsaber," agreed Kenobi, "an elegant weapon, for a more civilized age."

"But I'm not a Jedi," protested Leia.

Kenobi held out his spare hand. A little dumbly, Leia extended her own. Kenobi held her hand, gentle, hands rough and worn with calluses. He folded her hand around the saber, and closed his other hand atop hers.

"Maybe not," said Kenobi. "But I can think of none better to wield it and it will defend you well, all the same. Treat it carefully––it is far more powerful than any blaster. Besides," Kenobi withdrew his hands to let her feel the weight of it. "What am I supposed to do with two lightsabers?"

Still awed, Leia lit the saber. With a snap-hiss the blade unfolded bright blue before her eyes.

It was so blue, so bright, and there was such intensity that she couldn't help but close the blade.

"This wasn't yours, General Kenobi?" Leia asked, watching him as she held the saber unsurely.

"No," replied Kenobi, and he seemed sad…no, not sad. Wistful. "It belonged to a good friend of mine. His name was Anakin."

Anakin? It couldn't be––Leia's eyes snapped up to meet his. "You mean Anakin Skywalker? General in the Clone Wars? Commander of the Open Circle Fleet?"

"Oh, yes," said General Kenobi, with a smile and a little laugh. "He'd be delighted you knew his name."

Leia opened her mouth, suddenly filled with the same rush of unanswered questions she'd pestered her tutors with, but closed it again. Even with a laugh, Kenobi seemed sadder than ever.

"My father spoke of you both," she told him. Her chest ached at the thought, but she thought maybe General Kenobi understood that. "He said you were inseparable."

Kenobi smiled again. "Bail always saw things much more clearly than me. This is a poor return, but consider it an apology I never got to give Bail. He asked me many times to leave Tatooine and come protect you. I should have listened, and I certainly wish I had done a better job of it. Hopefully, this might do you more good."

Leia was startled. Her father asked General Kenobi to come guard her? Why? And General Kenobi had come to rescue her from the Death Star…on her father's word?

"You have nothing to apologize for," Leia said, trying not to choke out the words. Even after death, her father was still trying to protect her. She fought ferociously against tears. "I––I don't know why you couldn't leave before, but you're here now. Please, General Kenobi." She reached out and took his hand. "Stay with us."

"I will do my best, Princess," said Kenobi and it didn't sound like an apology. It sounded like a promise.