AN: This is the second and final part of Instinct. Many thanks to those who have read and left such kind comments for the story. I hope that you enjoy the conclusion of the story.
Luke's alias - Dunestrider was featured in an old Star Wars Marvel comic book.
Again thanks to Kazlynh, Veronica W. And to Lovesdaryl for her kindness, her motivational tweets and good conversation - this story is for you!
The disclaimer for Part One still applies...
Instinct
Part Two
The room stank. That fetid, rank, stench of old sweat and body fluids. The boy sat still and silent, pulling in slow breath after slow breath giving no indication that he was even aware of Yarryn's presence at the open door. His head was down, hair dark and lank but no longer dripping with sweat despite the heat and humidity in the room as his body tried to conserve what little fluid it had left. Dark spots of blood from his split lip dotted his prison shirt and black bruises encircled his wrists and ankles from the shackles and binders.
The Rebel was a sorry sight already and they hadn't yet fully escalated his interrogation above the second level of intensity. Indeed. Yarryn was going to oversee that himself.
Garn'et was with him; having swapped again with Towen two hours before. They were now fifty-four hours into his captivity, seventeen hours into the intensive interrogation and the boy's responses were becoming incoherent and jumbled from sleep deprivation, dehydration and from the discomfort of his forced seated position, but he had yet to give them anything of note.
And still the background checks had not come in from Tatooine. Not that his identity really mattered anymore. They had more than enough evidence to condemn him now.
"Let's turn down the lights and cool our young friend down," he said to no-one in particular knowing his request would be obeyed. He stepped into the room making room for Towen to do likewise. The Commander busied himself setting out his datapads onto the table and seated himself while Towen and Garn'et prepared the prisoner.
The Rebel stirred at the noise. The binders clinked as he moved, as he lifted his head and squinted at them with bewildered confusion
Towen placed a pack on the table and the two specialists both pulled on gloves. The Lieutenant popped open a container of fluid; a blend of water with essential minerals and electrolytes to combat dehydration. He reached out and took the Rebel by the chin, tilting his head and placed the rim of the bottle against the youth's split and cracked lips. Towen squeezed the youth's cheeks, pursing his lips and tipped the fluid until it ran into his mouth. Dunestrider drank desperately.
Garn'et meanwhile began to set up a field medkit's intravenous fluid transfer feed. Yarryn had found them useful to not only bolster his subjects with fluids but it was also an easier and more efficient system to feed the necessary interrogation drugs directly into the prisoner's system.
Of course a dose could always be given directly if necessary, but the prisoners tended to fight, to struggle to avoid the injections and that could sometimes work against the Interrogator's needs if force was necessary to contain them. It was often easier to start with the initial injection and then drip feed the drugs as necessary.
Almost semi-conscious Dunestrider jerked, weakly trying to pull away when Garn'et slapped repeatedly on the back on his hand to raise the blood vessels; a difficult achievement given the Rebel's dehydrated state, and slipped the canula into his vein and secured it to his skin. The Specialist quickly finished fixing the fluid line and opened the valve, setting the feed to a steady flow. Then he lifted a syringe, popped open the injection port cap and quickly injected the first of the drugs that Yarryn had ordered for this interrogation; a stimulant and a blood thinner – they needed him awake and they needed him alive. Having him sitting for so long risked a blood clot and they had no wish for him to die of an embolism.
Both Garn'et and Towen stepped back as Dunestrider moaned and placed themselves a pace away at the back of the youth. There they would provide a steady threat. A presence that the prisoner knew could be called upon at any time.
The lights dimmed, the heat dropped to a more comfortable level and they waited patiently for the youth to respond to the fluids and the stimulant he had been given.
Another groan and the muscles of the youth's body locked, he gasped in a breath, "Ah…," and squeezed his eyes shut against the pain of his forced sit.
"Luke?" Yarryn tried, leaning forward and trying to capture the Rebel's attention. "Luke? Do you know where you are?"
Silence. Just muted gasps and laboured breathing.
"Luke," Yarryn tried again. "Open your eyes and look at me."
The youth shook his head. "Please…."
"Luke, I need you to look at me."
Dunestrider lifted his head. His face was marked, bruised from Garnet's backhand, his eyes were shadowed and heavy and the blue of his irises had darkened.
"Do you know where you are?"
The Rebel glanced at his hand and the line feeding into it with bewilderment. He frowned at the sight and Yarryn saw realisation slowly dawn.
"Please," he said, sounding panicked, sounding desperate. His voice still rough and dry. "Please… don't do this."
Yarryn smiled sadly. "That's not what I asked you, Luke."
"Please," the Rebel pleaded, swallowing, "you don't want… to do this."
Yarryn hesitated that that sentence, staring in thought at the youth. It had been a plea, but it had also sounded like a warning.
"You are right, Luke," he conceded, "I don't want to do this. I have no wish to hurt you or pressure you any more than you wish to be hurt or pressured. But I have a duty to the Empire and you are so much more than you pretend to be and I am required to find out all I can…"
There was a sound, a choked sob. The Rebel shook his head. "I'm not… I'm not what you think I am."
"… so the sooner you answer my questions truthfully the sooner this will end." Yarryn finished, ignoring Dunestrider's statement.
The Rebel fought to swallow again, he shifted in his seat trying to ease the discomfort of sitting too long. "I… have been truthful."
Yarryn shook his head. "No, Luke, you haven't," Yarryn lifted one of the datapads and turned it on. He pushed it across the table allowing the prisoner to view the image on the display screen. It was a frozen still from the security footage of the protests; a picture of a dark haired man. "Do you know this man?"
Dunestrider stared at the image, he shook his head. "No," he said tiredly, pitifully.
"Look again."
The boy did, blinking slowly as he stared at the screen. Again he shook his head. "I've… never seen him before. Please… I…"
"And you're sure about that?"
"Yes."
Yarryn lifted the datapad and tapped in command. He slid it back across the table for Dunestrider to watch the footage play out.
The boy watched himself turn into the same street as the protestors, he watched as his image kept close to the wall of building, as he collided with the dark haired man and as they briefly spoke to one another and shook hands before parting. The recording ended.
"He wasn't picked up," Yarryn told him.
The boy shrugged, winced, worried his wrists in the cuffs, but Yarryn was sure he saw some relief flicker in his eyes. "Lucky him."
The Commander smiled. "So, you know him."
"No…" The Rebel closed his eyes against it all. "I just… bumped into him." His voice was getting stronger as the stimulant and the fluids did their work.
"You spoke to him."
Dunestrider opened his eyes. He smiled in disbelief, the cut on his lip catching and pulling. "I…we said 'sorry.'"
"And that's all?"
A sigh. "Yes."
Yarryn lifted the datapad once more, changed the display and set it back down again.
This time the youth watched himself stand by a trash container for few minutes. Then the picture enhanced and he was shown his own hand slipping into the bin and curling around something. Again the boy watched as he was once again present with the footage of him bumping into and shaking hands with the other man, using the same hand that he had slipped into the litterbin.
Yarryn took the datapad back and the youth glanced up at him, his bruised face expressionless. The Commander input another command and again slid it back across the desk to the youth.
It was another picture of the dark haired man. This one taken from an ID. The man looked a little younger; fresh faced and eager to face the world. The individual's details were listed, as was his status in the Empire.
"Wedge Antilles," Yarryn announced, breaking the tense silence of the last few minutes. "Identified a few months ago as being a pilot in the Rebel Alliance. A low level Rebel, but a Rebel nonetheless."
Dunestrider lifted his tired eyes away from the picture. "I still… don't know him."
"No?"
The boy heaved in a breath, exhaled heavily. "No."
Yarryn watched him for a moment, contemplating his next move.
The Commander leaned over the desk. "What did you retrieve from the trash, Luke?"
Dunestrider swallowed. "Nothing."
"You didn't put anything into the bin. So you must have lifted something out."
Silence.
"Need I remind you that you are required to answer?"
Again the youth's eyes flickered to his. It was a look of contempt, a look of joyless humour. "You need to ask a question."
Garn'et partly slid his baton from the belt loop. Yarryn shook his head. Now was not the time for violence.
"What did you take from the trash, Luke? What did you hand to Antilles?"
"Nothing."
Yarryn wasn't surprised the youth was still in denial was refusing to yield and give the answers they desired. From experience the Commander knew he would continue to refute all the evidence presented to him. What was he holding out for? Was there something going down on Corulag that gave the youth something to cling too? Some mission he had to protect, some people he had to protect?
People.
Yarryn lifted the datapad, changed the display and pushed it back for Dunestrider to view. "What about these Human women?"
The Rebel quirked a brief smile. "What about them?" He asked.
Yarryn's mouth turned down at the question. The boy was required to answer, not ask. "Thus far we have been unable to trace them. Unable to identify them. You could save us a lot of time and tell us who they are."
Dunestrider shrugged, grimaced in pain. "I don't… remember their names."
The Commander leaned across the table. "We checked with the hostel you didn't take them back there. Did you go back their homes? Sleep with them? Surely they told you their names?"
Yarryn was humoured to see a blush flush over the boy's face. "No."
"You didn't exchange names?" Smiling, the Commander lifted an eyebrow at the men standing behind Dunestrider. "Just body fluids?"
The youth shifted uncomfortably the blush now a fierce crimson. It would be funny if the situation weren't so serious.
"Their names?" Yarryn demanded.
"I… I can't remember…"
"So, no second dates?" Another look up at the waiting specialists and a laugh. "It looks like we have a young player on our hands," back to the Rebel, "or perhaps you just didn't impress them with your prowess in bed?"
A flash of those blue eyes in his direction, that anger again… at the taunt? Or was it concern for others? "It… it wasn't… like that…"
"I don't really care what it was like, Luke. I just need their names…" Yarryn smiled at him. "Just to rule them out of our investigation," he appeased.
Dunestrider sniffed, eyes turning away to look at the blank wall behind Yarryn. "I can't tell you. I… can't remember their names."
"Were they your contacts on Corulag?"
A shake of his head and shudder ran through his body. "No…"
"What was your mission?"
A breath. Another. "No… mission…"
"Tell me the names of the women."
The boy lifted his eyes to stare at the back wall above Yarryn's head, his lips slightly curling and he answered. "I… don't know…"
The Commander's eyes narrowed. Dunestrider seemed to be stifling a smile, as though he were laughing at a joke only he knew. It was unsettling, disconcerting. The boy was a lot stronger, harder, than even he had given him credit for.
"Okay," he announced, moving the datapad to the side and lifting another one. It was time for a change in conversation. Time to lay some more cards out for the boy to consider. "We'll come back to Antilles and the women."
He pushed the new device to the boy and directed him to look at the screen and the data it presented. He saw the blue eyes widen, saw the fear behind them when the youth's gaze lifted to him. Yarryn smiled with some satisfaction. At last he had shaken the boy.
"Tell me about Yavin," he said, casually.
The blood drained from Dunestider's face, he looked away and Yarryn knew there could be no pretence now. No hiding. No denial.
"Tell me about the X-Wing. Did it need its power cells charged? Replaced?"
A heavy swallow. The Rebel shivered.
"You were on Yavin approximately twelve weeks ago. You remained there long enough for minerals and particles to enter your system. They were picked up in your hair. Your clothes and belongings also carried traces," he told the boy, needlessly explaining the data to the Rebel, but he wanted Dunestrider to know that it was all over for him. "Twelve weeks ago the Rebels were on Yavin. Twelve weeks ago they destroyed an Imperial Space Station in the Yavin system. So…
"… tell me all about Yavin. Tell me the name of the pilot who took down the Death Star."
Silence.
Dunestrider chewed on his lip, bursting the split; blood ran freely.
Again Yarryn leaned over the table, his voice cold, hard. "Let me be perfectly clear. You, young sir, are never leaving here. What happens to you from this point on depends on the answers you give to my questions. If you co-operate, if the information you give us is useful in capturing your accomplices – particularly the pilot who took down the Death Star – then I will request that the Judiciary be lenient with your punishment. However, if you continue to play us, if you continue to deny your involvement, if you refuse to answer or misdirect us further there will be very little left of you for any form of punishment…" he paused, allowing his words to hit home. "… Do you understand?"
Dunestrider licked away the blood, cleared his throat. His eyes flickered to the door and back to his interrogator. He swallowed. "Yes," his voice was strained, hoarse.
Yarryn smiled, not fully placated. There was something about this youth even now with all his lies being exposed, there was something about him that set the Commander's instincts screaming. The youth had been shaken but hadn't crumbled when shown the evidence against him - and had that been a smile he had suppressed when the Death Star pilot was mentioned?
"Good," Yarryn nodded, gathering in all the datapads. "So let us try this again. Tell me your name."
Dunestrider hung his head, groaned, giving in to the pain of his body. Then he lifted his head and stared at the Commander.
"Luke," he said, the defiance in his eyes already telling Yarryn what he was going to say next. "Luke Dunestrider."
ooOOoo
Yarryn stepped out of the Interrogation room and leaned against the wall of the corridor, heaving in breaths of air. It wasn't fresh air by any means, but it was a hell of a lot cleaner than the air in that room.
He was exhausted. Another round of questions, another two hours of the same answers, the same denials from the youth and he had learned nothing new.
Where the hell was the information from the Tatooine outpost? He needed to know more about this boy. He needed to find that crack, that weakness, that he could pry open bit by bit to see what the Rebel was truly hiding.
"Where is Wedge Antilles now?!
"…don.. know…"
"The name of the pilot who destroyed the Death Star?"
"… don… know…"
"What is your name?"
"…uke… Dune…. Dunestrider…"
"Where are you staying?"
"…looks… like… here."
"Where are you staying?"
"…Mosbree Hostel. Covell… District…"
"Who were the women? Were they your contacts?"
"No…"
"The name of the pilot who destroyed the Death Star?"
"… don… know… Can… can't tell…"
The youth was faltering, a hacking cough now wracking his body. His breaths coming in gasps from the forced sit. His speech becoming slurred, incoherent once more despite the fluids. Almost twenty hours of straight questioning, of sitting hunched over and unable to move and still the Rebel refused to yield.
He had made mistakes. He had wandered and backtracked. He had mixed up events and he had confirmed that he did know Antilles only to retract it when challenged and pled confusion. But after each mistake he seemed to rally, he seemed clamp down and become even more stubborn.
Yarryn couldn't but help admire the boy's strength, his misplaced tenacity, but it was a tenacity that needed to be removed and so he had ordered Towen and Garn'et that the youth be given more water, more fluids and more stimulant to bring him around and to keep him lucid while he stepped out to collect what he needed.
Footsteps caught his attention and he glanced up at the Specialist who approached him with a small case in his hands.
"Sir?" The officer held the case out to him.
The Commander straightened and took the offered container. "Ten twenty millilitre ampules?"
"As you ordered, sir."
Yarryn nodded his acknowledgement. "Anything from Tatooine?"
"Not yet, sir."
The Commander's mouth turned down in anger. "Contact the base Commander at Mos Eisley and tell him that if he doesn't come up with anything within the next hour that I'll personally report his incompetence to Imperial Centre and bring charges of obstruction against him."
"Yes, sir!"
Yarryn waited until the officer had returned to his duties before opening the case and glancing in at the ampules of Thiohexium Phenate. A truth drug, a mind probe drug, like Bavo Six, but more potent, more ruthless. It combined with epinephrine in the body, obstructing receptors in the brain and making the subject more pliable, more likely to answer truthfully. However, the right amount of hormone had to be present for it to work and for that an individual had to be under pressure, in pain.
Violence was distasteful, but sometimes there was little alternative.
He turned on his heels and took in a last breath of clean air and re-entered the interrogation room.
The Rebel was shivering badly. Perhaps from the lower temperature, perhaps from the high dose of the stimulant, perhaps from shock, perhaps from fear. His body was shuddering, shaking and the manacles around his wrists and attached to the table clinked tunelessly. He was more alert, his eyes cautiously watching the Commander as he returned to the seat opposite, pulled it closer to the table and sat down.
Yarryn opened the case again allowing the youth to see the pure, clear, contents of the ampules. There was a definite flash of recognition in the blue eyes, a definite flaring of fear and the boy's jaw clamped shut, muscles bunching. The fact that Dunestrider knew the drug just confirmed that the boy was a Rebel who had, more than likely, under gone some instruction on resisting interrogation. It confirmed the short answers that sounded more and more rehearsed with each repetition. They had become the youth's mantra, his chant that he so desperately clung too.
"Thiohexium Phenate," he supplied, for the youth. "But it looks like you already know that. Just like you know that if we are forced to use it that you will tell us everything we ask." He sat back into the chair, lounging comfortably. "I have no wish to use this, I have no wish to subject you to unnecessary pain and so I will ask you one question. Just one. If you do not give me the answer I am looking for… I will use the Thiohex."
The boy let a breath out, he sounded panicked, desperate. "Please… don't do this…" he gasped, finally showing real signs of fear and horror. "Please… you don't… know… what… you're doing."
Yarryn frowned, again perplexed by the Rebel's pleas. The warning in his tones. He stared at the youth for a long moment and then asked. "What is your name?"
The youth eyes flickered to waiting case of the drug, he was quiet; considering his poor choice of options. Then he licked his lips, his body stiffened in anticipation and he lifted his chin, answering. "Luke…. Dunestrider."
Retribution was swift, severe; a crack of a bone and a prolonged scream that fell away to panted cries of agony. Garn'et stepped away palming the heavy baton he had used to break the youth's out stretched arm with just one strike.
Towen popped open the injection port of the cannula in the boys hand, slid an ampule out of the case, fitted a needle…
"No!" a cry, a plea that was ignored, "Don't! You… don't want… this."
… and injected the full dose of Thiohex.
Dunestrider grunted as the cool of the drug raced into his body. One fist curled, one fist hung limply in the cuff.
Yarryn watched and waited, allowing time for the drug to course through the boy's blood stream, for it to combine with epinephrine and for it to reach the brain.
He leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Tell me your name."
The Rebel's eyes were closed; tightly shut. Face twisted with pain and effort.
"Tell me your name."
The boy swallowed, choked, and gagged, reminding Yarryn that Thiohex caused nausea.
"Tell me your name."
Silence….
Garn'et lifted the baton ready to strike again. Then slowly…
"L…uke," the youth supplied, again and Yarryn could feel the first stirrings of disbelief then… "Sk… Sky… Skywalker."
There was a stir at the back of his head. A feeling that he knew that name, but Yarryn smiled, praised. "Well done, Luke. That's very good. Where are you from, Luke?"
"Tat… ooine. Anchor… head."
"What age are you, Luke?"
"Nine… nineteen…"
"Are you a member of the Rebel Alliance?"
Hesitation, a breath. A grimace as he fought against the drugs. A loose nod, a sob. "Yes…" the word ended like a hiss.
"Rank?"
"C…can.. can't say. Can't say…. Said… too much…"
Garn'et didn't need prompting. The baton fell again on the same arm. The boy shrieked, head thrown back, the sound ripping through his vocal cords.
Yarryn waited until he had quietened. Waited until he could get a word in between the moans.
"Rank."
"Fli…ght… flight Lieut… Lieutenant," he was weeping.
"And you were at Yavin when the Death Star was destroyed?"
"…Yes…"
"Tell me the name of the pilot who destroyed the Death Star."
There was giggle. A hitched laugh…
"Luke?"
"I can't… I can't feel it…" Skywalker shook his head, face contorting in concentration. "Gone…" he said with some wonder in his voice. "It's gone…"
"What's gone?" Yarryn stood, gut suddenly churning and he had no idea why. Something was wrong, something was off and he didn't know what.
Skywalker…
He leaned over the table, demanded. "What's gone?"
Skywalker lifted his head, opened eyes hazy with drugs and pain. "Me," he said. He smiled, opening the split in his lip, blood running unchecked down over his chin. "…e… can't feel me."
"What?" Yarryn barked, not understanding the Rebel's garbled words.
I can't feel it… It's gone… Can't feel me…
He needed to redirect the boy, he needed Skywalker…
Skywalker…
… to focus. "The Death Star, Luke. The name of the pilot!"
The Rebel stared at him, grinned with bloodied lips. "Luke… Skywalker."
Yarryn was on the verge of chastising the youth. Was about to tell the boy that he wanted the name of the pilot, not his own name again. But he stopped, chilled and straightened.
The name of the pilot.
Luke Skywalker.
He had the pilot in his custody! This boy was the pilot. He had captured and uncovered the most wanted individual in the Galaxy and it was a nineteen year old kid from Tatooine!
Yarryn glanced up at his staff. Saw them make the same connection, saw the hardening of their attitudes and resolve.
Yarryn slowly sat; the interrogation was not finished. It had only just begun. "You destroyed the Death Star, Luke?"
"Shit…."
The Commander smiled, through the fog of drugs and pain Skywalker had only just realised what he had said.
"Shit…"
Yarryn tilted his body, fished in his pocket and retrieved his comlink. Activating it he ordered, "Get me any information you can on individuals named Skywalker."
"No…" the Rebel protested… "don't… you don't… want this."
A hollow, muted voice asked. "Any other search parameters, sir?"
Yarryn thought for moment, staring at the youth, intrigued by his entreaties. He didn't know where to start, didn't know what it was about that name that had piqued his memory. Something from long ago, his childhood. "Start from twenty years ago, just before the Empire."
"Yes, sir!"
Switching off the comm he placed it on the table. Taking his time to consider his next question. "What is the Death Star pilot doing on Corulag, Luke? Why are you here?"
Skywalker panted, head down once more. "Can't… please… don't…" Beads of cold sweat dripped onto the prison pants as the Rebel turned away, face twisting with effort. "No…" he groaned, struggling to hold his tongue against the powerful drug, sounding distraught. "…'not… working… can't feel… can't… he'll come… he'll know…"
Another vicious strike to the fractured arm. Another prolonged, instinctive scream. Another wait until the Rebel caught his breath.
"Corulag, Luke… why are you here?"
"Ah… I… please… you don't want… this…"
"Why are you here?!" Yarryn barked.
"Ah… Ah… algorithms… trans… mission code…. algorithms… Hy… hyperspace co… co-ordinates…"
Yarryn considered the information, his stomach tightening. The Rebels were here for information for… code algorithms for… for hyperspace routes… but where…?
The Academy!
Of course! The research grant that the Corulag Academy had been awarded by the Naval High Command.
If the Rebellion could get its hands on the algorithms being researched and developed to encrypt transmissions then Imperial communications would be compromised. Fleet movements, troop movements, weapons and supply distributions, everything would be opened to the Rebellion and, by also getting their hands on hyperspace algorithms, they could open new routes and make it even more difficult for the Empire to track their fleet.
But how? Who within the Academy would betray their Empire? The research team were led by a renowned professor of Algorithmic Mathematics and Applied Sciences and the graduate students on the team were vetted, all cleared by the Imperial Security Bureau.
Yarryn shook his head; they would all have to be brought in. All questioned and the programme shut down.
"The women?" Yarryn asked, of his labouring captive. "The women were your contacts?"
A loose nod, a stifled retch. "Ju…st one."
"One of the women was your contact, and she made the drop, didn't she, Luke? Into the trash container?"
"No…. please… don't… do… this…"
"Answer me, Luke!" He pressed. "She made the drop, didn't she?"
A sigh. "No…"
Yarryn made a quick nod and Garn'et leaned forward squeezing the wounded arm rather than striking it. The effect was the same.
The Commander waited once more, waited until he could be heard over the cries and the pants. He leaned forward again. "The woman made the drop into the trash container, didn't she?"
Skywalker shook his head, tears fell, snot ran from his nose. "…No…"
"No?" Yarryn's brows furrowed, he thought quickly, out loud. "She was your contact…"
The youth nodded, despite no question being asked.
"… she was the go between. The negotiator between you and the person with the information?"
Another slack nod.
"So, who was it that made the drop? Who is the traitor?"
"…don't know…" an intake of breath, a prolonged grimace as pain purled along his arm. "…please...never found… out…"
Yarryn let out a breath of disappointment. That was a pity, it could have made the ISB's job, his job, easier if they knew who the traitor was within the Professor's team.
"But, you picked it up, didn't you and passed it to Antilles?"
"Ye… es…"
Dammit, the Rebellion already had the information.
"Where is Antilles now?"
Skywalker shook his head, looked up at Yarryn from under his hair. He smiled and more blood wept down his chin, dripped onto the shirt. "G..one… home."
This was now damage control. "The other woman? What part did she play?"
The Rebel made a strangled noise. It sounded like a laugh. "… just.. for… fun…"
Despite his tension, despite his elation at the information, the affirmation of his gut instinct, Yarryn had to laugh. The boy, this Rebel, was a lad like any other and even in the midst of his Rebellion he had sought out female comfort and succour.
"Where are they now, Luke?" He asked, still smiling. "Where are the women?"
"… no women…"
Anger stirred within Yarryn, but also admiration. Beaten as he was the youth was still fighting, was still buying time for his team to escape, still had reserves of strength. His voice hardening Yarryn explained. "You have already told us about the women, you have already told us one of them was your contact…"
The youth grew quiet, his eyes flickering up at Yarryn, his irises dark and the Commander felt a sudden chill, something niggling at the back of him mind. "Where are the women, Luke?"
Silence, no answer. Was the Theohex wearing off? It was too soon to top up the dose, he had no wish to over dose the prisoner.
Yarryn stood, banged down on the table in frustration, the boy jerked in reflex. "Where are the women, Luke?"
The Rebel swallowed thickly, gagged. "… there…. are no women…"
Yarryn straightened, his gut telling him Skywalker…
Skywalker…
…something about that name. Where was the information he had requested?
….was telling the truth.
Yarryn looked down at the hunched prisoner as he shivered with pain, with fright, with powerful drugs flowing through his system. So if there are no women…
"Explain to me, Luke… Tell me about the women…"
"No… women."
Frustrated, angry with cryptic answers, Yarryn glanced over at Towen. Too hell with the overdose, he needed answers. "Give him another half ampule, another strike!"
"No!"
"Then tell me…. Tell me about the women!"
A sigh, a hitch of breath. "… just one…. Clawdite… she… changed… for… fun. To throw… you off…" his eyes slowly closed. "Ne… never… same face… twice."
Clawdite! Of course! A shape-shifter. How clever. At least they were getting somewhere, had another lead.
Yet… again, there was a connection to be made here, something out of reach and elusive. He had heard a Clawdite mentioned recently.
"That's good, Luke," Yarryn praised, genially, throwing his errant thoughts to the side for now. And concentrating on his prisoner. "You're doing well. Now… where can I find this Clawdite?"
The youth lifted his head, glared at his tormentor and opened his mouth as though to answer when suddenly his attention shifted. He glanced to the side, his head tilted as though listening. Then he closed his mouth and smiled, "… back… I can feel…" he stiffened, eyes widening in wonder and horror and he looked to Yarryn. "He's… coming." He whispered, feverishly.
Confused, unsettled by the Rebel's strange words but determined to get his answers Yarryn tugged down his uniform. "Give him the half ampule…"
He turned away listening to the pleas, to movement of bodies as the youth struggled, to the grunt and intake of breath as the drug was administered, to the sweep of the cudgel as it cut through the air and the crack of bone as Garn'et obeyed his orders. Skywalker screamed.
The door of the room burst open. "Sir!"
Yarryn turned at the interruption, anger flushing his face. "What is it?"
The Specialist thrust a datapad at him. The commander took it, scrolled through it. It was the information from Tatooine, all they had on Luke Dunestrider. It listed everything they already knew about the youth's false identity. Name, age, date of birth, the youth centre he supposedly grew up in. There was nothing else.
"What is this?" He asked, perplexed, ignoring the groans of pain from behind.
"Sir," the specialist shifted on his feet clearly uncomfortable and yet it wouldn't be the state of the prisoner, or the fetid atmosphere of the room that caused his discomfort, this man was an experienced officer. "I… noticed the Ident serial number was off by a digit. It's not a Tatooine identification."
Yarryn glanced at the number. "The Rebels made a mistake," Yarryn supplied. "Used a stolen identification to build a false cover for the boy."
The man nodded. "That's what I thought, sir. So I ran it against reported thefts. There was no match and yet this is a real Ident. Green light all the way."
"I'm not following," Yarryn told him.
Behind him the Rebel retched and vomited water onto his lap.
The Specialist glanced briefly at the prisoner. "Sir, our search seems to have triggered an alert…I … I think he's one of ours."
"What?" Yarryn burst, laughing. He pointed across at the boy. "He has just confessed to being the Rebel pilot who destroyed the Death Star!"
The Specialist looked shaken, uncertainty crossed his face. He nervously licked his lips. "Sir, I... I think he's deep cover Spec Ops."
Yarryn's mind reeled, struggled to keep up with the information.
"He's coming… isn't he?"
The voice, thick with pain, was a whisper. Yarryn glanced back at the struggling youth as the Rebel laughed, the sound tinged with hysterics and a cool doubt pooled in the pit of the Commander's stomach.
"I knew he would… couldn't feel me…"
Yarryn crossed the floor and leaned close to the boy. The stench of him making Yarryn want to gag. "Who's coming? Who are you talking about?"
The youth glanced up and, just for moment, just for a microsecond of time, Yarryn was sure he saw a flash of ochre in the blue irises. The Rebel heaved in air fighting the drug, fighting the agony of his body. But he had to answer, was compelled to answer. His lips curled into a smirk, but his voice was resigned. "My… father…"
Father?
Yarryn turned back to his staff. "What does he mean?"
The Specialist paled, the blood draining slowly from his face. "I think… I don't know… but… Lord Vader is on his way here."
"What?" Yarryn rasped, feeling the whole world tilt around him. He had just had the ridiculous notion that the boy he had been interrogating may be the son of Darth Vader.
The specialist swallowed, looking at his three colleagues in the room. He licked dry lips before repeating. "Lord Vader's on his way. He'll… be here within the day. He… uh… he's ordered a halt to the prisoner's interrogation." He reached out, and flicked the screen of the data pad and changed the readout.
Yarryn glanced down, read the orders. Saw the words "cease," "desist" and "detain" and suddenly there was a cool pool churning in the pit of his stomach.
"Take him to a holding cell," he heard himself say through the hissing of white static in his ears. He had a hundred more questions, more demands for the prisoner, needing to know what was going on here. However, he dare not disobey an order issued by the Dark Lord. "Have a medic see to him. Treat his injuries."
Towen and Garn'et quickly pilled the cannula from the youth's hand, undid his manacles and shackles and lifted him from the chair. Skywalker cried out at the movement; legs numb, dead, collapsing under him. His eyes rolled in their sockets and he fell limp in the Specialists' grasps. Yarren stepped to the side making room for Gran'et and Towen as they dragged the boy past him.
Numb at the turn of events, trying to gather in all the information into some coherence in his brain, Yarryn handed the datapad back to the waiting officer.
"Sir," the man said. "There is something more. That name you asked us to search."
Skywalker.
Yarryn was almost too afraid to ask. "What about it?"
"I… uh… There are a few Skywalkers, sir. Not a common name, but enough that…"
Yarryn lifted an eyebrow, telling the Specialist to get on with it without having to speak.
"…it… ah… only one stood out though, sir. It was the last name of a Jedi Knight from the Clone Wars. Anakin Skywalker. He was reported killed with others at the temple when Lord Vader led the attack against their insurgency and…"
Jedi!
Anakin Skywalker! Of course! The hero with no fear! How could he have forgotten his boyhood hero? His boyhood traitor!
And Yarryn felt himself shiver as his mind suddenly snapped onto facts: Darth Vader was on his way here. The boy had said his father was coming. The boy carried the same last name as Anakin Skywalker.
Was the Lord Vader…?
"… sir?"
"Yes, Specialist?" even to his own ears his voice sounded numb. His mind refusing to complete the connection.
"Lord Vader has asked that you meet his shuttle."
Yarryn nodded, looking back in at the cell. Looking at the blood and the sweat and the vomit. His instinct had been right, there was something about the boy; it just wasn't what he had expected.
It was far worse.
ooOOoo
For the first time in his life Yarryn felt his legs weaken with fear. Not even the explosion that had shredded his face had made him feel this terrorised, this helpless, as he watched the black bulk of Darth Vader stride purposely down the shuttle's ramp. The Commander had seen The Dark Lord of the Sith from afar and on holovids. He had heard the stories about him, had even spoken to a few officers who had met him, but nothing had prepared him for the true experience of being in the man's presence.
It was overwhelming. Terrifying.
Could Anakin Skywalker truly be the man behind the mask?
Stepping from the shuttle in the Centre's courtyard Vader's pace did not slow and Yarryn had to quickly about turn and walk beside him.
"Explain," The Dark Lord demanded without preamble, choler heavy in his tones.
Taking in a breath, Yarryn did. He explained about seeing the boy for the first time, about his gut instinct. How he had felt that the youth was more than what he seemed to be. Vader had turned at that, had tilted his helmet and those dark lenses had examined him before the man gestured and ordered.
"Go on."
Yarryn explained about following all the leads he had, about the results of the forensic examinations. As they walked, as they rode in the turbolift to the securest levels of the prison, Yarryn talked and explained it all.
"… and so we administered Thiohexium Phenate and…" he paused, licked his lips choosing his next words carefully, "… placed him under some… duress as prescribed."
"You are thorough, Commander," Vader complimented, sounding no less angry; for of course he was addressing the man who had tortured his son no matter what euphemism was used to describe it. "And your instincts are strong."
"Tha… thank you, my Lord," he accepted, feeling confused about the situation. He gestured to a blank cell door. "He's in here, My Lord."
The Dark Lord opened the cell door and stepped down.
Yarryn was stunned to find the youth already standing, a little hunched over, in the middle of the room. Skywalker cradled his dressed and splinted arm against his ribs as he lowered himself stiffly to one knee. "My Lord Father," he greeted.
Where had he found the strength to stand? Where had he found the strength to kneel?
"You have failed," Vader ground out.
The prisoner shot to his feet. "No! My cover…."
The vicious backhand to the boy's face sent him stumbling backward and he collapsed to the floor.
"Get up!"
Skywalker hauled himself up, dragged the back of his hand across his lips. He looked at the blood on his skin, then turned his gaze to the Dark Lord.
Another brutal strike, Vader not holding back and the boy was powered backward into the wall. He dropped heavily to the floor grunting in pain.
Enraged Vader took a step forward. "You allowed yourself to be interrogated. You allowed yourself to be injected with Thiohexium. Palpatine felt your loss of presence in the Force!"
Yarryn started in surprise. Allowed? The boy had allowed his interrogation? Shaken his eyes locked with the fallen youth's.
A slow smile spread over Skywalker's battered face and with some effort he push himself up and, again holding the broken arm close to his body, he took a couple of faltering steps forward shifting his gaze from the Commander to his father. There was defiance in the look, there was hatred. He eased himself back onto a knee. "Forgive me, father."
Even Yarryn heard the falseness behind his words.
"Our master is most displeased with your performance."
"Which part?" The boy asked insolently, voice still hoarse from his interrogation. "The Death Star? Or that I got caught and discovered here?"
The Commander was astonished by the change in the youth. There was no sign of the amiable boy he had first met, no sign of the young man who had pleaded with him and begged of his innocence. This boy… no… this man, was an entirely different creature.
"All of it," Vader told him. "Palpatine is most aggrieved at the loss of the Grand Moff Tarkin."
"He was a threat to us," Skywalker replied, his eyes now to the floor. "He was becoming suspicious of your motives. He had to die."
Yarryn shifted his feet, uncomfortable with the conversation. Uncomfortable that the two were discussing The Grand Moff's death. Uncomfortable with the implication that the two were somehow complicit in Tarkin's demise. Suddenly aware of how vulnerable he was in a confined room with two Sith.
"His death could prove to be yours," Vader coldly told the boy. "I am to return you to Imperial Centre for… chastisement. Our Master will show you no mercy."
"I expect none, Father," the youth stated, lifting his chin in defiance, but Yarryn saw him hesitate, saw him gather his courage before speaking again. "but… I cannot return yet. My mission is…"
"Over," Vader finished for him.
The younger man glanced up at the Dark Lord, partially rose from the floor, trying to get his point across. "I can still do this! I can finish what I begun!"
Vader's fist tightened and Skywalker dropped back to his knee to avoid to being struck again. "Your cover has been discovered."
"Not by the Rebels," the boy protested, "They still…"
"You murdered your contact," The Dark Lord thundered, towering over the kneeling prisoner.
"Father, please. I executed the Clawdite traitor. She was of no further use and her death cannot be attributed to me. The Alliance will have no cause to doubt me."
Yarryn stared down at the youth, at his admission. He had killed the creature who had passed him the algorithms.
Clawdite…. Of course!
"Where are you staying just now?"
The day the boy was arrested,
"In the Covell District, sir. The Mosbree Hostel." Skywalker's tones had been unremarkable, believeable.
"Rough area," the trooper had observed. "Heard there was another murder there last night; a Clawdite with a crushed throat."
The youth had shrugged, showing no reaction to the killing. The killing he had committed. "It's all I can afford."
Skywalker was cold. A consummate operative. A talented actor. He had fooled the Alliance and had almost fooled Yarryn.
"Another reason to be pulled from the field," Vader rasped towering over his son. "Alive she may have lead you to the traitor in the Academy. You need to exercise control."
"You have your traitor, father," The youth explained, eyes to the floor, but he was grinning. "It was the whole team. I just needed the Clawdite to set up the drop and then... she told me everything just before I killed her."
The elder Dark Lord was quiet, the silence of the cell broken only by artificial breathing, but Yarryn could sense Vader's pride in his son's accomplishment. However, to him it just validated what he already knew; the Professor's entire research team would have to be brought in.
Skywalker, licked his lips and filled the cloying quiet, he sounded pleased with himself. "I am close to Organa," Skywalker stated, arguing succinctly, smoothly, refusing to give up. Perhaps having heard the slight softening of the Dark Lord's bitter tone. "I have become her confident, her friend. She trusts me. They all trust me. It won't be long before I have secured a place on the command staff. I can still give Palpatine Mon Mothma. I can end this Rebellion."
The Dark Lord was quiet, and Yarryn sensed the man was considering his son's statement. He could almost feel the temptation in the atmosphere of the cell. "It may appease our Master to have Mothma, but you have still wronged him. He will still demand recompense."
The youth nodded his understanding. "Then let him take his pound of flesh. It will only make me stronger." He began to rise, began to pull himself from the floor. "Let them keep the algorithms, father, allow them to use them."
Yarryn took a sharp intake of breath. The boy was suggesting that they leave the traitorous research team intact in the Academy. He was suggesting that they sacrifice Imperial troops, Imperial property and for what?
"So that they continue to trust me," Skywalker stated, looking directly at Yarryn. His eyes bright, his eyes… were no longer blue. They were something else, the boy was something else. "I have been captured and questioned, I need them to believe that I did not break."
The Commander took a step back, horrified that the youth seemed to have read his thoughts, his feelings. The air thickened, tighten around him.
"You have good instincts, Commander," the boy said limping closer and, although Yarryn was taller, broader and more physically intimidating, he took a faltering step backward. "Instincts that have served you well… until now."
Rooted to the spot, frozen with sudden fear and sudden understanding…
… I know too much… I've done too much…
… Yarryn could only watch as the boy glanced at his father with predatory glee and as the Dark Lord nodded ascent.
Skywalker turned to him, sickly eyes shining in the lights of the cell. "You are lucky, Commander, that I am in a forgiving mood."
The Commander did not live long enough to feel relief. Neck broken he dropped loosely to the floor.
"You have been captured, compromised," Vader reminded his son, the death of the Commander meaning nothing to him. "The Rebels will not expect your release."
"Then don't release me, father" He smiled, grinned up at his parent, before his eyes slid back to Yarryn's corpse. "Let them rescue me."
ooOOoo
Wedge Antilles stretched in the tight confines of the Millennium Falcon's belly gun turret. He grimaced and shifted his body, trying to ease the growing ache in his butt from sitting too long. He yawned and shook his head trying to dispel the fatigue that threatened to close his eyes while reminding himself he was there for Luke.
Dammit Skywalker, getting yourself caught just as it was all going down. The whole mission had almost been a bust.
Dammit that intel had not expected the protests.
"They'd better be right about this one," he murmured, bitterly. They had got the badly needed algorithms but they had lost Luke.
He stared out at the star field beyond the viewport, at the empty field of space beyond the planetary body that Red Flight and the crew of the Millennium Falcon were currently hiding behind. They were under comm silence and all engines were dead. He shifted again, impatient anxiety beginning to nibble at the edge of his nerves.
The ship they were waiting for was overdue.
If Intel had got this wrong, if this was messed up in anyway, then Luke could be lost for good. It was hard to believe that the kid had only been with them a few weeks; he'd gone from being an annoying, forever-asking-questions pain in the ass to a good friend. He had gone from a fresh face to an old hand, from a green pilot to seasoned veteran.
Such was the life of a fighter pilot in times of war.
Antilles pinched the bridge of his nose. Skywalker had been the Alliance's saviour. He had been the man to make that impossible shot and had given renewed hope to the Rebellion and to the galaxy and yet, unlike others, the kid never bragged, never used his accomplishment to gain favour. Instead he was quiet, contemplative and there were times when Antilles could see the pain in his eyes and a heavy weight on his shoulders whenever the Death Star was mentioned. Killing thousands, perhaps millions, was a burden no man should have to carry.
If the Empire knew what they had, knew who they had, Luke would have had a one way ticket to Coruscant and a face-to-face with Palpatine himself. Instead Intel had picked up that the kid was being shipped to the ISO-L8 prison facility for further investigation and interrogation; which was Imperial jargon for the kid giving the Imps the run around and making their life difficult. Which also meant that Luke would have been put through the wringer more than once already and Antilles knew that few beings escaped Imperial Custody without scars.
Even Leia Organa hadn't emerged unscathed. He'd overheard her nightmare on the journey here, saw her emerge from the sleeping quarters pale faced and had seen the haunted look in her eyes when he passed her the hot cup of caf, neither of them saying a word but both knowing. Then she had taken a sip and smiled and was suddenly the Princess again.
He shifted again, wiggled his toes. Yawned.
"Okay," Solo's voice broke through the internal comm. "We have something on the scanners. A small ship has just drop from hyperspace seven clicks out. Trajectory has it heading for the prison…. Hold it…" A burst of static, silence and then "..yup… we have a squad of TIES coming out from the prison on intercept and escort duty.
"This is it!"
The Falcon's engines roared to life and the starscape shifted, tilted, as Solo gunned the ship forward and into battle and suddenly the comm was filled with voices.
"Locking S-Foils…"
"Red three and four with me," that was Narra, Commander of Red Flight. "Let's stop their engines dead."
For a brief moment Wedge wished he was in the cockpit of his fighter, free in space and….
"Wedge! Two coming your way!"
And suddenly he was spinning in the chair chasing the TIE's with his guns, spitting out red light and…
"Got him! Leia… one coming around and…"
"I see 'im!"
Wedge grinned, listening to the Princess open fire from the other turret. She was a pretty formidable woman and he hoped he never found himself on the receiving end of her wrath; although Solo seemed to thrive on it.
"Good shot Red Six! Janson one on your tail!"
"Hobbie, take out their deflectors!"
Wedge grinned, picking up another TIE in his sights, bouncing in the chair as the Falcon's deflectors took a hit.
"That's it!" Narra announced. "We have them. Falcon move into position. We'll hold them off while you get Luke."
"Wedge!"
"I'm on it!"
Antilles clambered from the seat and quickly climbed the steps to the deck above, meeting Solo and Derlin's boarding party at the portside docking ring. There was dull clang, a cycling of hatches, a hiss of air and the Wookiee barked over the com.
Solo unlocked the hatch and pulled it in. One of Derlin's men came forward and planted a small charge against the hatch lock of the Imperial ship and moved away quickly.
"Fire in the hole!"
Solo pulled his blaster, Wedge did likewise and a tiny explosion burst in the confines of the air lock sending a billow of smoke into the corridor.
And suddenly he was following Solo, blaster pistol firing at shapes moving within the confines of the small Imperial vessel. The squad fanned out, chasing down the retreating troopers and prison guards.
"This way!" Solo shouted and Wedge ran after him down a corridor with six narrow doors running along each side. He could hear the spat of blaster fire as the squad mopped up.
"Which one?" Wedge called.
"Open them all!"
And so he did.
A woman cowering in the dark.
A Trandoshian holding up his cuffed hands against the light from the corridor.
The ship rocked, hit.
His breathing was harsh as he punched open another cell. A young Wookiee lying dead in a puddle if blood.
Sons of banthas!
Empty!
Empty!
A battered human male, unconscious, lying in his own waste. Not Luke.
Luke! Where was Luke?
He turned, desperate now.
"Wedge! Here!"
He ran to the cell across the hall and stepped down. Solo was hunched over, trying to lift the limp figure from the sleeping platform and calling Luke's name. He looked over his shoulder at Wedge.
"Help me!"
And Wedge did. Trying not to see the battered and bruised features, trying not to see the blood stains, trying not to see the shattered arm and infected wound. Trying not to smell the unclean body that was his friend.
He was still cuffed.
Bastards!
"Leave them, Wedge! There's no time."
It was only at Solo's shouted that he realised he'd tried to take the cuffs off. He eased his arm under Luke's shoulder, wincing as his friend grunted in pain. He didn't even know if Luke was awake, if he was aware of what was happening. Together they dragged him from the cell, from the corridor, from the ship and onto the Millennium Falcon.
"Get the rest!" he shouted to the Alliance soldiers. They couldn't leave any prisoner still alive within that ship.
"More TIEs, incoming!" Someone shouted.
The coupled ships bucked again under fire.
There was a clang, a recycling of locks and…
"That's it! Get us outta here, Chewie!"
A roar of engines, the spat and spit of gunfire, the Falcon shuddered, sparks flew from the ceiling and then there was the tell-tale tug of hyperspace.
They dumped Luke on the med-bed in the sleeping quarters and Wedge lifted his friend's legs onto the soft air mattress as Leia Organa rushed into the confines of the compartment.
Skywalker's head rolled, his bruised eyes flickered opened and he blinked slowly at his friends. A smile pulled at his split and chapped lips. "Dammit," he said closing his eyes. "They were… just about… to serve breakfast."
Wedge heaved a sigh of relief, felt the tension leave the room at the quip. Luke may not be completely intact, may have a long recovery ahead, but he was alive and he was home.
He turned to leave, felt a hand on his arm, and looked back at the Princess.
"Thank you," she told him, her dark eyes large with gratitude.
He just nodded. Suddenly tired, suddenly needing to find somewhere to sit alone. He dragged his feet through the ship to the passenger lounge where the squad were tending to their own wounded and to the prisoners they had freed.
It was strangely quiet, strangely subdued.
Wedge found a space in the corridor and slid down the bulkhead to sit on the scuffed deck. He pulled his knees up and his dark head dropped with fatigue, suddenly feeling exhausted as the adrenaline surge from the fight waned and died. He closed his eyes….
It may only have been moments, it may have been a couple of hours that he had been sitting there when he felt another body ease down to the floor beside him. There was a grunt of exertion, a hiss of pain and Wedge grinned.
"Shouldn't you be in bed?" he asked without opening his eyes.
He felt Skywalker shrug, heard him stifle a groan, then… "There are some worse off… than me."
Wedge glanced beside him, at his younger friend. He saw the swelling and bruising on Luke's face, saw the healing pinprick on the back his hand, the fresh dressings that the medic had applied to the fractured arm that he held close to his body, the abrasions and contusions on his wrists from too tight binders. "You smell," he observed.
Luke snorted, laughed, and hitched in a tight breath. "Yeah," he agreed, resting the back of his head against the bulkhead.
They were both silent for a moment, for beat.
"The algorithms?" Skywalker wanted to know.
"With Intel," Wedge told him.
"Worth it?"
Wedge considered that for moment, considered what Luke meant. Was the information they had retrieved worth his pain and torment. What to say? What to tell his friend? Was anything worth the experiences Luke had just been through?
Antilles licked his lips, hedging, "they may save lives. They may give us an edge over the Empire. At least for a while."
"Good," was all Luke said, but Wedge instinctively chilled at the tone of the word. It sounded harsh, bare, and yet there was some satisfaction behind it, some edge that he couldn't quite place, something he had never heard from Luke before.
Uneasy, his eyes flickered to his friend, and he was horrified to see tears slide from Luke's eyes. Wedge dismissed his brief disquiet, forgot it, as he slipped his arm around his friend's shoulder and just held him as he cried.
ooOOoo
End.