Author's Note: Please note that this is the first Interlude, which means Vader is narrating! And I'm so, so sorry about the wait! May has been a CRAZY month! Forgive me -- I'll try to do better!
Interlude: Bones To Pick
I was uncertain of which Yavin moon I had crashed on; whichever one it was, I didn't like it.
It took me a good hour to wretch the mangled door of my cockpit open enough so that I could exit my craft, even with the superior strength my prosthetic limbs afforded me. An exterior examination revealed little worth salvaging, and I gave up on the machine with frustration. Even if I had the tools necessary to repair it – which I didn't – I would need days longer than I had rations. Which I also didn't have, having used up the suit's storage supply the last time I had found myself stranded.
The moon I was on had rolling plains, and there were some trees visible in the distance, but it was obvious a drought was underway. The grass was sparse and yellow, and the trees were skinny and limp.
I growled under my breath. I hated dry places. They made the leather portions of my suit crack and wrinkle.
I turned in a slow circle. There was no evidence of life, human or animal, in any direction.
I pulled out my comlink. I despised calling on my subordinates for help – it made me seem weak in their eyes. However, it seemed I would have no choice.
Suddenly, I paused. The Devastator had been in orbit around the Death Star when it exploded; she would be in no shape to come rescue me – presuming she was in any shape at all. Plus, in my absence, it was the duty of my crew to report in to Sidious, who would no doubt be in a very foul mood when he learned that his pet monster machine had been demolished.
I decided to wait a few hours. By then the rumours of my death would have started, and Sidious's anger would have gone from lava to ice, meaning it would be more focused on the Rebels and revenge, rather than blaming me for his own lapse in judgment. Which it was, since I had found the Death Star's weak spot years ago, and he had continued construction despite it rather than revising the blueprints.
One spark of mistrust in a plethora of fireworks.
Fireworks that had led me to my deal with Princess Leia Organa of Alderaan.
The girl was a firework in and of herself. She was incredibly lucky she hadn't been assassinated yet.
All the same, one had to admire her spunk. It reminded me of myself at that age, a part of my past life I tried to avoid thinking of, yet somehow I could never quite forget it when she was around.
She would be furious with me. She was already angry over the fact that I killed Obi-Wan, and her losses in the battle had likely added fuel to her fire.
I sighed. I had better get this over with.
I punched in the number I had lifted from her comlink while she had been a prisoner on the Death Star. It rang six times before she answered.
"What the hell are you playing at?" she hissed at me, her fury radiating through the Force. That was another surprise I had gotten from her after making our deal; she was Force-sensitive. Untrained, of course – I sincerely doubt she even knew what it meant to be Force-sensitive – but she had good enough mental barriers to keep Sidious from getting curious, which was all I cared about. I would have liked to have measured her sensitivity, but it was impossible with her shields (however instinctive) up, and it was also irrelevant. There were no Jedi out there to train her, and she'd likely slit her own throat before consenting to be my apprentice.
Oh, well. I'd just have to find that pilot.
Yes, I'd definitely be going after the pilot.
"Good evening to you too, Princess," I snapped back, the vocalizer taking most of the emotion out of my tone.
"I cannot believe you," she continued waspishly. "How could you? Killing all our men like that? What happened to our partnership? Is this your sadistic way of backing out on me?"
"Would you prefer I announce my defection, Princess? Because that is essentially what my inaction would have done. And I can hardly imagine that going over well with either of our organizations."
"And you couldn't have missed a few more shots?!"
"Your pilots were utterly predictable, Your Highness. I gave them as much leeway as I reasonably could. It would have been laughable to miss any more than I did."
She opened her mouth, radiating righteous indignation – then shut it again, lips compressed. She knew I was right. Even if Sidious didn't torture and kill me over the disloyalty, her own Rebellion would do it for him for my crimes against humanity. She also knew that I was the best pilot in the galaxy, and to perform beneath my usual standard would have been dangerous.
"Fine," she said, acknowledging my point in a clipped tone and accepting – albeit ungracefully – the truth in it. "Then explain the tracking device." She gazed at me, eyes cool, narrow, and level.
"You and your rescuers had no knowledge of the layout of the Death Star, no knowledge of the technology it employed, and your troops consisted of a hotheaded pirate, an unpredictable Wookiee, a youngster with little to no training in weaponry, an old man far past his prime, and yourself, not to mention a ship so rickety it threatened to collapse in the tractor beam. To let you escape without an ulterior motive would not only have raised suspicions worthy of investigation, it would have been an embarrassment to the Empire. An insult, if you will. I could not take that risk."
"And speaking of General Kenobi," she added, the only indication she had listened to the entirety of my speech in the continuous tensing of her shoulders, "what did that old man ever do to you?"
I wanted to laugh in her face. Oh, if only she knew! But she would have to settle for the short answer. I was not about to get into that whole story with herof all people.
"He was a Jedi," I told her. "I need no other motive."
She seethed, words writhing behind her lips, but she bit them back, wary of my ire.
"Where do we go from here?" she finally asked, her voice tight.
"I need the name of the pilot who fired that hit on the Death Star," I said.
Her reaction was immediate and violent. "Absolutely not!"
"Princess --"
"No!"
"I --"
"This is not negotiable, Vader! If you want his name so badly, figure it out yourself! You will get no help from me or anyone else in the Alliance!" And with that, she hung up on me.
Behind my mask, my eyes narrowed. "Is that a challenge?" I asked the empty air.
Then, after a moment, I smiled painfully.
"Yes, I do believe it was."
It took me another hour to raise one of my officers on the comlink.
"Sir!" he said – a new man; I didn't know his name. "You're alive!"
"Of course, General," I snapped impatiently. "It would take more than a few hours on some backwater moon to kill me."
He gulped. "Sir . . . you've been gone for over four days."
I tilted my head, letting this new information register. I must have been knocked out during the crash and not realized it.
I looked back at the officer. "Then you had best come pick me up," I said, my voice low. "I imagine the Emperor is not pleased."
