Remain in Light – Chapter 5: Han by Erin Darroch
Ratings/Warnings (this chapter): T; mild language; themes; angst
Chapter 5: Han
Han groaned. Moving his right arm was agony. Reaching with his left, he gripped the edge of the shallow basin and pulled himself with some effort into a sitting position. He paused, feeling breathless and sore, but not quite as bad as he'd expected to feel. In fact, he felt remarkably well, all things considered. He risked another look down at the wound in his chest. The orange gel was dribbling out of the cavity now, trickling down the skin of his pectoral muscle to drip onto his lap. Disturbed by the sight, he looked away, uncomfortably aware that gel was likewise leaking from the corresponding exit wound in his back. A quick check under the light grey blanket confirmed that he was otherwise intact.
Now what?
He listened for any sound of returning feet in the corridor, but heard nothing. He found it peculiar that they'd left him alone and unguarded. Clearly he was Phasma's prisoner. Were they so confident that he wouldn't try to escape? Maybe because there was no possibility of escape. He had no concept of how much time had passed since he'd lost consciousness on the transport. He knew that he was aboard a First Order hospital station, but he could be anywhere in the galaxy by now. If there were no long-range ships docked here, he could be well and truly trapped.
He glanced around the room again, this time looking for anything resembling communication equipment. If he could reach Leia, tell her where he was, she would send help—of that, he was certain. There was a small administrative station in the far corner, upon which perched a basic computer unit, a data pad and a tidy stack of flimsies. The wall-mounted display screen was alight with a changing display of health-related news items, messages and images. As he watched, trying to decide if it would be worth the effort to heave himself over the edge of the basin and try to reach the computer before Mellor's return, the screen changed to an illustration of a pregnant human female. It was a cross-section of the figure, showing the optimum position of a human foetus prior to delivery. As he watched, the image changed to show variations on foetal position. Text flashed across the bottom of the screen, but it was too far away for Han to read. He looked away, thinking of his wife and children.
Leia's second pregnancy had been, by contrast with the first, a perfect dream. Untroubled by the persistent sickness that had plagued her pregnancy with Ben, Leia's health and happiness had bloomed, as her belly had swelled with the surprise that was their daughter.
And Breha had been in every way a surprise, Han reflected. She'd been unplanned—Leia had forgotten to get her annual contraceptive booster, and Han had long ago stopped bothering to get his own—but she'd been eagerly welcomed by them all, nevertheless. Even Ben, who by that time had already begun to display some worrisome characteristics, had seemed excited and happy to welcome the new baby. Despite the age difference, it had taken no convincing for him to leave his habitual, self-imposed isolation in order to interact with her, once she'd grown old enough to recognise him and to respond to his presence. Han and Leia had marvelled at Breha's lively and cheerful nature, so unlike Ben's own serious, intense disposition. And despite his natural reserve, Ben had taken readily to the role of big brother, often demonstrating a deep fondness for his little sister and a high tolerance for being used as a climbing frame. For the first few years, the siblings had been affectionate—even close. But that had all changed as soon as Breha grew old enough to display her considerable natural abilities in the use of the Force.
Frowning at the memory, Han looked back at the display screen and was relieved to see that the image had changed. There was still no sign of Mellor's return, nor yet of Captain Phasma or the other medic.
Right, Solo. Time to move.
His ambition proved to be mightier than his ability, however. The interior of the basin was slick with gel residue, as was his skin. Extending his right arm to grasp the edge of the tank took all of his concentration. With gritted teeth he tried to pull himself fully upright and, with some dismay, felt something tear deep within the obscene cavity that marred his chest. His vision swam and he paused to rest.
Okay, maybe not time to move.
Hoping that he hadn't done too much damage, Han eased into a more comfortable sitting position. Bracing himself with this right hand, he grabbed the blanket from his lap and used it to swab some of the gel from his legs and torso, gingerly avoiding the gaping wound. Re-assessing his situation, he sighed. No weapon. No communicator. No clothes. No idea where he was or why they wanted him. He wished for a moment that he had some ability of his own with the Force. He thought it would be nice sometimes to just whip out the old Jedi mind trick and make people do what he wanted them to do. When Phasma turned up, he could just order her to give him a blaster and a ship, and then tell her to go throw herself down another garbage chute.
The Force. The Jedi. The Dark Side.
The words were bitter in his mind. Han wished he'd never heard of it, any of it. He wished instead that he'd taken his payment from the Rebels thirty-four years ago, and disappeared with Chewie to the Outer Rim. If he'd done that, he would now have no murderous, psychopathic son; no missing daughter; no heartbroken wife.
Ah, Leia.
He sighed and shook his head. No, he didn't wish any of that. Not at all. Even in light of all that had happened to them and between them, he would never wish away what they'd had together. As he'd said to Leia not long ago, it hadn't been all bad, not by a long shot. In fact, much of it had been very good indeed.
For a couple of years after the fall of the Empire, Leia had taken a step back from her intense involvement in politics. They'd finally been able to enjoy extended periods of time together, and had eventually celebrated their marriage with a formal, public ceremony—something Han hadn't imagined he would ever do—followed by a lengthy and memorable honeymoon. On their return, Leia had begun working with Luke to hone her skills in the Force, and had subsequently taken on a diplomatic role that required her to make regular jaunts around the galaxy on missions for the New Republic, which allowed Han to accompany her as pilot, escort and unofficial consultant.
Those years hadn't just been good, Han thought. They'd been great.
In the first years of their marriage, they'd simply revolved around each other, relieved and happy to be free of war, bounty hunters, and the uncertainty of long separations. Later on, as Leia's political career with the New Republic had flourished, Han and Chewie had established their own galactic freight company, with primary terminals on both Coruscant and Kashyyyk where they could co-manage the business and still spend time with their respective families. His and Leia's decision to have a child together at that point had been a carefully considered choice, and they'd immersed themselves in their new roles with enthusiasm. To his own surprise, Han had been more than merely content with that settled family life; he'd revelled in it and found it deeply satisfying. And the birth of Breha, the sweetest surprise, had made it even better. They'd enjoyed several more happy years together, then, much of that period in their home on Corellia, with regular extended periods in Coruscant, and occasional visits to Kashyyyk.
Good times, Han recalled. There were plenty of good times.
The troubles with Ben had become too conspicuous to ignore when Breha began to demonstrate an exceptional ability to manipulate the Force. Ben had seemed upset by it, and then to become increasingly envious and resentful of her precociousness. A visit from Luke to the home they kept on Corellia had raised serious concerns when Ben was twelve years old. Luke had long resisted offering any sort of training to Ben because—although the boy was clearly sensitive to the Force—his nature seemed too volatile, his ambition too keen. Luke and Leia both were especially wary of creating another Vader, so Ben's pleas to be trained as a Jedi had been gently but repeatedly turned aside. Time and again, Leia and Han had tried to engage him in other interests, to foster his other talents. And neither of them had relished the idea of being separated from their son, of sending him so far away. But Ben had become increasingly fixated, intransigent on the subject.
More disturbingly, when Ben learned from Leia the identity of her father, he hadn't been horrified or appalled, as he should have been. On the contrary, he'd seemed amazed and excited by the information. Leia was discomfited by his interest and sharply rebuked him whenever he seemed over-eager to learn more about his grandfather. In response, Ben had become sullen and secretive, then openly hostile. A few years later, the news of Luke and Leia's true parentage had been leaked to galactic media sources, effectively ending Leia's career with the New Republic. After that, Leia began voicing fears that something sinister was at work—that a malevolent presence was interfering with Ben through the Force. A frightening, Force-fuelled confrontation between Ben and Leia had resulted in an abrupt change of heart for Han and Leia both. Realising that their daughter, too, would eventually need guidance from Luke, and hoping that the concession would soothe Ben's agitated feelings on the matter—and help him to learn to control himself—they'd taken the difficult decision to send both of their children to the Jedi academy.
It had all gone to hell from there.
Abruptly, Han became aware of the sound of people running. Coming down the corridor in his direction he could hear what sounded like multiple booted feet hitting the metal plates. With few other options open to him, he simply waited, trying to appear as non-threatening as possible. Given the fact that he was sitting in his bare skin in a puddle of cooling gel, with everything he owned of any value under a borrowed blanket, he reckoned he looked fairly harmless.
"Fool! You left him alone? Get in there!" Phasma's voice was followed in short order by the woman herself. She skidded through the hatch along with two stormtroopers, followed closely by the two medics.
Bemused, Han watched as Phasma took in the sight of him sitting up in the shallow tank, naked to the waist with a crumpled blanket in his lap. He gave her his most charming grin.
"Relax, will ya? I ain't going anywhere." His flippant remark was ignored as the stormtroopers advanced and Phasma turned menacingly on the medics.
"Restrain him! Now!"
Mellor hurried to comply, moving swiftly behind Han to reach the tab at the back that would activate the upper-body restraints. Astor advanced to Han's side, casting a look of scorn over his shoulder at the towering stormtrooper captain.
"Please lie back, Captain Solo," he said politely, his voice calm.
Moving gingerly, Han did as he was ordered, grimacing with pain as he flexed the muscles in his right arm and his chest. He lowered himself back onto the cold gel-covered surface and waited while Mellor engaged the barest of restraints under his arms and across his chest. Warily, he eyed Phasma up and down, taking in every detail of the highly polished armour. He hoped she would soon show her hand. Perhaps she intended to try to use him against Leia, to manipulate the Resistance into some sort of compromise? He wouldn't give her good odds on that one.
"There you are," Astor said, not bothering to disguise his sarcasm. "The helpless old man with no clothes, no weapon, and a hole in his chest is safely restrained."
Without a word, Phasma grabbed the front of Astor's tunic in her gloved fist and shoved him with considerable force out of the way. With an indignant cry, he stumbled and fell backwards, crashing against one of the metal tables. He glared at her and straightened, but opted to keep any additional commentary to himself.
"This 'helpless old man' is Han Solo," Phasma growled, jabbing a metal-clad finger in Han's direction. "Do not leave him conscious and alone again. He may not look very impressive, but I assure you he's entirely capable of causing me—and you—a great deal of trouble."
Han rolled his eyes. What the hell was she talking about? Even he had to concede that his troublemaking capacity was, for the moment, greatly diminished. Ensign Mellor, considerate as ever, appeared in his peripheral vision, bending to operate a lever that lifted the head of the basin slightly, raising Han's upper body into an angle of recline more suitable for conversation.
Turning to face Han, Phasma got straight to the point.
"You will tell me the location of the Resistance base," Phasma informed him, her voice ringing behind the chromium mask, "and when you have fully recovered, I'll see to it that you are returned there, unharmed."
For a long moment, he simply stared at her, incredulous and somewhat offended.
Finally, he gave a short, humourless laugh and rolled his eyes again. "Yeah, alright. You think I'm stupid. I get it."
"No, I think you're a very clever man, Solo. So I am certain you'll be able to understand this." She moved closer to where he lay and, reaching up, removed her helmet. The shining chromium gave way to an ordinary face; a handsome woman approaching middle age, with fair skin and blonde hair, tendrils of which were curling damply around her flushed cheeks. She tucked the helmet under one arm and said, "You and I have the same goal."
"Oh?" Han waited. He was fairly certain that whatever came out of her mouth would be a lie, but he wanted to hear it nevertheless.
"You want nothing more than to block the path your son is on, and so do we. I know a way to do that."
"'We'? Who's 'we'?" Han asked, not particularly interested, but playing along. "Don't you all work for the same chulak?"
"We are the only ones standing between your son and the destiny," she spat the word at him, "that he is so desperately trying to achieve for himself."
Han tried to maintain a neutral expression, but the echo of Ben's chilling voice was still in his head, unnerving him. He didn't know if he would ever be free of it.
I know what I have to do, but I don't know if I have the strength to do it.
"You understand me, Solo?" Phasma sounded impatient, as if time were running out to gain his agreement. "We want to stop him, and so do you."
Will you help me?
Yes, anything.
"I don't know how releasing me will help you do that," Han said, finally. No point in prevaricating. He really didn't see where she was going with her plan.
Phasma hesitated a moment, measuring him with her eyes. "You are your son's greatest weakness," she said finally, with certainty. "He believes you to be dead now, and he is counting on that fact to help him curry favour with his master."
Snoke.
Han's mouth filled with bitter bile at the thought of the creature who had corrupted his son and destroyed his family. Lifting his chin and turning his head, he spat onto the clinic floor.
"Yeah? Well, I guess he'll be disappointed."
"Exactly," Phasma said, leaning in to emphasise her point. "What Kylo Ren wants more than anything is to be fully trained as a Jedi, and killing you was a task set for him by his master as a condition of that training. If he has failed the task, it will go against him. He will not be trained."
Han stared at her, wondering what the hell he'd ever done to deserve his life taking such a nightmarish turn.
A task? That's what that was?
Anger swelled in his chest and filled his throat, threatening to choke him. He gritted his teeth, struggling to master his rage. Finally, he was able to draw a breath. The act caused a flare of pain in this chest that began to grow in intensity. The meds were wearing off.
"What's in it for you?" he sneered, glaring at Phasma in an effort to disguise his pain.
"Political gain," she answered smoothly, as if she had imagined this conversation and practised her reply in advance. "With Kylo Ren out of the way, my colleagues and I will advance unimpeded. It's that simple."
Han doubted it was that simple. Nothing was ever that simple. Out of the corner of his eye, Han saw Astor and Mellor leaning together in whispered conversation. The two stormtroopers stood by, silently at the ready. He glanced around the room again, weighing up his options. To die now, as a result of Ben's "task", would be to give Snoke exactly what he wanted. To live on would negate the act, or at least mitigate it, but it would also play straight into the hands of Phasma and her faction, whatever their motives might be. Phasma was waiting. Han scowled.
I hate politics.
"Alright. You want me to live. That works for me." He shifted uncomfortably on the cold, wet plastic and rubbed his face against his clammy left arm. The acute discomfort in his chest had turned into an unpleasant burning sensation that was spreading to his back. "I want to live, too. So just let me go. Give me a ship and I'll be on my way."
"I can't do that." Phasma had that answer ready, too. "I need you back in the hands of the Resistance." She said the word with some distaste. "Don't you want to see your wife again?"
Han winced at the thought of Leia. If Chewbacca, Rey and Finn had made it out safely, she would soon learn of his fate, if she hadn't already. He thought of her meeting Rey and wondered if Leia would come to the same conclusions about her that he had, or if he'd simply been imagining things. Wishful thinking. Again, he felt the urgent need to try to communicate with Leia, realising with dismay that there was little likelihood of any such opportunity arising.
"My wife is long gone," he told Phasma matter-of-factly. "The Resistance base will have moved by now. I can't tell you where they are."
"But you know how to find them. I know that you do," Phasma fixed her blue eyes on him, urging him to agree. "A man of your type can always—"
"Nope," Han interrupted with an impatient shake of his head. "My usual point of contact for keeping up with their movements was blown to hell by your colleagues." Han put as much venom as he could into the words. He was sure that Maz had escaped the destruction of her castle; she had an uncanny knack for survival. But he had no idea where she might have gone from there. Well, he had some idea, but he wasn't going to let on to Captain Fantastic here. "If you don't want to give me a ship, just drop me off, anywhere you like. I'll still be alive, the way you want it. Everybody's happy."
"You disappearing without a trace is virtually the same as you dying," Phasma informed him, dryly. "Kylo Ren needs to see that you are alive. More importantly, Snoke needs to see that. He already suspects that Kylo Ren is not fully committed to the path he is on. Your son seems to battle daily with his better nature."
Han wanted that to be true. He wanted it desperately. The first sight of Ben's unmasked face in over ten years had given him hope, for a fleeting moment on that bridge, that he would see something of his beloved boy there. Some warmth, some recognition. Anything. But the bitter truth was that, in that moment, Han had seen the reality of what his son had become. For as long as he lived, he would be haunted by the memory of Ben's face shading to bloody red, the cold detachment in his dark eyes and the flash of triumph and satisfaction when he'd ignited his lightsaber.
Phasma restated her premise, with emphasis. "Snoke needs to see that Kylo Ren is unable or unwilling to carry out the task of dispatching his own father as directed. Your resurrection from the dead will provide irrefutable proof that Kylo Ren is weak, and inept, at least. But Snoke will also understand that he lacks commitment, and is unfit to be trained as a Jedi."
"Ah," said Han, finally, with a humourless smile. "You want a spectacle."
Typical. Politics and propaganda, always hand-in-hand. Phasma had snatched him from the stinking midden in the bowels of Starkiller Base, and arranged for this expensive and highly effective medical treatment, just so she could use him as a pawn in her political manoeuvring. He was disgusted, but not surprised.
Astor cleared his throat and shifted his feet in his position across the room. He was keeping his distance from Phasma, but he interrupted nevertheless. In a slightly more courteous tone than he had used before, he said, "Captain, we need to return Solo to the hydrogel treatment now. He has been out of it for too long as it stands."
Phasma ignored the medic, and regarded Solo with visible frustration. He smirked at her, realising that her options were almost as limited as his. She wanted him returned to the Resistance with some fanfare, but he would never supply the information she required to do so, even if he could. He was no fool, and he wouldn't put it past her to change her mind and use the information for other purposes.
"C'mon," he said, in an affable tone. "The solution is simple. You give me a ship, I get the hell out of here. I will rejoin the Resistance eventually and, when I do, I'll make a big song and dance about it. Even better, no one will ever know that you were involved. How's that?"
Phasma was shaking her head. "I don't know you, Solo, but I know plenty of people like you. It is far more likely that you would disappear, and the opportunity would be lost. I have a counter proposal for you." She leaned in, fixing him with a gimlet eye. "I could take you straight to Snoke myself."
She got the reaction she was looking for then, he was sure. He could not hide the spike of fear and fury he felt in response to that hateful name. Her threat was not without some weight, he realised. There was no reason he could see for her to do anything other than march him straight to her boss. Why would she allow him to return to the Resistance, when she could simply display him to Snoke and then eliminate him? On the other hand, he mused, it was extremely interesting that she was even considering alternatives. To cover his confusion, he gave her his best smirk and a shrug.
"Bring it on, sister," he said, sticking out his jaw belligerently. "I have a few things I'd like to say to him before I blast his head off."
He wasn't entirely sure that his bluff was convincing, but before Phasma could respond, the gel tank beneath him began to beep. Amber lights began flashing steadily along the rim of the tank walls, illuminating his chilled skin.
Moving quickly, Mellor positioned himself at the side of the shallow tank between Phasma and Han. He busied himself with controls and switches, casting a reassuring glance in Han's direction as he worked.
Astor spoke again, this time more firmly. He advanced to stand at the foot of Han's bed, forcing one of the stormtroopers to give way as he did so. "Apologies, Captain, but we must return him to his treatment. He has made remarkable progress, but any further delay may have negative consequences for his full recovery."
Phasma took a step back to allow the medics to work, but she continued to regard Han thoughtfully. After a moment, she gave a curt nod, as if making up her mind.
"Very well, Solo. You are in no condition to be moved just now, in any case. I'll consider my options while you continue your treatment." With a gesture, she brought the two stormtroopers to attention, ready to follow her out of the room. "When I return, we will come to some agreement."
With that, she turned on her heel and exited, lifting the helmet to her head as she stalked down the corridor away from the hospital room, the two troopers in her wake. With a sigh, Han leaned his head back to rest in the bed of the medical basin. Mellor and Astor continued their preparations, removing the meagre restraint across his chest and returning the shallow tank to its horizontal position.
With deep weariness and resignation, Han submitted to the administration of a sedative as Mellor approached with the mask and breathing tube in his hands. As his awareness faded, Han thought of Leia again. He had the sudden sensation that she was nearby, calling out to him. The feeling was powerful but fleeting, and he couldn't hold onto it.
I'm here.
He blinked rapidly and moved his head in agitation, trying without success to fight off the effects of the sedation.
Can you hear me?
It was no use. The drugs were potent and were already coursing through his system, pulling him under. He closed his eyes and sank into darkness.