Slaughter of the Innocents
After all these years—
He gazed up at it, covered in dust and rust, the protective cover it had been secured in only half pulled back. Not protective enough, he thought, considering the state of the machine, his breathing loud through his respirator, his heart beating heavy and strained in his chest.
You've become so old, he thought, and he didn't know if these words were for the huge, hulking suit of armour before him, or for himself.
He reached out, white gloves touching the dust, coming away stained. Fifteen years since the destruction of the original Death Star, since he had killed his old mentor; eight years since his redemption, since his own children had turned him away from the Dark Side, and the galaxy was still embroiled in war.
He lifted his head, gazing up at the giant war machine from behind his mask, fashioned in the likeness of the Noghri's jutting jaws and needle teeth.
"To think that we would require such technological terrors," he said aloud.
"You should be proud of them," a voice from beyond said, a firmness of tone despite the age.
He turned to look at the girl, her expression firm, her eyes cold. For a moment, his gaze lingered upon her, and then he looked away, turning his attention to the giant machine before them once more. How little she was like Ahsoka, he thought.
Unaware of his thoughts, the child, his aide, stepped forward, her own hand against the cold metal.
"If I had had such a tool on Parnassos, then perhaps I would not have lost my parents. Perhaps my brother would not have been given licence to do what he did."
At the corners of her lips, there played a smile.
It was a lie, he thought, feeling a pang of sadness when reflecting on the life this child must have known, the circumstance of her abandonment on that desolate world on the cusp of the Unknown Regions.
"Were you not supposed to be with the child from Tatooine?" he asked, his voice harsh and rasping.
"She is in the care of the Princess's handmaidens. No harm will come to her."
Her fingers danced across the cold metal, and he surprised a shudder despite his own armour. This machine, fashioned in the likeness of the suit he had worn since his fall to the Dark Side, it was almost as if she was reaching out for him.
"That duty was yours. The child is not the responsibility of Leia Organa's retainers."
The smile at the corner of her lips lingered.
"I thought my time better spent at your side, Lord Vader."
He bristled.
"That name no longer has any meaning for me." She shrugged. "Maybe not." Carefully, she walked around the leg of the machine, appearing again from the other side, her short, blonde hair smoothed back from her pale complexion, her eyes fixed on him. "But it means a lot to other people, doesn't it?" His breathing echoed beneath his mask, the old fear stirring in him once more, the belief that he wasn't good enough, that for all that he did, he would not be able to protect those for whom he cared. The Emperor was still at liberty, the shadow of the Empire's huge World Devastators cast across the whole galaxy, and here he was, a helpless old man on life support, pleading for aid from the weapons of the past. In the years since he had returned to the light, he had tried to make amends, rescuing children such as the girl before him, the girl from Tatooine, found in the care of filthy Sand People. Yet how much could a man really change? He had tried, in his own way, to answer for the lives he had taken. "This war has gone on too long, Phasma," he said softly, "and I no longer know any other way to bring it to an end." The girl stood in the shadow of the machine, the huge armour made in his likeness. "Take your weapon," she commanded. "Use it." He looked down at his gloved hands, tightening them slowly into fists, white Sullust leather creaking. Was there truly no other way?