Chapter
Fourteen
Luke Skywalker
was
alone.
The droid was
still
away for repairs, and Leia was dining with Emperor Palpatine.
Dinner
with the
Emperor! Luke thought bitterly. Maybe I should
have tried to stop her. But if
she thinks it's the right thing to do, it probably is. What do I know?
I'm just
some jerk who can't feel the Force.
Luke was
wandering
aimlessly around the guest chambers. He'd tried for a while sitting at
the
table and had even attempted to swallow some dinner, but his throat
hurt too
much and anyway he'd never felt less like eating. He had thrown himself
onto
one of the couches and started counting the crystals in the chandelier,
but
that only lasted another three minutes before he began roaming again.
He
trailed into his bedroom, and stood scowling at the window where he'd
tried to
end his life. The overturned chair was still there. Luke crossed the
room and
stared up at the curtain rail. Damn it. With the Force, it wouldn't
have taken
any effort at all for him to leap to the rail, but now there was no way
he
could jump that high. He righted the chair, stepped onto it, and
reached up,
closing his hands on the rail. Slowly he brought his knees up to his
chest,
hanging by his arms, then somersaulted his body around. At least his
muscles
could still manage that. He hung there for a moment longer, then let
go, got
down, and sat on the chair. He wondered how many of the exercises he
used to do
were still possible for him. How much just depended on keeping fit, and
how
much was the Force? One thing was for sure, he wasn't going to be
swinging
around the trees on Dagobah anytime soon.
He glowered up
at
the curtain rail again. The remains of the cord with which he'd hanged
himself
were gone; Leia must have had them removed so he wouldn't have to see
them. But
there was still another cord, around the other curtain. He could do it
again.
It wasn't his fault he'd
failed before. Maybe this time he'd manage to die before
someone came barging in.
If only he
hadn't
promised Leia.
He thought
back,
trying to remember the wording of the promise. Had he said that he
wouldn't
kill himself, or just that he wouldn't hang himself? Damn, he'd
probably said
he wouldn't kill himself. He could pretend that he hadn't, though, that
he'd just
said he wouldn't go for the hanging option. After all, what did it
matter if
Leia was angry with him? He'd be dead, he wouldn't have to deal with
it. He'd
probably never have to deal
with it, never have to face her again,
even after Leia herself finally died. She'd be floating around in
Glowing Blue
Jedi Land, while he'd be ... somewhere else. Or nowhere.
Luke leaned
back
against the window, and wondered how solid the plastisteel was. Was
there any
way he could break through it and leap to his death? Too much work, he
decided.
And someone would probably hear him before he succeeded in breaking the
window.
Anyway, if he did jump, with his luck he'd smash into some passing ship
and
crush the pilot, or something. He really didn't need to burden his soul
with
that. If he had a soul.
He
wondered where his lightsaber was. He knew he'd been wearing it when
they were
captured, and he remembered taking it off in his room the first night
they were
here, but it wasn't there now. Leia must have hidden it from him. She
hadn't
taken it with her when she left for her date with the Emperor, so it
must be
still here in the guest chambers -- unless of course someone had
removed it
when he wasn't in any state to notice.
Anyway, what
would
he do with the lightsaber if he found it? He could cut his throat --
he'd
probably end up cutting his head off too, but what the heck, that would
sure do
the trick. He could slice his guts open, but that was just too gross,
it made
him think of that delightful awakening inside the tauntaun carcass on
Hoth,
with Han grinning in at him and asking if he wanted any breakfast. Just
run the
lightsaber right through his heart, that was probably the best option,
he
supposed. Or through his head, but no, that would look like one of
those stupid
joke hats where one's head is supposedly impaled by an arrow.
Hysterical
laughter started to rise in his throat.
I
can't kill
myself. Leia would never forgive me.
He propelled
himself out of the chair and hurried into the main room, looking around
desperately for something to occupy his mind.
Leia had been
gone
a long time. He wondered if they'd finished dinner yet. Maybe they were
discussing the ways of the Force over a nice after-dinner coffee.
His eyes
lighted on
the liquor cabinet.
Now that was a good
idea.
Luke walked to
the
cabinet, opened the doors and gazed in awe at the large and
expensive-looking
selection of alcohol. From one of the bottom shelves, he pulled out a
big
bottle carved to look like a Termadani crystal. He recognised the style
of the
bottle and the label. It was a twenty-five year old Darkplain
Distillery kahy.
Wedge used to have a much smaller bottle of it, that someone had sent
him for
Firelord Day. He'd been hoarding it, but the bottle had finally got
finished
off the last time a gang of x-wing pilots ended up in Wedge's room for
a few
drinks.
The bottle Luke
was
holding now was full. Good. He considered taking a glass with him, but
decided
that would just slow him down. He trooped back to his room with the
bottle,
propped up the pillows of his bed, sat back against them, opened the
bottle,
and gulped down his first shot of the night.
Shit. His eyes
watered
and his throat burned, but he just managed not to cough. He rubbed one
hand
over his eyes. Wedge would say it was a sin to waste alcohol of this
quality
when one was just trying to get drunk. This stuff, you had to really
savour and
appreciate. Sorry, Wedge, he thought,
taking another drink. If he was going to
get smashed on Palpatine's liquor, he was going to drink the most
expensive stuff
there was.
After three
more
swigs, he realised that his eyes weren't just watering any more, he was
crying.
Damn it. He took
another gulp, then he had to put the bottle down on the bedside
table because he was sobbing too hard to keep the bottle steady in his
hands. Stop
it, stop it, stop it. Don't cry, it's stupid. It doesn't help anything.
So
what? Nothing
helps anything.
He wanted to
just
collapse in on himself.
I
don't want to
be here! I don't want to be alive!
When his sobs
stopped, he grabbed up the bottle again, took a few more swallows, then
held
the bottle against his face. It was cold, it felt nice.
I'm
going to
make myself sick, aren't I?
Probably.
So
what?
Luke took the
bottle away from his face and rested it on one of his knees instead. He
thought
about the first time he'd ever been drunk, which was, not surprisingly,
the
first time he'd been sick from drink as well. Biggs had got a fake i.d.
from
somewhere and bought a huge bottle of some cheap gin, which he and Luke
had
gone to drink in Beggar's Canyon. They finished off the bottle, and
Luke was
promptly sick all over Biggs' speeder, and then Biggs crashed the
speeder into
the wall of Beru and Owen's house when he was trying to drop Luke off
at home.
They'd both been grounded for months for that one.
Biggs, Luke thought, I
don't want to be here! I want to go home!
Uncle
Owen, can
we start again, please? We won't buy Artoo and Threepio this time.
We'll buy
some boring, ordinary droids, and the Empire won't come looking for
them, and
I'll stay and help with the harvest, I will, I promise, and if Ben
Kenobi
starts trying to tell me about the Force I'll tell him to shove his
lightsaber
up his withered old ass.
Luke took
another
drink. He paused for breath, and noticed the shopping bag lying on the
floor
beside the wardrobe. The unopened packaging for a model skyhopper was
sticking
out of it, and there was a small pile of colouring books and comic
books next
to the bag.
He scowled over
at
the toys, feeling a blush spread over his face. The image leaped into
his mind
of the officer whoÕd stopped his suicide, Moff
Whoever-he-was, struggling to be
polite while Luke showed off his colouring books.
Damn
you,
Palpatine. Why did you snap me out of it? At least for a few hours, I
felt like
I belonged again.
Luke grinned
unpleasantly. Let's hear it for childhood, he thought. Give
or take
hating the farm, and being lonely and bored, and being the smallest boy
in
class. At least back then I'd never heard of the Force.
He took one
more
drink for the road, then carefully put the bottle down on the bedside
table
again. It took him a while to get off the bed, because he wasn't quite
sure
that he knew where the floor was any more. When his feet did touch the
floor,
he noticed that he had his boots on, and decided that he didn't want
to.
Pulling the boots off was something of a challenge, but he managed.
Then he
padded over to the pile of discarded toys, crouched down by them and
started
flipping through the colouring books.
One of them,
the Great
Natural Wonders of the Galaxy one, he hadn't
coloured anything in. No wonder, he thought
now, it
still looks boring. Another, The
Big Colouring Book of the Imperial
Forces, was a lot better. He started laughing when he
saw his orange, blue and
purple TIE-fighter, then he had to stop because laughing too hard made
him feel
sick.
He looked for
the
box of crayons, and found it inside the shopping bag. He took crayons
and
colouring book back to the bed, crawled onto the bed with them and
started
looking for an entertaining picture to colour.
There was one
of a
stuffy-looking Grand Moff that he thought might be kind of fun; he
could draw a
"kick me" sign on the Moff's chest. He flipped through a few more
pages, then found the perfect focus for his artistic expression: a
drawing of
Emperor Palpatine.
Luke stared at
the
picture critically, taking another drink while he did so. Must be a
very old
colouring book. Or else, more likely, it was treason or something to
draw
Palpatine as ugly as he really was. The Emperor looked almost sane.
Well, Luke
could take care of that.
What would be a
good colour combination for His Imperial Majesty?
A nice
pastel
yellow robe, I think. With pink and turquoise polka dots. Just
right for
highlighting the sallow Imperial complexion.
When it came to
colouring the Imperial complexion, however, Luke decided that realism
wasn't
good enough. He gave the Emperor a bright red nose, and coloured the
rest of
his face and his hands a sickly drab green. Then it occurred to him
that
Palpatine really ought to have a big twirly moustache and a goatee, as
well.
For good measure, he put a big red X through the entire picture.
Luke studied
his
masterpiece, and wasn't sure whether the sounds he was making were
laughs or
sobs.
He thought, I've
either got to fall asleep right now, or throw up.
Luke Skywalker
curled up on top of the bedclothes, his face on the picture of Emperor
Palpatine, and fell asleep.
"Leia? I want
to show you something."
Oh,
wonderful, Leia thought. She
eyed the Emperor warily over the rim of the mug from which she was
sipping
talfa berry tea. Leia swallowed, lowered the mug and prompted politely,
"yes, My Master?"
Palpatine
nodded.
"Yes," he said, in a musing tone, "yes, you ought to see
it." The Emperor stood up from his place at the table, and Leia put the
mug down and stood as well.
"Do you trust
me, my dear?" Palpatine asked.
Just
about as
far as I can throw you, she thought.
She smiled sweetly at him. "No, My
Master," she replied. "But I will follow you."
The Emperor
looked
pleased. "Good," he said. To Leia's surprise, he reached out and took
her hands in his. She forced herself not to shudder at the contact.
Smiling,
and gazing straight into her eyes, Palpatine whispered, "Leia, come
with
me."
Their
surroundings
abruptly changed. Leia blinked, looking around the much darker and
larger room
they now stood in, and realised that Palpatine must have teleported out
of his
dining room and taken her with him. The room was lit only by pale
security
lighting above the doors, and the bluish evening light from beyond the
tall
windows. Leia saw a long balcony above them. This must be the Great
Hall, she
thought, although she hardly recognised it. She had only ever seen it
brightly
lit before, and crowded with senators.
The Emperor's
face
was grey and ghostly in the half light. He said, "over here, my
dear." He nodded his head toward the centre of the room, and suddenly
another light appeared. For a moment Leia didn't understand what she
was
seeing, then she caught her breath and stepped back.
The new light
illuminated a clear, rectangular display case, raised above the rest of
the
room, with five steps leading up to it. There was a man lying inside
the case,
and even without his mask, she recognised him.
"Come closer,
Leia," purred Palpatine. "Meet Anakin Skywalker."
Reluctantly,
Leia
followed the Emperor, stepping closer to the display case. She forced
herself
to remain calm, taking in each element of the scene before her. Lord
Vader's
helmet and the upper portions of his mask were placed on a small
pedestal at
his feet, along with his lightsaber. His body seemed the same as
always, still
encased in the black clothing and armour, and his triangular breathing
mask was
still there, but the sight of his face and head made her want to cry --
or to
kill Palpatine, who had exposed him like this. Solemnly she gazed at
his
scarred, bald scalp and the mangled remnants of his ears, and she felt
again
the searing pain he had felt when those wounds were still fresh. She
could
smell the burned hair and flesh, feel the fire-suppressant foam
dripping into
his wounds, feel the shock of realising that one of his eyes was oozing
out of
its socket.
Lord Vader's
eyes
were open now, but he was not looking at Leia or the Emperor. He was
stonily
staring at the ceiling, and only the slight movement of his chest and
the fact
that he occasionally blinked told Leia that he was even alive.
"Is there
anything you'd like to say to your father, Leia?" Palpatine asked.
"He can't hear us through the case, and you may not be trained enough
yet
to successfully speak to his mind, but I can pass on a message to him,
if you'd
like."
"No,"
said Leia. "I don't have anything to say." Palpatine was trying to
trap her, she was sure. Hoping that the sight of Vader might cause some
outburst
of emotion, and make her betray whatever she was feeling for him -- and
any
rescue plans she might be harbouring.
She grimly
focused
instead on all the anger she had ever felt toward Vader. She stared at
him, and
conjured up an image of the Dark Lord looming in her cell on the Death
Star,
while the interrogation droid hovered closer to her. She remembered his
presence behind her, as she backed into him while cringing away from
Tarkin,
and then watched Alderaan explode. She pictured him observing calmly,
as Han
was lowered into the carbon freeze unit in Cloud City.
"Your
Majesty," she said coldly, "I would like your permission to return to
my quarters."
"Of course, my
dear child." The Emperor gave a slight wave of his hand, and Leia found
herself, as suddenly as they had appeared in the Great Hall, standing
alone in
the living room of the guest quarters.
Bizarre. She
thought that she ought to feel dizzy from having been flung around like
that,
but she didn't. She looked around the room, and called softly, "Luke?"
She'd had her
doubts about leaving him again so soon, but Luke had promised her that
he
wouldn't do anything to hurt himself. Whatever you could say against
Luke, he
was not a liar. He didn't break his promises. Or at least, she thought
uneasily
now, he never had before.
She went to his
bedroom door, which was closed, and rang the bell once. There was no
answer.
Leia pressed the panel which opened the door.
"Oh,
Luke," she murmured. She shook her head, but she couldn't quite stop
herself from smiling.
The overhead
light
was blazing at full strength, and the curtains at the window were still
open.
The room reeked of alcohol. There was an open bottle of kahy, one-third
full,
on the bedside table, and from the look of the bedcovers, Luke had
managed to spill
some of the kahy onto them. Luke himself was curled up on top of the
bed, fully
dressed except for his boots, and had his face on one page of an opened
colouring book. Crayons were scattered all over the bed and the floor,
and Luke
was still clutching the red crayon in his hand. He seemed incredibly
young,
asleep like this, even without the colouring book and the crayons.
Leia sighed. No
way
would she try to get him tucked in to bed, that would be far more
trouble than
it was worth. She left the room briefly, went to her own bedroom and
removed
one of the blankets from her bed, then returned to her brother's room
and
draped the blanket over Luke. Leia closed the curtains, noticing that
they
still only had one cord, turned out the light, and left Luke to his
sleep.
She stood in
the
dining area, leaning on the table. She felt restless, but she couldn't
think of
anything she could do. She shouldn't send for Moff Nevoy, even though
she was
desperate to learn whether his plans had made any progress; it would
look
suspicious if she had too much contact with him. And she had had more
than
enough for today of Force practice with her dear Master Palpatine. She
could go
to the Emperor's media centre, but she was damned if she was just going
to sit
around watching holovids while her father was held prisoner and her
suicidal
brother slept off a drinking binge.
There had to be
something she could do,
besides standing around feeling helpless.
Leia crossed to
one
of the sofas and sat down, pulling her knees up to her chest and
wrapping her
arms around them. She thought of the vision she had seen this morning,
while
Luke was trying to kill himself.
Maybe she
should
try again. There was always a chance she might learn something useful.
And even
if nothing practical came out of it, surely it would be a positive
thing simply
to keep developing her abilities. At least, she thought, surely it
couldn't
hurt.
She brought her
legs down, and sat cross-legged on the sofa. Once more she tried to
turn her
senses in on themselves.
At first she
saw
only darkness. Then the dark was replaced by the light in Vader's
display case.
She saw his face again. His angry blue eyes were still gazing at the
far off
ceiling.
Leia shook her
head, and Vader's face vanished. Leia sent her feelings deeper, and
then
suddenly she was in a room lit by brilliant sunlight.
She knew this
room.
When she was little, she used to play under the big, dark wood desk,
pretending
it was a tent or a cave, and sometimes jumping out from it to try and
scare the
various dignitaries who were visiting Princess Keeiara Organa, First
Lady of
Alderaan.
"Mom,"
Leia whispered.
Keeiara was
standing in front of the desk, wearing the ocean blue skirt and jacket
that she
usually wore when she had to look both elegant and conservative. She'd
had a
love-hate relationship with that suit, Leia remembered. She alternated
between
liking the dignified look that it gave her, and moaning that it added
at least
a decade on to her age. Keeiara's secretary, a plump-faced young man
whose name
Leia had utterly forgotten, was sitting beside the desk, a notepad in
his hand.
Keeiara had apparently halted in mid-dictation. "Ma'am?" the
secretary asked uncertainly.
Keeiara, Leia
realised, was staring out the window. Leia turned to follow her gaze.
In the vivid
blue
sky -- bluer, Leia thought, than any sky she had seen since she left
home --
hung a vague orb shape. The moon, was Leia's first thought. Only it was
the
wrong colour, darker. And something else seemed strange about it. Leia
narrowed
her eyes, squinting at the distant shape. Then she saw that instead of
the
moon's shadowed craters there was a faint grid pattern on the orb. A
grid
pattern that could not possibly be natural.
Leia knew what
the
orb was.
"Mom,"
she breathed desperately, "get off the planet, now."
Keeiara
frowned,
not taking her gaze from the window. "Vendail," she said, without
turning to look at the secretary, "open a link to my husband."
Vendail the
secretary obeyed, standing up and punching the code into the com unit
on
Keeiara's desk. He looked puzzled, then reported, "I'm sorry, Ma'am,
we're
not getting through. The link to Prince Bail's office seems to be
overloaded,
there must be hundreds of people calling him.
For an instant
longer Keeiara Organa stared into the sky. Then she turned and strode
out of
her office, leaving Vendail gaping after her in bewilderment.
Leia followed
her
adoptive mother down the corridor, taking the familiar route to Bail
Organa's
office. At first Keeiara was walking swiftly, then she broke into a run.
The door to
Bail's
office opened in front of her. Keeiara halted just inside, seeing her
husband
standing surrounded by his aides, all of whom wore expressions on the
continuum
between worry and terror.
"Well, try
again," Bail was saying sharply. "We have to get through to
them."
"Bail?"
Keeiara began.
Bail Organa
turned
toward her. "Keeiara," he said, running one hand distractedly through
his hair, "it's an Imperial vessel, that's all we know about it. They
sent
one message, but now they're not responding to our hails."
"What
message?" asked Keeiara.
"That --
"
The Prince was
interrupted by a shout from one of his aides, and Bail and Keeiara
turned once
more to look out the window. Leia stared at her mother's face,
startlingly pale
against the red gold of her hair. Keeiara's eyes widened, and her mouth
dropped
open. Against her own will, Leia turned to see what Keeiara was seeing.
The shape in
the
sky was alight. The light grew from a pinpoint, until the entire orb
was hidden
behind it.
Then the light
was
all Leia could see.
Leia gasped,
and
the white light disappeared, its place taken by Palpatine's guest
chamber.
Leia looked
around
dizzily. Her heart was beating too fast, and her hands were shaking.
She put
one hand up to smear tears away from her face.
All right,
she'd
been wrong. Having a vision could hurt, after
all.
She stood up
shakily. What the Hell had been the point of that?
She remembered
Luke
telling her that Force visions were always hard to understand. That
Yoda had
told him that past and present and future could get jumbled together in
them.
Had she really
seen
the way it happened, she wondered? Or just a way that her brain thought
it
might have happened?
She almost
hoped
that she had seen the way it was. At least then she would know that
Bail and
Keeiara had been together, at the end.
Leia's mouth
curved
in a bitter smile. You didn't have to be Yoda, she thought, to
interpret this
particular vision. One reading of it, at least, was pretty damned
obvious.
Darth Vader's
face
appeared again in her mind.
She had to help
him. Had to, or she didn't know how she was going to live with herself.
She had already
failed one set of parents. She had failed them, when there should have
been -- must have been --
something she could have done to save Alderaan.
She had failed
Bail
and Keeiara. She couldn't fail Vader, too.
Leia walked
into
her bedroom, numbly undressed and put on her long white nightgown. Her
hair was
already in one simple braid, so she didn't have to do anything to it.
She eyed her
huge,
empty bed, then decided that tonight she was not going to be alone.
Luke was not
likely
to be the most restful neighbour, she thought; gods knew how long it
would be
before he was jolted into consciousness to make a trip to the loo. He
might not
be too happy to see her in his bed, either, he'd probably think she was
sleeping in the same room to make sure that he didn't kill himself.
What the Hell,
though. They were family. They had to be able to deal with each other
being
annoying.
She sneaked
into
Luke's room, let the door close behind her, then paused to let her eyes
grow
accustomed to the faint light drifting through the curtains. Her
brother, she
saw, was still a lump at the centre of the bed.
Leia went round
to
the other side of the bed, and crawled under the covers, avoiding her
brother
the lump. Before lying down she felt the pillow cautiously, to make
sure that
Luke hadn't spilled any kahy on it. The pillow seemed free of alcohol,
although
she did have to remove several crayons from it.
Gods, she thought. Smells
like going to sleep in a bar. Just don't be sick, Luke, okay?
Leia closed her
eyes.
Moff Nevoy
thought,
I don't think I can do this.
There had to be
some way out of it. There had to be.
He had been
prowling around his house since returning from the security meeting two
hours
ago, with a brief interval of picking listlessly at his dinner, and
causing
C4T8 to worry that he wasn't eating enough. Sometimes Nevoy suspected
that C4T8
was secretly in the pay of Rosmarin and Marida, they'd probably bribed
the
droid to ensure that their old man was looking after his health.
Tonight Nevoy
had been in no mood to endure his household droid's fussing, so he gave
C4T8
permission to spend the evening switched off, and suggested very firmly
that
the droid would be well advised to keep out of his way.
Nevoy had made
an
effort to concentrate on the novel he was reading, but that attempt had
been
doomed from the start. He'd switched on the holo and watched about five
minutes
of some mindless sitcom about a family of pirates that lived in an
asteroid
field, but it had not taken him long to discover that he did not care
in the
slightest whether or not young Andar managed to convince the sexy new
girl at
school that he was greatest buccaneer ever to roam the galaxy. He had
considered composing letters to Rosmarin and Marida, but he didn't know
what he
would say if he did. If he tried to be calm and cheerful, they would
figure out
something was very wrong in a matter of seconds. But he couldn't
exactly tell
them the truth, either. Hello, darlings, I'm about to lead a
revolt, so this
may be the last time I'll get to talk with you ... oh, yes,
sure. All he
needed was for a message like that to get intercepted by Imperial
Intelligence.
That would solve his problem quickly enough all right. He wouldn't have
to
decide whether to betray the Empire, because he'd be in a dungeon
before you
could say "traitor".
He told
himself, there
is no way out.
It was too late
to
stop the revolt. There were too many factors involved, too much had
already
been set in motion to stop it now. If he tried to convince the others
to call
it off, there was very little chance that all of them would agree to
it. They'd
end up with half a revolt, and he would have condemned to death all the
men who
had taken part. Not to mention that, knowing the interrogation
techniques which
were likely to be used, the men who did take part would almost
certainly be
convinced to reveal the names of those who hadn't.
He could just
piss
off now, leave the planet and abandon all the others to their fate, but
that
would have the same result. His departure would arouse suspicion,
investigation
would begin, and the plot would be discovered. Even if it wasn't, the
others might
have difficulties convincing some of their men to go along with the
uprising if
he wasn't there to lend it his authority.
He could go
sobbing
to the Emperor, revealing the entire conspiracy and begging for
forgiveness,
but that would not only be cowardly, it would be insanely stupid. He
would get
all his friends killed, and Palpatine would be sure to reserve some
especially
charming punishment for him, like using his thoughts to strip Nevoy's
skin off
his body while Nevoy watched.
No, damn it. If
he
had to betray someone, it was better to betray the Emperor than betray
his
friends.
The trouble
was, it
wasn't just the Emperor they were going to attack.
Nevoy would
cheerfully do anything to hurt Palpatine. But the Empire wasn't one
man. It was
all very well to say that they had to get rid of their mad Emperor, but
what of
the effect it would have on the millions of men in the Imperial forces?
On the
hundreds of millions of civilians whose livelihoods depended on the
Empire? On
the planetary and system-wide economies that would be destroyed if the
Empire
fell?
Stop
it. You
can't carry the entire galaxy on your shoulders. Just do what you have
to, and
leave it at that.
Do
what you have
to and not care how many people it hurts?
He slumped down
at
the desk in his study, resting his head on his hands and feeling sick.
He was
going to drive himself insane at this rate. He hadn't felt this
emotionally
screwed up since -- well, since the first few days after Laram had died.
That was the
real
problem, wasn't it? Oh, yes, intellectually he was bothered by the
thought of
all the other millions of people their revolt could harm. But what he
really
couldn't stand was the thought of betraying his son.
Laram's
dead. He
won't care.
How do
you know
that? he argued with himself. And even if
he won't care, I will.
When he thought
about striking against the Empire that he had served since its
foundation, it
wasn't his own lost career and lost hopes that troubled him. What came
into his
mind were recollections of the day Laram had graduated from the
Academy. He
thought of the joy and pride on Laram's face as he took the oath of
allegiance
with the other new officers, and he wondered, how can I
betray the Empire
that he fought for -- and died for?
How
can I join
forces with the people who killed him?
When Laram
died,
the girls -- particularly Rosmarin -- had begged Nevoy to meet with
Ardella.
They'd argued that she was suffering from Laram's loss as well; just
because
she was with the Rebellion, it didn't mean that she had stopped being
Laram's
mother, or stopped loving him. If they could meet, and support each
other as a
family again, however briefly, it might give them more strength to deal
with
their loss.
Nevoy had
refused.
If it had only been that she had left him, abandoned him to bring up
the
children on his own, that would be one thing. He could forgive her
that. But
she had left for the Rebellion. She had devoted herself to the cause
which
stole the life of their son.
Nevoy had
blamed
her for that. If he fought for the Rebellion now, wouldn't he be
equally to
blame?
Idiot.
You could
argue this forever. Why not just take the easy way out, and blame
Palpatine?
It's his bloody fault -- the war, the Death Star, Alderaan,
eeverything. So
just kill him and stop whining about it.
Anyway,
like
we've all been saying, it's not the same Rebellion any more. It's Darth
Vader's
Rebellion. And the Rebellion of all the Imperials who've chosen Vader
over
Palpatine.
And if Laram
were
alive today, how did he know that Laram wouldn't be a Rebel too?
Nevoy
whispered,
"Laram, please, tell me what to do."
He could
imagine
the rueful way Laram would smile in this situation. And he thought he
knew what
Laram would say. He could hear the quiet, reasonable tones of his son's
voice
-- Laram had always managed to stay calm in situations that drove his
father
nearly into hysterics -- saying, "Dad, come on, you know you have to do
it. You wouldn't be worrying about it this much if it wasn't important
to you.
You can't leave it like this, you know that.
I
don't want to
hurt you, Laram.
You
won't hurt
me, Dad. I know you'll do what's right.
You
know that,
do you? I wish I knew it.
Dad,
don't use
me as an excuse to get out of this. The Empire isn't me. You're not
fighting me
if you fight the Empire.
If Laram were
alive, Nevoy told himself, there was every chance that he would be with
the
Rebellion. He was always a sensible kid, he would know that they had
better
prospects in the long run with Vader than with their lunatic Emperor.
For that
matter, if
Laram were alive, he might not be with the armed forces at all any more.
It was a while
now
-- probably almost a year -- since Nevooy had played back Laram's last
message.
He used to play it a lot; too much, probably. It was like digging into
one's
wounds to try and stop them from healing.
But now, it was
probably the closest he could come to learning what Laram would say to
him
today.
He found the
file
with no difficulty, he could probably have found it with his eyes
closed. For a
moment he was almost afraid to watch it again.
He's
your son.
He loves you. Just hold on to that, and watching the message won't hurt
you.
He could go
into
the living room and play Laram's message on the holo, but that, he
didn't think
he could handle. The holopad added that extra touch of realism that
would just
make everything too painful. To see what seemed to be Laram sitting
there,
right in front of him, as if he could reach into the image and touch
him ...
no. Better to keep his distance, and just play the message on the
computer. This
was going to be bad enough as it was.
Nevoy closed
his
eyes briefly, then set the message on play.
There had been
a
time when Nevoy could probably have recited the message in time with
the image
of his son. It had been long enough now since he had watched it for the
message
to almost seem new.
Lieutenant
Commander Laram Nevoy appeared in his office on the Death Star, which
he shared
with several other officers. Despite the knowledge of what was going to
happen
to his son in less than a day's time, Nevoy still smiled at the sight
of him.
He was looking good. He had grown his dark red hair to the very
furthest extent
he could without being in violation of Navy regulations, and he was
sporting a
trim little beard and moustache which he hadn't had in his previous
visual
message. He looked fit and healthy, too; of course all the kids had
inherited
their mother's height and slim build, avoiding Nevoy's own unfortunate
tendency
to chunkiness.
Laram grinned,
and
said, "hi, Dad. How's it going? That other birthday present finally
arrived a couple days ago, so you don't have to sue the postal service.
It was
chasing us all over the galaxy; it went to the shipyards at Tilvann
first, and
then it got put on the Vengeance which was
supposed to
rendezvous with us at Mikrox Three, only their orders got changed and
they were
sent to Tirpscanuma instead, so all the Death Star post got re-routed
to some
troop transports, and we only just met up with them. Anyway, though,"
he
said with a mock formal bow, "thank you very much, sir. It is much
appreciated, and it's going to make me the most popular guy on the
station.
I've already got people promising me the life of their first born
child, or
something, if I'll let them have a sip of the Ynyssan brandy."
The amusement
left
Laram's face, and he went on, keeping his expression and his voice
carefully
neutral, "you'll have heard by now, I guess, about Alderaan." He
paused for a moment, as if at a loss for anything to say. "I suppose
it'll
shut up once and for all everyone who thought this station wouldn't be
worth
the money we spent on it."
Then Laram
grinned
again, quickly changing the subject. "So what do you think of the new
beard? I know it isn't as impressive as yours yet, but I'm working on
it."
He turned his head so that his father could examine the beard from all
angles.
"I have been told," he went on, "that it makes me look very
dashing, but I haven't figured out yet if the people who said that were
taking
the piss or not."
He asked,
"anything new on Marida yet? Last I heard from her, she said she was
pregnant enough to have five babies in her. You will let me know the
minute
anything happens, won't you? I mean, there's no point being an uncle if
I can't
brag to everyone about it."
Laram
hesitated,
and for a moment he glanced away. When he looked back at his father, he
didn't
seem to be happy about what he was going to say. "Dad ... the next time
I'm home, I hope we can have a talk about ... some things. Don't
panic,"
he added quickly, "I'm not going to do anything stupid. But, well, I'd
like to talk with you about -- about my career. I don't know, there's
--
there's some things I'm kind of worried about. It's okay, don't worry,
it's
just ... I'm not really sure any more if this is where I belong." He
smiled apologetically. "I know, Dad, I know how important my career is
to
you, don't stress, I won't just throw it away. I'm not going to walk up
to
Grand Moff Tarkin and insult his slippers and get court-martialled, or
anything. I've just been thinking a lot about what I ought to be doing
with my
life. I hope we can talk about it soon, that's all."
He smiled a
more
cheerful smile once more, and said, "phew. That was heavy. Look, Dad, I
gotta sign off. You take care, okay? I'll talk with you soon. Love you.
Bye."
Nevoy quickly
switched
off the recording, before he could succumb to his immediate impulse and
play it
back again. He sat back, running his hands over his face.
Laram, he thought, why
didn't you say that the last time you were home on leave? Why didn't we
talk
about it then? I'd support anything, anything. Anything you want to do.
I don't
care what. Be a jizz musician. A chef. A bounty hunter. An exotic
dancer. I
don't care, whatever you want, just leave the forces and stay alive.
He stood up and
walked into the living room. For a moment his gaze was caught by the
scrupulously polished doors of the glass and cedar liquor cabinet that
he'd
inherited from Grandma Flora and Grandpa Virgil, and he thought how
much he
wanted a drink right now. But he wasn't going to have one. On a night
like
this, one drink would swiftly turn into ten, and the absolutely last
thing he
needed was to be leading a palace revolt with a hangover.
He crossed the
room
instead and stood by the door which led out onto the balcony. Then he
opened
the door and stepped outside.
The night was a
bit
chilly; he should probably go back inside and get a jacket or a
cardigan, but
he wasn't going to. He sat down in the wooden deck chair and looked up
at the
sky.
There wasn't
much
to see, of course. Stargazing was not a pastime one could indulge in
much when
one lived in Imperial City. The moons just about managed to make
themselves
visible, that was usually it. He looked up into the usual red-brown of
the
light-polluted sky.
In the old
days,
when he'd received information about where Laram's ships, and then
later the
Death Star, had been sent to, he used to sit out here and try to work
out what
part of the sky they were in.
It was easy
enough
to figure out where Rose and Marida were, although the sky in their
directions
looked just as bland and featureless as everywhere else. Tasmerine,
where
Rosmarin and Elbin and Anida lived, was over to the right, just a
little above
the horizon now probably, over by the tower of the Imperial Assurance
building.
Cefdor, home of Marida, Kan, Nina and Lien, must be pretty much
directly
overhead.
And Laram
wasn't
out there any more.
He gazed in
what
must be vaguely the direction of Yavin, and saw that one star, at
least, was
faintly visible in the red glowing sky. That had to be Kroiaz; he had
seen it
before when he was trying to work out where Yavin was at around this
time of
year, and it was the only star in that region which was bright enough
to force
its way through Imperial City's lights. He sighed. One star wasn't very
impressive, but at least it was something.
He wondered, as
he
had so many times before, where Laram had been when the Death Star
died. What
he'd been doing. What he was thinking.
At least it
would
have been quick. None of them would have had time to suffer. One second
they
would have believed that they were going to smash the Rebellion for
good, and
the next second, they were gone.
Assuming, of
course, that nothing had happened to Laram in the day before, when
there were
Rebels running around the station rescuing Princess Leia. Nevoy knew
that a
fair number of men had been killed or wounded then. But, surely he
would have
heard if Laram were one of them. There had been enough time between
that fight
and the destruction of the Death Star for the casualty reports to be
sent out
and the men's families to be notified. Besides, he had always believed
--
though now when he thought about it, it was rather stupid -- that Lord
Vader
would have told him if Laram had died before the others.
There wasn't
any
reason to believe that, of course. Lord Vader had certainly had enough
to do
without keeping track of who, out of a garrison of 1,187,000 people,
had died
when. And even if Laram had been killed or hurt during the Princess's
escape,
and Vader had known of it, perhaps he would have thought there was no
point in
Nevoy knowing. Perhaps Vader had thought it would cause him more pain.
Which it
would. But he still wished he could know for sure.
He knew, at
least,
that Lord Vader had been aware of Laram's death, because the first time
Nevoy
encountered Vader after the Death Star disaster, the Dark Lord had
offered his
condolences.
It had been a
week
or so after, and Vader had only just returned to Coruscant. They had
run into
each other in the corridors of the Palace -- almost literally, since
Nevoy was
still so wrapped up in his grief that he barely managed to look where
he was
going. He couldn't remember much of their brief conversation, but he
did
remember Vader's deep voice saying "I am sorry for your loss," and he
certainly remembered his own amazement, which had managed to cut
through his
wall of grief and left him standing there, stunned, as the Dark Lord
once more
strode on his way. He remembered wondering why in the galaxy Vader
should
particularly recognise his grief, when the
two of them had barely
exchanged five words outside of the line of duty in the twenty years
they had
worked together.
Nevoy smiled
faintly. He had a logical hypothesis to explain that now, anyway. Darth
Vader
might never have had any contact with the Nevoy family, but Anakin
Skywalker
certainly had. Anakin and his wife Shura had been over for dinner a few
times,
and they were both pretty good with the kids; Shura Talassa had
apparently come
from a large family, and Anakin had the great skill of treating
children like
people instead of acting as if they were sub-human. Once, Nevoy
remembered,
Anakin had come to dinner on his own -- that must have been just a few
weeks
before the famous accident. Laram must have been seven or eight, then,
and
Nevoy remembered Laram and Field Marshal Skywalker getting into a long
conversation about whether the Jedi Order ought to have their authority
restricted. Laram's teacher at school had made some comment about the
question,
and that night Laram had asked what Anakin thought about it. Later,
when the
Jedi Purge was in full swing, after Anakin had died -- or not, Nevoy
reminded
himself -- Laram was glued to the holonews every night, watching each
new
development. Nevoy remembered Laram declaring that he hated the Jedi,
they deserved
everything they got, because they'd killed Anakin Skywalker.
Good
gods, Nevoy thought. Darth
Vader has been to my house for dinner. He and my son have discussed
politics.
It was
mind-bending
to think of Vader remembering that same conversation. Had he remembered
it,
when he offered his condolences for Laram's death?
And, my Gods --
had
Vader even known, then, that it was his own son who had destroyed the
Death
Star?
If he had, no
wonder he'd offered his condolences. His son had killed those 1,187,000
men.
Had Vader felt
guilty? Had he ever felt that all those deaths were his own fault?
Nevoy shook his
head. Enough of this train of thought. Trying to imagine how Darth
Vader's mind
worked was just going to give him a headache.
He took in a
deep
breath of the chill night air.
There wasn't
any
way out. He knew that. Darth Vader was lying in the Great Hall waiting
to be
killed, and if Nevoy and company didn't rescue him, nobody would. The
Rebels
would never get to him in time. And Sandar, Raby, Wellaine, Hayashida,
Mulcahy,
all the others, they were all counting on Nevoy not to fail them.
He thought, Laram,
I hope this is what you want me to do.
Or if
it isn't,
I hope you can forgive me.
He gazed into
the
red sky, in the direction of Yavin, and watched the one faint star.
Go
to Chapter
15
Return to The
Adventures of Darth Vader
Return
to Front Page