Chapter
Three
He was helpless.
Nothing. There
was
nothing. Nothing but the loathsome machines, humming and whirring and
clicking.
Keeping him alive, when all he wanted was to escape.
He knew there
was
something left of him. When he concentrated, sending his consciousness
out of
what remained of his body, he could see that there was indeed a
basically human
form on the bed. It was barely visible amid all the wires, monitors,
and random
bits of machinery which he did not recognise, but only knew that he
hated.
He could turn
his
head an inch to the left and an inch to the right. That was all the
movement he
was capable of. They told him he wasn't paralysed. It was the treatment
that
necessitated keeping him immobile, while massive repairs went on at
their
pathetic, crawling pace. They told him a lot of things. They told him
he would
be fine. They told him he was lucky. They also told him, of course,
that he'd
never be able to breathe again without the help of a damned, bloody,
fucking iron
lung, that he might not be able to walk again, that even his heartbeat
would
have to be constantly monitored for the rest of his life. Oh,
yes, he thought, very
lucky. He was starting to panic again. He could feel
the familiar
claustrophobic terror welling up inside him, making him want to scream
or to
cry or to kill someone.
They kept the
room
too hot. It was closing in on him in its thick cloying warmth. It was
going to
crush him. He was going to be smashed under his own life-support
devices. He managed
a weak, choking sound that had
been originally intended as a laugh. He felt dizzy from terror, but he
knew
that wasn't because he was hyperventilating. He couldn't hyperventilate
any
more. Couldn't even change the rate of his own breathing. He might be
going mad
with fear, but his breathing would still come in that hateful automated
wheeze
that he was so sick of listening to. If only it would change! Just a
little
faster, or a little slower. Anything, to stop him from going insane.
He fought to
think
of something else. If he focused hard enough, surely he could feel some
hint
that his body was still there. Was that pain that he felt? He hoped it
was, but
he couldn't be sure. He could no longer tell what was actual pain, what
was the
drugs and the life-support, and what was just the hideous oblivion of
feeling
nothing.
I've
got to get
out!
He was furious
now,
and the fury was holding back the terror. The fury was something he
knew he
could use. Slowly he managed to calm himself, but he did not let his
anger go.
All his thoughts were converging on the anger, honing it into something
pure,
concentrated and beautifully powerful.
If they thought
they could force him to live, they were wrong.
This time, he would get away.
His senses
homed in
on the tubes and wires that connected him to his bulky, hated breathing
apparatus. With vindictive pleasure, he began to sever them, one by
one. Only a
slight effort, and the wires sizzled and melted writhingly away. The
sounds
were changing now. The machine itself sounded tortured, and he was
glad. He
wanted it to suffer. And then he couldn't hear the horrible wheezing
any more.
Good. He wondered if he could feel something different, if there was a
greater
tightness in his chest, but he wasn't sure. He thought he would explode
the
bloody machine, too, for good measure. It would only take a little
extra
concentration. Then they really, really would not bring him back.
Somewhere, far
in
the distance, there seemed to be an alarm squawking. And maybe, people
shouting. It was almost impossible to keep his attention on them. He
was
starting to drift. He probably wouldn't manage to explode the thing
after all.
Didn't matter. It felt so good not to care any more.
Then, suddenly,
he
was fighting again. Something was trying to grab hold of him, pulling
him back.
He screamed at it in rage, or thought he did. His rage, undirected,
blasted
out, and something did explode. He heard the sound of it, and people's
shouts,
and the crackle of flames.
But he could
hear
them. Damn it, he could hear. He was back.
And the flames were being
extinguished, and people were speaking urgently, and surrounding him,
and no. No, no, no, they
were going to start him breathing again.
No!
Let me
go!
He woke with a
choking gasp. He felt the usual surge of relief on discovering that he
was
sitting up, not flat in a hospital bed, and breathing through his own
breathing
mask, not through banks of equipment that filled most of the room. His
heartbeat and breathing both were faster than normal, and he smiled at
the
realisation. He could hyperventilate now, if he wanted to. What a
luxury.
He hadn't had
one
of these dreams in months, but he supposed he should have expected it.
The
dreams always tended to come back when he was particularly under
stress. He
should have known, tonight, when he'd been unable to free himself from
the
events of the day enough to successfully meditate, that a dream was on
its way.
Vader reached
up in
the darkness, rubbing a hand over his exposed eyes. I
shouldn't let it get
to me, he thought.
It wasn't
political
or military matters that were bothering him. They were going fine, or
as fine
as could be expected. On the whole, the past year could be counted as a
success
story. The New Alliance had won several significant victories and had
almost doubled
their manpower through continuing Imperial defections.
No, damn it,
the
problem was his children.
This waiting
game
he played with Leia was starting to wear on him. He'd promised himself
that he
wouldn't push her. He would not try forcing her to accept him. As long
as it
took her, that was how long he was willing to wait.
But he'd never
been
good at waiting. The icy politeness of all their official encounters,
and her
complete refusal to interact with him in any social context whatever,
was
shredding his patience. He knew, with depressing certainty, that she
would have
been happier if he'd died. Maybe then she could have accepted him. If
he'd
managed some sort of martyr's death, bringing down the Empire and
sacrificing
himself to accomplish it, perhaps then she would someday have come to
terms
with being Darth Vader's daughter. Alive, he brought her only anger,
embarrassment and fear.
And Luke. Poor
Luke, he was just as bad. Completely different, of course. He wanted so
desperately to win Darth's approval. They were getting
closer. There were
times when Darth thought he and his son might be close to understanding
each
other. But still something kept getting in the way. And Vader knew
exactly what
that something was.
Obi
Wan Kenobi.
The very
thought of
that name sent a cold rush of fury through him. Vader rested his
forehead on
his hands. Damn the stupid old bastard. At times the
anger made Darth
feel almost physically sick, at the thought of Obi Wan getting his
claws into
Luke's mind. As if it weren't enough to steal Darth's children from
him. The
senile fool had to go and ooze his poison into Luke, twisting the boy
with all
that pathetic, delusional Light Side lunacy. Trying to cut Luke off
from at
least half of his powers, and dooming him to soul-destroying guilt
whenever he
did anything that was not pure and Good from every possible angle.
He could
understand
how it had happened, of course. Luke, with everything he had known
taken away
from him, would have been a perfect victim for Obi Wan's platitudes. He
must
have eagerly lapped up the old man's righteous, plausible-sounding lies.
There was a
time
when Vader too had believed everything Obi Wan said. Until he'd
discovered just
how much of the Jedi's vaunted Light Side was merely a screen, with
which he tried
to hide from himself the darker possibilities inside him.
Just
because you cannot
accept yourself, Obi Wan, must you doom your pupils to the same curse?
Like a chill
breeze, awareness of something beside his own anger brushed against
Vader's
mind. Vader sat upright again, turning all his attention outward.
Perhaps it
had not been simply the dream that had awakened him.
Yes.
There was something out there. It was not a mental presence that he
sensed. Try
as he might, he could not detect any being's thoughts. But something
outside
his Meditation Chamber was a threat, and it was focused on him.
It was also
getting
nearer.
Without
switching
on any lights in the Chamber, he replaced the upper portions of his
mask, and
pressed the button which caused his helmet to descend from the
Chamber's
ceiling and settle onto his head. His lightsaber -- a new one,
constructed over
the past year to replace the one which had vanished into the Death
Star's power
core -- leapt gracefully from the panel where it had rested, into his
outstretched hand.
As he fastened
the
lightsaber to his belt, Vader decided to try teleporting. Of course he
was
going to look phenomenally stupid if he teleported himself into a wall,
or
straight onto the assassin or whatever was out there, but the risk of
that
seemed less than if he opened the Meditation Chamber and presented
himself as a
target. He had been practising teleportation recently, determined that
if
Emperor Palpatine could master it, he would as well. He was reasonably
sure
that he had enough control of it now. In any event, he would soon find
out.
Vader flicked
on
the night vision enhancers in his mask. He switched on the silencer in
his
respiratory system as well. His breathing was not so efficient with the
silencer on, and he could not maintain it for long, but it should be
sufficient
for his present purposes.
Clearing his
mind
of all other thoughts, he focused first on the threat that he sensed.
It seemed
to be only a metre and a half or so away from the Meditation Chamber.
No time
to think about this; if he was going to do anything, it would have to
be now.
Without allowing himself any second thoughts, he flung his
consciousness into
the room beyond.
He found
himself
standing next to the door. Good. Vader studied
the scene that
greeted him.
He had not been
imagining things. Hovering outside the Meditation Chamber, about half a
metre
from the floor, was the long, lanky form of a Y342 assassin droid. It
was not
an up-to-date model, and from the scars and dents on the metal body,
this particular
droid had seen some fairly rough service. Whoever was after Vader
didn't think
he was worth risking state-of-the-art equipment on. He supposed that he
ought
to feel insulted.
The droid must
have
been monitoring his life signs. As the life signs in the Chamber winked
out,
the assassin bobbed in apparent confusion, the faint humming it emitted
growing
slightly louder. Then its readings picked up Vader's presence beside
the door.
The blaster-arms of this model could fire in any direction, without the
droid
needing to turn. Both arms flashed upward, toward Vader.
Vader hurled a
wave
of power at the droid before it could fire. The humming rose into a
squeal. A
web of sparks almost obliterated the droid's head. Its retractable legs
plummeting downward, the droid landed on the floor with a heavy thud.
The
squeal cut off abruptly.
Vader switched
his
breathing back into audible mode.
Neat
little
trick, that, he thought, eyeing the motionless droid. I
ought to try it on Luke
and Leia's Protocol Droid the next time it gets too full of itself.
Except that
they would probably pout.
Of course, the
assassin droid could be shamming. Some of them were programmed with
enough
self-awareness and initiative for them to play dead. He doubted it, in
this
case, but he didn't want to get himself blasted by underestimating an
out-of-date heap of scrap metal. Focusing most of his power on his
personal
defences, Vader took a few steps toward the still faintly smoking droid.
At that moment,
the
door to the room whooshed open, letting in a rush of light.
A security team
raced into the room, blasters drawn. They skidded to a halt at the
sight of the
calm, very much alive Vader, and the forlorn short-circuited droid. The
short,
blond woman at the head of the team cast a wary look at the Dark Lord
and his
would-be assassin.
"Lord
Vader," she said. "Are you all right, sir?"
"Quite all
right, Commander Narita. As you see, I had a visitor." Out of courtesy
for
his guests, Vader used a slight nudge of power to turn up the light
levels in
the room.
Commander
Narita
stepped cautiously toward the droid. "How the fuck did this get
here?" she muttered.
Vader, the
Commander and her team stared down at the assassin in silence. "I
suppose," Narita mused, "it could have been smuggled in on one of the
cargo ships, and only activated once it was inside the base."
Vader nodded
thoughtfully. "Possible," he agreed. "What brought you here? Did
you receive an intruder alert?"
"No, sir. We
picked up a transmission, not on any of our usual channels. It started
in the
corridor and moved into your quarters."
Two of Narita's
team were kneeling beside the droid, taking readings. "Sir," one of
the guards reported, "this is the source of the transmission, all
right.
It was sending a visual record of everything it encountered."
Narita asked in
a
weary voice, "I don't suppose we know where it was sending
the
record?"
The man shook
his
head. "Off-planet," he said. "We'll try and trace it," but
his voice did not hold out much hope.
Narita scowled
at
the droid in distaste. "And find out whether it was activated by
remote," she ordered. She turned to Vader. "I'm sorry about this,
sir," she said. "We'll step up security, of course. If you like, we
can post some guards outside your quarters -- "
"No need,
thank you, Commander. If our friend here had encountered any guards,
they would
almost certainly be dead."
The Commander
frowned at the implied slight to her guards, but she did not debate
that
conclusion.
The door swept
open
again, and another figure appeared, also armed with a blaster. For the
first
time since this incident began, Vader felt an actual jolt of surprise.
Leia stood in
the
doorway.
She was looking
more dishevelled than he had ever seen her. Her long hair had once been
held
back in a braid, but most of it had now escaped. She was wearing
trousers, but
no shoes, and the loose and unevenly buttoned shirt she had on almost
certainly
belonged to Han Solo.
Vader thought
she
looked wonderful, but he definitely wasn't going to tell her so.
Leia swiftly
took
in the scene before her, then she lowered her blaster and stepped into
the
room. "Are you all right?" she asked Vader, in as matter-of-fact a
voice as she could manage under the circumstances.
"Yes," he
said, too surprised to come up with anything more.
Leia turned to
Narita. "What happened?" she demanded briskly.
She was going
to
ignore him again, but he didn't care. He was too busy replaying in his
mind the
look on her face when she'd first appeared in the doorway. The wide
dark eyes
and the slightly parted lips, and the traces of fear that had whispered
through
her aura until she had seen him. Until, he assured
himself.
Definitely until. This time, it wasn't him she'd been afraid of.
Probably, he
admitted, he was reading too much into this. It was just a bit too sad
for him
to treasure to his heart the thought that she might actually have been
concerned about him.
But, he was going to
treasure
that thought, wasn't he? Yes. Damn it. After waiting a year for any
morsel of
acceptance, obviously he would leap at the slightest hint. Bloody
hell, he thought. What
a ludicrously dysfunctional family.
More running
steps
were pounding down the corridor. Han Solo piled into the room, followed
a few
seconds later by Luke. Han was missing his shirt, which seemed to
support the
hypothesis that it was currently on Leia.
"Are you
okay?" Han demanded of Leia, grabbing her shoulders and interrupting
the
report that Narita was giving. "What the hell did you run out like that
for?"
Leia pursed her
lips
in annoyance, but only jerked her head toward the assassin droid on the
floor.
Han looked over at it, then whistled softly. "Holy shit," he
murmured. "I haven't seen one of these things in years." He walked
over to the droid. "Somebody rob a museum, or what?"
"Sir,"
one of the guards called to Narita. "This droid's undergone a lot of
modifications recently. This model isn't supposed to have as
sophisticated a
recording system as this one's got. And it's had long-range remote
activation
installed. It could've been started up by someone in the next Star
System."
"Great,"
Narita muttered. "Well, Lord Vader," she said, "I guess someone
really wanted to watch you die."
The eyes of
both of
his children turned toward him, then Leia immediately looked away again
and
busied herself in consultation with Narita. Luke looked from Darth to
Leia,
then back again. "Are you all right?" Luke asked Darth, predictably.
Vader nodded
absently. He was feeling ridiculously smug.
Leia
had sensed his danger.
She still hated
him, of course. But it was a start.
He wondered how
long it would take his sophisticated, business-like daughter to notice
that
she'd mis-buttoned her shirt.
Simara Mothma,
Head
of State of the New Alliance, Honorary Mon of the Calamari People, last
Senior
Senator of the Old Republic, was in danger of falling asleep at her
desk.
Mon Mothma knew
she
should go to bed. It was pointless to go on like this, pretending to
continue
working while her attention wandered and her eyelids drooped, her head
going
through the time-honoured routine of nodding steadily lower, then
jerking
upward, waking her up for a few guilty minutes of work before it all
started
again.
She knew this
was
pointless, but she still had so much to do! If she could only stay
awake for
perhaps an hour longer.
She glared at
the
stacks of printouts and document disks looming before her. She also,
she
admitted to herself, did not want to go back to her quarters. This also
was
completely illogical. If she could sleep at her desk, why not in her
own bed?
But there was just something about her dark, silent quarters that
depressed
her, especially on nights like this. It was raining again, of course.
It always rained on
Omean,
or at least it seemed to. You couldn't hear it in her office, which was
in a
lower level of the caverns that they'd used as a basis for their
rapidly
constructed headquarters buildings. But her room was in an upper level,
with a
window that opened onto the surface of Omean. It was meant to be a
luxury, an
acknowledgement of her status. All it meant in practice was that she
lay awake
at night listening to the lonely splattering sound of the rain against
the
window. In particularly melancholy moments, her imagination leapt to
the
obvious comparison of the unending rain with the desolate tears of some
vast
being -- perhaps the tears of the planet, or even of the galaxy itself.
Mon Mothma bit
her
lip in irritation. Surely tonight she was exhausted enough to sleep
even if the
galaxy was crying on her
window. She eyed the nearest stack of paper. Then again,
an hour more of work would make a real difference, if only she could
really work, instead of
just
pretending to.
Right. The
conclusion was obvious. Time for some coffee.
She decided
against
summoning a droid to bring her the coffee. The walk to the canteen
might help
wake her up, and besides, it would probably be the most exercise she'd
had all
day. Mon Mothma stood up from her desk, half convinced that she could
hear
every bone in her body creak as she did so. Really, she thought
exasperatedly as she headed out the door, I ought to know
better than this. She dreaded to
think what Dodonna or Rieekan, the only two of her co-workers who'd
been with
the Rebellion long enough to see Mon Mothma as a friend rather than a
respected
superior, would say if they caught her overworking like this. But, to
hell with
it. She had five more reports to read before tomorrow, and it was
raining, and
she did not want to go back to her quarters and listen to it.
The canteen was
in
the next level below her office. When she was halfway down the ramp,
she saw
through the plastisteel partition separating the canteen from the
corridor that
some other late night workaholic had the same idea as she did. A
brown-haired
man in the green uniform that marked him as one of their former
Imperials was
seated at a table by one of the dark metal walls, slightly hunched over
a
selection of documents which were spread out over the table. In his
left hand
he held a mug. He sipped from it distractedly, never taking his
attention away
from the papers before him.
For a moment
Mon
Mothma hesitated, then she continued down the ramp, silently cursing at
herself. It was not going to be the end of her career for some
colleague to see
her on a coffee-run at two thirty in the morning. And so what if she did probably look
like
she'd been savaged by banthas, most members of the Alliance had
probably seen
her look worse. Life and death struggles for the future of the galaxy
did not
leave much time for daily beauty regimens.
As Mon Mothma
stepped into the canteen, the man at the table started and looked up
from his
papers. Mothma recognised, with some surprise, Lord Vader's
second-in-command
Admiral Piett. She also recognised the instinctive look of fear that
appeared
on his face.
She had noticed
it
before. Almost invariably, whenever anyone equal or superior to him in
rank
seemed to notice Piett, the Admiral's immediate reaction would be a
brief
instant of apparent terror. It never lasted, and it never seemed to get
in the
way of his being an efficient officer. But it always made its
appearance: the
almost imperceptible jump, the tiny intake of breath, the jolt of fear
widening
his eyes.
He made her
think
of a domestic animal which had been habitually beaten by its master,
and which
now expected the same treatment from everyone.
"Admiral,"
Mon Mothma greeted him.
His look of
terror
dissipated. "Ma'am," he said politely, standing up from his
paper-strewn table and bowing slightly.
A service droid
had
been ambling about polishing tables, but as Mothma walked into the
canteen it
had bustled up to her. "A cup of coffee, please," she told it.
"Black, with one sugar."
The droid
beeped
obediently and scuttled away to fulfil her request. Mothma looked back
toward
Piett, trying to think of some small talk that wouldn't sound too lame.
She
realised that although she'd spent a year encountering Piett in
meetings nearly
every day, she knew him hardly at all. Not that she was particularly
close with
any of her colleagues. But she suddenly wondered, with a twinge of
guilt, if
she should have tried harder to get to know their formerly Imperial
allies. She
wondered if the green uniform, even without the Imperial insignia which
had
long since been removed from it, had been preventing her from seeing
Piett and
the others as human beings.
Or maybe she
just
saw them as human beings against whom she'd been at war for twenty
years.
Small talk,
quick,
before the silence got too awkward. Mothma smiled self-deprecatingly,
running a
hand through her short, auburn hair. "They definitely don't pay us
enough," she said. "I don't think Heads of State and Admirals are
supposed to have seventeen-hour work days."
Piett shrugged
and
managed a faint answering smile. "We could always form a trade
union," he said.
Mon Mothma
wondered
if that was the first time she had seen the Admiral smile.
Piett was
hurriedly
sweeping up documents from his table, tidying them into a neat stack at
one
corner. "Will you join me?" he asked.
For a moment
Mothma
stared in surprise. Then she thought, why not? She had just been
thinking
she should try harder to get to know their Imperials. The five reports
would
keep till tomorrow. "I don't want to interrupt your work ... " she
began.
He grimaced.
"I haven't been working for the past
hour. Just staring. I think my
brain's put up a forcefield, even coffee isn't getting through it."
That sounds
familiar, she thought. "I hate to sound mothering," she
said
tentatively, "but you could go to bed."
Another
grimace, a
more wry one this time. "With respect, Ma'am, so could you."
She sighed.
"So I could."
The droid
arrived
with her coffee, in one of the orange plastic mugs generally used by
the
Rebellion. Piett presented his own mug to the droid, politely asking
for a
refill, and Mothma noticed that it was one of the black ceramic mugs
with the
Imperial insignia blazoned in blue upon them. They were standard issue
on the
Star Destroyers, and had not been replaced. There was no reason why
they should
be, she reminded herself; it would be asking too much of their allies
to
completely restock almost thirty Star Destroyers worth of crockery in
an
attempt to excise the Imperial motif from memory. She noticed that
Piett's
coffee mug was chipped at the rim, an appropriate enough metaphor for
the
Empire.
Mon Mothma took
a
seat, and Piett sat down opposite her. She sipped cautiously at her
coffee,
glancing over the orange mug at Piett's stack of documents. "What have
you
been working on?" she asked as she set down the mug. The top document
seemed to be an immensely complicated blueprint.
"Shield
generators," he answered. "You know we've been working on installing
new shields in the Star Destroyers. We've got two new ones installed so
far,
but I think we should still be able to improve them further. Mind you,"
he
added ruefully, "anything would be an improvement on the current model.
I
don't know why we bothered installing shields in the first place, if we
were
just going to stick the generators on the top of the ships with a sign
saying
'shoot me'."
Mothma found
herself laughing with surprise. "I must admit," she told him,
"Imperial shield generators have long been a standard joke in the
Rebellion."
The service
droid
presented Piett with his replenished coffee. Piett managed another
slight
smile, which looked like an expression his facial muscles were not used
to.
"I'm not surprised," he said. "The only thing more pitiful than
the shields is the Stormtroopers' shooting ability." Immediately he
looked
embarrassed at having said so much. "Sorry," he said quickly.
"This time of night, I'll grumble about anything."
She nodded,
taking
another sip of her coffee. "I know the feeling."
"So what were
you working on?" Piett asked.
"Reports on
the planets in the Chandrilan Union."
"For the
treaty meeting?"
She nodded.
Piett frowned
slightly, as if trying to remember something. "You're from Chandrila,
aren't you?"
"Yes."
She drank from her coffee again, looking away from him. "I haven't been
back in almost twenty years." Mon Mothma shook her head suddenly. She
was
not going to get melancholy about home with Piett across the table from
her.
"Where are you from?" she asked him.
His mouth
twisted
slightly in a grimace of dislike. "Pokrovsk," he said. "In the
Sarskoi system. You won't have heard of it."
Now it was her
turn
to frown. "I think I have ... no. Sorry. All that comes to mind is
wood. I
think my mother had a bookcase that she said was Pokrovsk cedar?"
Piett nodded.
"Right. The timber industry's basically all Pokrovsk's got. That and
rain." He cast a glance up at the ceiling, as if he could see through
all
the levels of the building into the rain-sodden sky above. "We get rain
about 80 percent of the year on my part of the planet. It's one of the
reasons
I left."
"Ah." She
smiled sympathetically at him. "So Omean must be a nightmare come true
for
you."
He shrugged and
tried to manage another smile, but this time it didn't quite work. He
took a
swig of his coffee instead. Then he winced, and a look of unmistakable
pain
crossed his face. Piett bit his lip and glanced quickly away, seeming
to stare
with great attention at the plastisteel partition.
"Are you all
right?" Mon Mothma asked in unfeigned concern.
He nodded,
turning
back to her. "Fine," he said dismissively. "I probably ate
something I shouldn't have. I've got terrible digestion."
She accepted
that,
saw that her coffee was nearly gone and considered whether to go back
to her
office, and decided against it. "Tell me about the new shield
designs," she requested.
Piett complied,
launching into an explanation with obvious enthusiasm.
She was listening to
him,
really. But if she was honest with herself, she would have to admit
that she
was giving more attention to studying his face.
It was a
pleasant
enough face, she thought, when he wasn't looking like a scared swamp
mouse. Not
wildly handsome perhaps, but definitely intriguing, with his sharp chin
and his
prominent cheekbones and the deep hollows under his eyes. Mothma
wondered how
long it had been since he had been used to smiling.
Meanwhile, he
was
telling her more about shield generators than she had ever wanted to
know.
Well, she had
asked. She said,
when he paused with a questioning look to make sure that she hadn't
fallen
asleep while he enthused at her, "you know a lot about this. Probably
more
than most of our engineers."
He looked
embarrassed. "Not really. I took a class on shield technology at the
Academy. When we started planning the new shields, I just dug out my
old
lecture notes."
That comment
jolted
her. She realised, with a sensation that might even have been envy, how
different his life must have been from hers. A man who's had
an orderly
enough life for him to still have his Academy lecture notes. Who hasn't
spent
twenty years on the run from the Empire. Who hasn't regularly lost
everything
he possessed.
Oh, no. Now she
was
starting to be self-pitying, even without the sound of the rain to set
her off.
Determined not to focus on herself, she asked him the first question
that
sprang to mind, "what years were you at the Academy?"
"I graduated
Third Year of Palpatine."
She shouldn't
have
asked. Third Year of Palpatine. Piett had probably been taking his
final exams
when she had first fled from Coruscant with a price on her head. A
swift
calculation told her that Piett, if he'd attended the Academy at around
the
usual age, must be at least ten years her junior. She felt immeasurably
old.
Of course, it was nearly three
in
the morning.
Her face must
have
been revealing more than she thought. Piett was looking at her
hesitantly.
"You were outlawed that year, weren't you?" he asked quietly. "I
remember, it was all we could talk about. It got to be sort of a status
symbol
to say you were a Mothma supporter -- the way to prove
one could thumb
one's nose at authority. One guy even had a pin-up of you in his
locker."
Piett blushed suddenly. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have mentioned that."
She stared at
him
in amazement. Then, to both her own surprise and his, she burst into
peals of
laughter. "Sorry," she gasped, trying to still the laughs. "Oh,
sweet heavenly Light. Sorry. I just don't feel like much of a pin-up."
The service
droid
had trundled over to make sure that her laughs didn't indicate
distress.
"Sorry," she said once again. She glanced over at the droid, then
back at Piett. "Do you want another coffee?" Mothma asked the
Admiral.
He looked even
more
surprised, then he smiled at her. And the smile didn't even seem to be
an
effort for him this time. "Why not?" he said.
And suddenly it
didn't feel like three in the morning any more. And she didn't feel old.
"There. Try it
now."
Commander Wedge
Antilles obeyed, flipping a series of switches on the x-wing's control
panel.
He looked out through the side window of the cockpit at Lord Darth
Vader, who
had scrambled from under the x-wing and who now stood back, hands
planted on
his hips, watching critically.
"Any
luck?" Wedge inquired.
Vader shook his
head. "No," he said, his voice coming through on the x-wing's
comlink. "An improvement, but you can still see the ship. It's slightly
more transparent." Vader sighed. "All right. Switch it off and let's
try again."
"Right,"
Wedge sighed back. Off went the switches again, then he extricated
himself from
the cockpit and clambered down to stand beside Vader, joining him in
glaring at
the x-wing.
"What do you
think we're doing wrong?" asked Wedge.
"We won't know
that till we've done it right." Vader stood in musing contemplation.
"There's just too much power drain," he said finally. "We've
either got to up the central power, or power down some non-essential
systems
when the cloak is in use."
"Yeah,"
said Wedge. "Damn. I hoped we wouldn't have to do that."
"Well,
Commander, we don't have to yet."
Their pondering
was
interrupted by a voice from across the hangar bay. "Lord Vader?"
They turned
toward
the voice. Lubin, one of the pilots in Wedge's squadron, was hurrying
toward
Vader, Wedge and the x-wing. "Lord Vader, a transmission came through
for
you at the command centre," he reported, when he reached them.
"They've passed it on to us."
Vader nodded
acknowledgement. He turned to Wedge. "See what you can accomplish
here."
"Right."
Vader strode
away.
Wedge was about to climb back into the cockpit, to check whether the
cloaking
device would have enough power if he switched off the deflector
shields. He
paused when he happened to glance at Lubin.
The pilot,
watching
Vader's departure, spat into his right hand, then made three circles in
the
spittle with his left thumb. Wedge had no difficulty in recognising the
Correllian sign for protection against evil.
"What the hell
was that for?" demanded Wedge.
Lubin turned to
face his commander, looking defensive. "It's -- " he began.
"I know what
it is," Wedge snapped. "Are you in the habit of invoking the deities
against your commanding officers?"
"No,"
Lubin said truculently. "Only against him."
Oh,
hell. Wedge raised his
eyebrows. "You got a problem?"
Lubin
hesitated,
then said, "yeah. I don't think he should be here."
Wedge resisted
the
temptation to remind him that "here", specifically, was the Super
Star Destroyer Executor, which had
helped turn the tide of a good many
battles in their favour recently, and which would not be on their side
at all
if Vader were not as well. But, of course, he knew what Lubin meant.
Wedge eyed
Lubin sardonically, leaning back against the side of the x-wing. He
said,
"you're missing something here, Lubin. I guess you spent the last year
stuck in Hyperspace? You missed VaderÕs little diversion
manoeuvre at Loma,
hunh? You were taking a nap when the Executor popped up
behind the enemy at
Minnac Three? NobodyÕs mentioned to you how many times Lord
VaderÕs saved our
ass?"
The pilot
shrugged
and looked sullen. Wedge had a strong urge to rearrange Lubin's face.
But,
Wedge regretfully reminded himself, he was Lubin's
commander, and it was
his job to see to the welfare of the men and the efficiency
of the
squadron. If there was a problem, it was his job to sort it out. He
sighed, and
tried to make his voice sound calm and reasonable.
"Look, Lubin,
if you've got a problem with Vader, you're going to have to get over
it. We
don't have time to be fighting our own people. If this is some kind of
bigoted
hang-up ... Hell. If you can work with Sallustans, Calamari and
Wookiees, you
can definitely work with a guy who wears a mask and wheezes a lot."
Lubin sneered,
and
Wedge really wanted to punch him. "It's not the wheezing that bothers
me,
Commander." Was that just Wedge's imagination, or had Lubin put
sarcastic
emphasis on "commander"? Lubin went on, "it's the
strangling."
So much for
sounding calm and reasonable.
Wedge demanded,
"have you ever seen him strangle anybody?"
Lubin avoided
meeting Wedge's eyes, but said nothing.
"Have you ever
heard of him strangling anybody since he joined us?"
Still nothing.
"Well then,
shut the fuck up. Don't talk about things you don't know shit about."
Lubin shuffled
his
feet a little, but still looked rebellious.
"You got
anything to say?" Wedge asked harshly.
Lubin snapped
to
attention, finally. "No, sir."
"Fine. You're
dismissed."
Wedge turned
back
to the x-wing, fuming. And you, Wedge, he thought, sound
like a
first-rate asshole.
More
disturbingly,
he had very nearly ended up quoting his grandmother. "If you can't say
something nice, don't say anything at all." Great. He'd always hated it
when she said that, too. Well, fuck it. He was getting sick of this
shit. How
many more heroic deeds did Vader have to pull off before people
accepted that
he wasn't going to sell them out to the highest bidder?
Then he noticed
that Lubin was still there. He turned back to the pilot, with what he
hoped was
a withering look. "I said, you're dismissed," he said icily.
Lubin shrugged.
"You wouldn't think he's such a hero if you saw who he's talking to,"
he smirked. He started to stroll irritatingly across the hangar bay.
Shit. Maybe
there
was something to be said for the Empire's way of doing things. A little
more
discipline around here might not be such a bad thing.
Wedge had never
felt comfortable behaving like an officer, figuring he'd get as good or
better
performances out of the squadron if he treated them like friends. But
hell,
some people weren't friends. Maybe a good kick up the backside was what
they
needed, to remind them what was expected of them.
Having decided
that
no one was watching him, Wedge rested his forehead for a few seconds
against
the cool metal of the x-wing's hull. He thought, it really is
good that I
don't have one speck of Force power. If I did, there'd be a lot of
strangled
Alliance members around. Maybe a few with imploded skulls, for good
measure.
Taking a deep
breath, Wedge climbed back into the cockpit. Sure, okay, he knew where
Lubin
was coming from. It wasn't easy for a lot of people, to turn
around and work
with someone they'd always fought against. But
couldn't they try seeing Lord
Vader
himself, instead of just seeing the enemy?
Wedge sighed. Maybe
I am too trusting, he thought. But
Vader's a godsdamned fine
engineer, and he's the best pilot I've ever
known. I like him. If that's stupid
of me, then it's too damn bad.
He shook his
head.
What was that idiot Lubin on about, anyway? Who was supposed to be so
terrible
that Vader'd be incriminated just by talking to them? He really didn't
think
the Emperor had called up for a chat.
Hunh. Maybe it was
the
late lamented Grand Moff Tarkin, with a glowing blue light around him.
It
sounded like the sort of thing that would happen to Luke's father. It
sure was
a pity Lord Vader didn't seem to eat, or not in public anyway. Wedge
would love
to have heard the dinner-table conversation in that family.
Lord Vader,
meanwhile, had learned who was sending him the message. It was a
surprise, but
not an unpleasant one.
"Boba
Fett," he greeted the man who appeared on the screen.
The bounty
hunter
seemed unchanged, despite the lurid stories of his gruesome death. Just
possibly, there was a slight bit more paint missing from his famous
grey-green
helmet, but Fett's armour was so celebratedly battered, it was hard to
tell.
Boba Fett was
calling him from transit. Vader did not immediately recognise the
starscape
that was visible behind Fett through the viewing port of his ship, but
it could
easily be identified, if necessary.
That showed one
thing straight off. Fett was indicating that he was willing to trust
Vader with
his location, so Vader should be prepared to give equal trust to him.
Not that
there was much chance of anyone actually capturing Fett, should they
for some
insane reason wish to do so. He wasn't likely to stick around in front
of that
same starscape waiting for them to come get him.
But it was the
symbolism that counted.
The message
showed
something else. Fett must have been waiting for some time, while the
transmission was routed from the base to the Executor, and Vader was
summoned. The bounty hunter could easily have sent a recorded message
instead.
That he hadn't, showed he had a particular reason to speak to Vader in
person.
Fett had been
puttering with the array of tracking instruments at his console, and
only
slowly took his attention from them to face Vader. Another very typical
bit of
Boba Fett body language. This might be the Dark Lord of the Sith, but
Fett was
not going to be hurried.
"I'm pleased
to see you alive," Vader commented. He was, too. Fett was the artist of
the bounty hunting profession; it would be a pity for his skill to be
removed
from the galaxy.
Fett gave a
curt
nod. "I'm sending some information," he said. "If you don't have
it already, it might be useful."
Vader inclined
his
head slightly in return. "Is there a price for this information?" he
inquired.
"No. A friendly
gesture."
There were
those
who would say that Boba Fett was incapable of making a friendly
gesture. There
were also those who would say that Darth Vader was incapable of joining
the
Rebel Alliance.
A slight tinge
of
humour entered Fett's harsh voice as he continued, "should the
Rebellion
require a bounty hunter, I hope you will consider me."
The console
before
Vader indicated the arrival of another transmission from the same
source, a
recorded message this time. Boba Fett reached out to end his
transmission, then
added, just before his image winked out, "give my regards to General
Solo."
When the bounty
hunter had vanished, Vader called up the second message onto the screen.
He sat staring
at
it for some minutes.
Damn.
It was a
general
contract, offering a substantial reward for the death or capture of
Darth
Vader. The contract specified that capture was preferable, but that the
full
sum would be paid for verifiable visual proof of Vader's death.
The date of the
contract was five standard days ago. The unknown owner of the assassin
droid
from two nights ago had not wasted much time.
Vader skimmed
to
the bottom of the contract, checking the sender's identification code
and
contact information.
It was an
Imperial
code, not surprisingly. But it was a very specific code. One that, so
far as he
knew, was used only by the Emperor himself.
Wonderful.
Palpatine had put out a contract on him. Which meant that every bounty
hunter
and assassin with more guts than sense was going to be after him.
It would almost
have been funny, except for the thought that had just occurred to him:
how the hell was he going
to
get any work done?
Mon Mothma
asked,
"why has he waited this long?"
"I have
wondered that," Vader agreed. "You can be certain it's part of some
plan. Palpatine is not the man to forget betrayal, or to wait this long
to
strike unless he had some purpose in it. This contract is part of a
larger
attack on us."
Mon Mothma
nodded,
frowning. "What about this man Boba Fett? Is he part of the Emperor's
plan?"
Vader
considered
that, leaning back slightly in his chair by Mon Mothma's desk. "You
think
Palpatine might want us to know of the contract? It's possible.
Convoluted
schemes are a speciality of his. But, I don't think Fett would be
involved in
it. He has too much sense. No, I believe the bounty hunter's warning is
genuine."
"But what does
he think he'll gain by it?"
"Protection,
if the Rebellion triumphs. I think we may take Boba Fett's warning as a
compliment. Fett believes we are likely to win, so he is arranging
insurance
against certain Alliance members who might bear a grudge against him."
Mon Mothma
didn't
look happy about that, but she did not pursue it further. "I want you
to
know, Lord Vader," she said, "that the Alliance will give you
whatever support you require. You are one of ours, and we cannot allow
you to
be threatened. If you wish to request additional security precautions
...
"
Lord Vader
shook
his head. "It should not be necessary. I have every confidence in our
security personnel. No stronghold is impregnable, no matter how
sophisticated
the precautions. If my would-be assassins are determined enough, they
will gain
access to the base. I should be able to defend myself adequately; we
must
simply hope that I'm not having an off day when I am attacked."
Mothma's frown
darkened. "I'm glad to see you're taking this calmly, Lord Vader,"
she said with asperity. "Nonetheless, I will meet with the security
officers to discuss how we can tighten our defences."
"Thank
you," acknowledged Vader. He went on, "this has, at least, answered
one other question. I think it's now clear that I will not be
accompanying you
to the Chandrila treaty meeting. Since my presence is liable to be a
magnet for
attacks, it would be irresponsible of me to put the meeting in danger.
Not to
mention the number of Chandrilan delegates who might object to my
involvement."
Mon Mothma
sighed
quietly. "I think you're right. Though there would be equal numbers of
Chandrilans who would find your presence a comfort. You are the most
striking
symbol we have that the Rebellion is capable of victory."
He said,
sounding
amused, "the Executor should be
nearly as striking. Admiral Piett will be
able to represent our former Imperial forces, without recalling so many
unpleasant associations with persecution and mass murder."
The Rebel Head
of
State looked as though she wished he had not recalled those
associations to
her, either. But as she had said, he was one of theirs, persecution and
murder
or no. She was about to say something else, when the buzzing of the
door's
entry bell interrupted her. Mothma reached for the control panel on her
desk,
pressed the appropriate button, and the door slid open.
Princess Leia
stepped into the office. The Princess was looking flustered. She began,
"Mon Mothma, I'm sorry to disturb you -- "
The realisation
of
Vader's presence stunned her into silence.
Vader stood up.
The
sudden force of his action knocked the chair backward, and it would
have tipped
over if Mon Mothma had not caught it. "Don't worry, Leia, come in,"
Mothma said. "Lord Vader and I have nearly finished our discussion."
The look Leia
cast
at Darth Vader was one of near panic. "No, no, that's all right," she
said hastily. "It's not important. I'll come back later." She turned
and literally fled from the room.
Leia hurried
down
the corridor, barely paying attention to where she was going. She
managed to
make it back to her own office. The door swooshed shut behind her, and
she
locked it, then she stood there for a moment, leaning against the wall.
The shudders
that had been threatening to overwhelm her took over. Leia gave a
trembling
gasp. She put one hand to her forehead and then dragged her fingers
through her
hair.
Of all people who could have been in Mon Mothma's office, it just had to be Vader.
She
wondered if he knew. She had a horrible suspicion that the moment she'd
entered
the room, it had been clear to him. She didn't know if he could read
her mind,
but Luke could sometimes. If Luke was able to, why not Vader? Slowly
she
managed to still the shudders. What did you think, Leia, she asked
herself
bitterly, that you would be able to hide it from him? It's
going to be
pretty obvious. She sighed,
crossed over to her desk and sat down.
This
is not
happening. That was the trite and useless thought that
kept coming back to her,
and she wished she could believe it. But of course it was happening. She
stared blankly up at the ceiling. She had to talk to someone. She'd
already
tried to tell Han once, but had lost her nerve at the last moment, and
had fled
the hangar where he and Chewie were working on the Falcon, before Han
could
notice she was there. Right now, though, she felt so desperate to talk
about
it, she probably would have told anyone. Except, of course, Vader.
Leia spent the
next
hour attempting to work. She did, in fact, succeed in getting some
paperwork
out of the way, and focusing on the work almost managed to calm the
panic in
her mind. Maybe if she had enough reports to read and sign, she could
ignore
this for the next eight months.
Yeah,
right.
She ran out of
reports. She was feeling somewhat more rational; at least she could
probably
leave her office without bursting into tears on the shoulder of the
first
person who glanced at her. Leia stood up.
Luke. She would
talk to Luke.
It was mid-day.
At
this hour, Luke always spent some time in the caverns outside the base,
meditating and practising his Force abilities. She'd never really got
into this
meditation thing, though Luke was perpetually trying to get her to join
him in
his training. Maybe this time she'd take him up on it. She needed all
the
calming influences she could get.
Leia left her
office again, and followed the ramps and corridors down to the lowest
level.
This area was primarily used for storage, as were some of the caverns
themselves. She walked to the door that marked the border between the
headquarters building and its surrounding caves. The door was ten
metres wide
and twenty high. Leia entered her security clearance, and the massive
door slid
quietly open.
The caves were
damp
and slightly cool, but not unpleasant. The only sound she heard besides
her own
footsteps was the soft but insistent dripping of water, from the dark
recesses
that her sight could not penetrate. The lighting that the Alliance had
installed cast a dim blue glow from the cave's ceiling.
Leia paused for
a
moment and just breathed in the quiet and peace of her surroundings.
She knew
why Luke liked it here. It seemed so distant from the sterile, metallic
environment of the Alliance headquarters. Rebellions and empires seemed
to
dwindle into non-existence.
She'd been
nervous
of the caves when Luke first brought her to them, convinced that they
would be
home to mynoks or something equally repellent. But all the denizens of
the
caverns seemed timid and harmless; pale little hairless squirrel-things
with
enormous eyes, that had learned to trust Luke and would sometimes
emerge from
their burrows to watch him at his training. Once when Leia had been
there with
him, she'd seen twenty or so of the little creatures, sitting in a
semi-circle
around the dimly lit edges of the cave and watching Luke with the
appearance of
solemn interest. The thought still made Leia want to laugh. It was
horrible of
her to laugh at her brother, but the serious intensity of the cave
squirrels'
gaze had seemed to have much in common with certain facial expressions
of
Luke's.
When she
stepped
into the large, open space of the cavern Luke usually trained in, there
were no
squirrels to skitter away at her approach. She stopped at the cave
entrance,
thinking that she didn't blame the cave squirrels for keeping a low
profile
this time.
Was she under a
curse today? Would she spend the entire day with Darth Vader popping up
around
every corner?
This time she
didn't panic. It helped that neither Vader nor Luke had yet seemed to
notice
her presence. She cursed silently. Typical. She knew that
Vader and Luke
invariably spent two hours training here each evening, usually from
2000 to
2200. What had caused her father and brother to vary their routine
today? She
shivered slightly, wondering again how much Vader had picked up from
her mind.
Who knew what the Force might have told him? Maybe it had shown him
that she
would come here to find Luke, and Vader had gone to the caverns to wait
for
her.
And
maybe, Leia
Organa, you're being a completely paranoid moron.
She knew she
should
just turn around and leave immediately, but there was a certain
fascination in
the scene before her. Luke and Vader were duelling. Her heart seemed to
contract with a feeling of fascinated dread, as she remembered that at
least
twice they had duelled in earnest. She watched the glowing pattern of
crimson
lightsaber against green, and imagined that she could see them fighting
each
other on Bespin Cloud City, or on the second Death Star. The patterns
that the
lightsabers made in the cavern's darkness were painfully beautiful. She
suddenly felt very alone, and wished, for one treacherous instant, that
she
could be there with them.
She turned and
left
as quietly as she could, hurrying back through the caves she had just
traversed. Luke would have been happy for her to join them, she knew.
He was
always urging her to do so, telling her she had as much Jedi potential
as he
had, or more. Probably, Vader would have welcomed her too. That was all
she
needed. Her sweet, well-meaning brother and the Dark Lord of the Sith,
both
trying to recreate her in their own images.
Anyway, she had
been stupid to come here. She was calm enough to realise that now. She
should
never have even considered telling Luke before Han. It would have hurt
Han if
he found out she'd done that, and rightly so.
There was no
getting away from it. She had to tell him.
Leia let
herself
back into the building, and made her way up to ground level. When she
reached
the exterior door, she scowled through its transparent aluminium
surface at the
predictably sullen weather outside. Raindrops plopped with monotonous
regularity into a puddle just outside the door. The covered walkway
that
connected the main building with the hangars and the re-fit centre
would keep
away most of the rain, but she knew from experience that the air would
be raw
and unpleasantly chill. Sighing, she fastened up the grey jacket she
was
wearing, glanced down at her boots and hoped they were still reasonably
waterproof,
and then resignedly stepped out into the weather.
Leia thought, some
day, we will choose a nice
planet for our base. Something that isn't just
rain, or snow, or jungles. Something temperate and sunny with lots of
warm,
soft beaches. Only then, of course, we wouldn't have time to fight any
more,
because we'd all be too busy sun-bathing.
The walk to the
hangar building was mercifully short. As she reached the door, Leia
felt dread
creep back into her, but she was determined. This time she wouldn't run
away.
She walked inside, undoing her jacket again as she passed the dozen or
so ships
between the entrance and the Millennium Falcon. Her hands
were shaking a
little, she noticed, so she stuck them into her jacket pockets and
wondered
whether she could possibly look casual.
Chewbacca was
perched on top of the Falcon's left forward
mandible, in the process of
some no doubt arcane tinkering that involved the shield projector. Leia
had
long since given up keeping track of the Falcon's repairs,
improvements and
conversions, and trying to stay up-to-date with the endless progression
of bits
that broke, rusted, fell off, disintegrated, short-circuited, or just
got
temperamental. She knew that she ought to make more of an effort. Not
only did
Han love the impossible old rust bucket, but someday Leia's life could
very
well depend on her knowing what might be wrong with the Falcon on that
particular
day. But, hell. Han's eyes usually glazed over when Leia talked
politics, so if
he could be clueless about that, she could be clueless about the Falcon.
"Hi,
Chewie," Leia called up to the Wookiee. "Is Han around?" What do
you know, she actually sounded calm.
Chewbacca gave
an
enthusiastic roar of greeting, and gestured toward the back of the
ship. Leia
said, "thanks," smiling at Chewbacca and wondering what he would say
when he heard her news. Probably, he'd be delighted. At least that
meant that
someone would be. She swallowed nervously and started to circle the
ship.
She hadn't gone
far
before Han appeared from around the curve of the hull. He looked
attractively
dishevelled, was slightly sweaty and had somehow managed to get a dark
greasy
smudge all across one side of his face. Which of course he hadn't
noticed, she
was sure. Well, she wouldn't tell him about it. She liked it. She liked
the
guileless happiness of his smile when he saw her, too. She had a moment
of
temptation to put off her news a bit longer, lure Han into the Falcon and seduce him
in
the cargo hold. Not that she reckoned he would require much luring.
She sighed. The
cargo hold would have to wait. She wondered how long it would be, after
she'd
told him, before she saw that smile again.
Han said
cheerfully, "hey, Princess." He tipped her chin up slightly and bent
down to kiss her. Leia snaked her arms around his neck, returning the
kiss with
probably a lot more force than he'd expected. Then she held him close,
with her
head on his chest, feeling the thudding of his heart against her ear.
Damn, the cargo
hold sounded like a good idea right now.
Instead, she
reluctantly stepped back, looked up into his face and said, "Han, we've
got to talk."
A cloud of
worry
darkened Han's expression. Leia didn't blame him; when the poor man
heard those
words from her it generally meant he was going to get some kind of
lecture. She
could see him trying to figure out what he might have done wrong. But
he just
said, "okay, sure. You want to go inside?"
She nodded, and
they started toward the boarding ramp, arms about each other's waists.
They
didn't talk again until they reached the main lounge of the ship. Leia
sat down
on one of the curved couches. She had to smile at the awkward, hesitant
look on
Han's face, as he held back, unsure whether he should join her. "Hey,
come
on, get over here," Leia said softly. "I'm not on the warpath about
anything."
He said,
grinning
sheepishly, "okay, I'll lower my deflector shields." Han sat down
next to her, and Leia snuggled up closer to him. She hoped he would
still be
sitting there when he found out. Well, she'd know soon enough.
Leia took Han's
hands in hers. She began, not really believing she'd finally made it to
this
moment, "Han, I found out something today that -- that's pretty
important.
For both of us. I guess you'd better brace yourself."
Understandably,
Han
looked worried, but nonetheless he gazed at her resolutely. "All
right," he said, "I'm braced."
Leia said,
"we're pregnant."
It was a long
time
before Han said anything. When he did speak, all he could manage was a
very
quiet, "oh." He swallowed, and said "oh," again. There was
a look of wonder and fear in his eyes which seemed very familiar,
because it
was what she herself had been feeling all day. "Oh, my gods," he
murmured. Then suddenly he seemed to come back to himself. "Leia. I'm
sorry it's -- it's taking me so long ... I ... I mean, are you okay
with
this?"
She thought
about
that. "I think so. It's horrible timing. But -- well, it's happened,
now."
He said
hesitantly,
"then you -- then you do want to go through with it."
She exclaimed,
a
little shocked, "of course!"
There was a
smile
of relief on Han's face. "Good," he said. "Everything's okay,
then."
No,
everything
isn't okay, Leia thought.
But she loved him for saying it.
Han was now
looking
stunned again. "Gods," he whispered. "I mean -- I thought we
were being careful --"
She gave the
obvious answer, "not careful enough."
"Yeah. When
did you -- find out?"
"I went to the
medical centre this morning. But I guess I've suspected for a week or
so."
He looked hurt.
"You should have told me!"
She shrugged.
"It could have been nothing." She looked down, tracing the bones in
his hand with one of her fingers. "Han," she said, very quietly,
"it's twins."
Han's eyes
widened.
"Oh," he said again, "my gods."
She tried to
smile.
"Apparently it runs in the family."
"Yeah, I guess
it does. Oh, yikes. Err -- when's it supposed to be?"
"Apparently
I've been pregnant almost a month."
He was staring
with
fixed intensity at her belly, and she had to laugh. "No, Papa, you
can't
see them yet," she teased.
Han looked back
into
her face, with his lopsided grin. "Sorry," he said. He drifted off
into thought again. "Are you still going to the Chandrila meeting?"
"Of course I
am. We've got another eight months. I don't have to go off the active
service
list yet!"
"No, no, of
course
not," he said hurriedly. "I think I should come with you,
though."
She smiled. Men.
"No
way," she told him firmly. "We can't have all our generals
traipsing off to a meeting. Someone has to be around in case Palpatine
tries to
blow Omean out of the sky."
Han looked
unhappy.
"Hey," she urged him gently, "it'll be okay." It was pretty
funny, she thought, that she was the one
saying that, considering the state
she'd been in all morning. She leaned her head against him again, and
felt
herself relax a little as his arms tightened around her.
"Leia?"
Han asked.
"Yes?"
"Are you
scared?"
She whispered,
"I'm terrified."
Han whispered
back,
"so am I."
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