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It wasn’t particularly uncommon, aboard the Fleet’s flagship Executor , for Darth Vader’s quarters to be dark in the early evening. It wasn’t even particularly uncommon for the Dark Lord to be in his quarters at the time, given his preference for the soothing coolness of the shadows. The enveloping, isolating comfort of darkness conveniently hid his ravaged features from even an accidental reflection that he had no desire to glimpse. He spent hours that way, meditating, honing his Force skills, contemplating strategies, or even just enjoying fine music by nothing more than the light of the stars.
Nevertheless, it was entirely uncommon for the imposing, stoic Sith lord to indulge in drink, much less to be on his second bottle before the third shift had even transitioned on the ship around him...
* * *
Vader sat in utter silence in one of the thickly-padded, specially oversized leather chairs in the main-room of his living quarters, staring out at the broad expanse of space outlined by the suite’s large, elongated viewport. He observed, in particular, the innumerable sprinkling of stars across that vast darkness, those visible representing only a fraction of the total number in the galaxy, and he thought unkindly and inelegantly about how damnably big it was out there.
The open bottle of Corellian brandy next to the arm of his chair had only recently replaced its empty predecessor in the spot on the end table, and yet it already was down by a third of its volume. It took a lot to intoxicate a man of Vader’s size and weight, even if some of it was bionic, and intoxication was his clearly decided intention. Not being a man who tended to do things halfway, he’d set upon achieving his goal with his usual relentless vigor.
He raised a crystalline goblet to his lips and took a long swallow, barely even paying attention to the exquisite taste of the premium, aged brandy. Corellians had their failings, but making alcohol – any form of alcohol – was not one of them, and Vader’s very limited stores contained nothing but the finest.
If some would have thought it an offensive waste to imbibe the vintage drink as unthinkingly as water, it mattered little to the Dark Lord. It was the strongest he happened to have on hand, and it would do well enough for its purpose. He swallowed another long draught with sacrilegious disregard, and contemplated his more pressing problem, no closer to a solution than he’d been when he’d started – probably because there wasn’t one.
The odds of finding a single person – one small, indistinct, seemingly inconsequential lifeform among the nearly countless races and species and worlds the galaxy harbored – were staggering, especially when that person absolutely did not want to be found. It always had been an imposing task, particularly when he was also racing against very limited time. Yet Vader was not easily dissuaded once he set his mind to something, and given the odds against him, he had been relatively ingenious in his hunt, and more than a bit lucky.
He had always had more than just a bit of luck, he mused darkly. It had been bound to run out on him sometime.
* * *
Military Intelligence Director Treylan Jenrelm approached his lord’s quarters with something resembling reluctance in his stride. He’d visited often enough, to discuss private matters with Vader. No other quarters on the ship were certain to be as secure and bug-free as the Dark Lord’s, and Trey was unafraid to use that to his advantage when necessary, unhindered by the intimidation and outright fear that kept other officers, even Intel officers, from availing themselves of the same benefits. But then, those were some of the same reasons that other Intel officers did not share in Jenrelm’s decided favor with the Sith lord…so much the better for him.
It was a rare occasion when Trey found himself as nervous as any other officer approaching the imposing, unmarked door of Vader’s personal suite, but this was one of them. The relentless months of scouring the galaxy for the rumored new Rebel base, the harried weeks since the attack on Hoth, and the ruthless, driving obsession that had consumed Vader and enveloped them all was finally reaching a head. Trey knew if he didn’t attempt to do something now, no one else would, and the Dark Lord might well find himself blindsided by trouble he wasn’t even prepared for, so focused was he on his goal.
What, precisely, that goal was had become a somewhat murky question to Jenrelm, and even more unfathomable to the rest of the crew. Hoth Base had been destroyed, the Rebels were on the run again, and while mistakes had been made and the victory was not as decisive as it might have been, the events since were positively incomprehensible. A Super -class Destroyer, pursuing one small Corellian freighter? Through an asteroid field ?
Thousands had died in the devastation to fighters and the smaller Destroyers, as the catastrophic losses had mounted by the hour. Even the complete destruction of the Vindicator had not ended the seemingly insane hunt. Only a transmission from Palpatine himself had finally brought the Executor out of danger earlier that day, and hours later, with Captain Needa dead, the casualties still being tallied, and bounty hunters , of all things, added to the mix, Vader still refused to yield the chase. His officers were perilously close to yielding it for him, and not even the Dark Lord could stand against the sheer numbers of an all-out mutiny on the flagship, given its superb crew complement. Vader was good, but not that good, Trey feared.
Jenrelm stopped in front of the door and raised his hand to activate the sensor, but the door opened of its own accord with a quiet, almost brooding swoosh, and waited patiently for him to step through. His heart suddenly pounding in his ears, Trey schooled his expression and steeled his nerves, stepping into the waiting darkness with a professional calm and strength he did not feel. Not this night.
When Vader didn’t appear, or call him into the living quarters, the MI officer proceeded slowly, respectfully, following the sound of the respirator as his eyes adjusted to the dimness of the meager lighting from the consoles. Beyond the door into the main living area, only blackness greeted him, and he hesitated there a long moment, finally making out Vader’s black silhouette against the wide starfield of the viewport. The Sith sat in one of his imposing leather chairs: unmoving, unmasked, silent. The air was heavy with Vader’s mood, and with his expectation, as he waited for Jenrelm to speak. It was unusual for the man not to greet him, not to put him at ease, and Jenrelm’s tension escalated slightly as he stepped closer.
Treylan studied his lord solemnly, with an uncharacteristic wariness in his posture. The officer was rarely nervous, yet now he fidgeted slightly at the sight of the bottle on the table and the glass in Vader’s hand, cursing his own timing, and involuntarily shifting his weight from one booted foot to the other. “My lord,” he finally began, “you know how I respect you, and that I would never waste your time with idle concerns. I realize that many demands have been placed on you of late with this current mission to eradicate the Rebellion’s top leadership. I would not disturb you this evening if I did not think it imperative.” The blond officer’s tone was formal despite his longstanding fondness for his Sithly superior.
Vader did not respond, did not even turn to look at him. When Jenrelm’s tension had grown in the laden silence to a nearly unbearable level, the Dark Lord raised his hand, glass and all, and gestured the officer toward the chair beside him.
“Sit, Trey. Have a brandy with me, if you like,” Vader suggested, hand and glass dipping toward the bottle in question, already half-empty where it sat on a side table. “I won’t report you for drinking on duty,” he rumbled quietly, his voice thick with an odd self-mocking sarcasm. Jenrelm winced inwardly. Seldom did Vader drink, to his knowledge, and Trey had known him long enough to recognize the potential danger in his brooding tone.
But Jenrelm nodded and stepped forward, coming around the older man’s chair to take a seat in its match opposite Vader, on the other side of the table. Instead of preparing his own drink, Trey simply settled against the soft upholstery and said, “Thank you, lord.” During the next brief pause, he evaluated Vader’s features the best he could in the dim lighting, trying to measure the type and degree of his commander’s obvious anger. But he could discern little in the dimness, and even half-drunk, Vader was nearly impossible to read.
Jenrelm’s only superior on the ship was Vader himself. Hoping to ease some of the tension, Trey gave his most charming smile and asked, “And to whom would you report me, sir?”
“Exactly,” the Sith murmured, his faint smile so dark that it somehow added to the heavy air of grim dread rather than dissipating it. Vader took another long drink from the mostly full glass. “It has been a day of disasters,” he continued, still staring fixedly out the viewport, “so I should not be surprised that it must end with more bad news, should I?” The rhetorical question hung between them for only a few seconds before Vader pressed, “Tell me, then. What new dire development do I need to address?”
Trey hesitated, considering his best approach. He had rehearsed much of what he planned to say on his way through the corridors to Vader’s suite, yet now he felt awkward, unprepared. “I have overheard…comments… by the officers and crew – particularly the officers – and General Veers took me aside today to discuss his own, similar, concerns. My lord…” Trey inhaled deeply, already half-wishing he had poured a goblet of the offered brandy. He had known this would be daunting and difficult, but had underestimated his own trepidation even so. Never had he needed to oppose Vader in any fashion, so never before had he had cause to truly fear the Dark Lord’s infamous icy reputation.
Willing himself to continue, as if he were facing enemy agents in the field, the blond man finished: “ Executor ’s officers fear for their lives and do not know why you have recently…disciplined… some of them, when you have seldom done that sort of thing in the past. They do not know if they should dread fates similar to Admiral Ozzel’s and Captain Needa’s, or…” Jenrelm trailed off, feeling himself grow pale beneath Vader’s abrupt, steely gaze and unbroken silence. Trey was a master interrogator himself, ruthless in his secret services for Vader and the Throne he represented, and the youngest and most decorated Military Intelligence Director ever to serve the Empire or the Republic before it. Yet now he felt inexperienced and vulnerable.
The cold, pale light from the viewport glinted briefly in Vader’s even colder blue eyes as he moved only enough to lift the glass to his lips again, and swallow the remainder of its contents. “Go on,” he said softly then, setting the glass down beside the bottle without refilling it.
The lethal quality to Vader’s quietness was something Jenrelm knew better than to take lightly, and he swallowed hard himself, his throat dry. “My lord,” he resumed carefully, deciding that the direct approach was better than allowing the Dark Lord any more time to slowly build to a boil. “I am concerned about morale, especially among the officers – and you know I wouldn’t be here if the situation were not critical. I’m worried that in a very short time you may have more rebellion on your hands than you can handle, and I know such is not your wish or intention…”
“Mutiny?” Vader rumbled, a small, humorless smile twisting the corner of his mouth. His gaze slid away from Trey then, back to the viewport, and Jenrelm felt himself sag inwardly with relief, though he remained alert and motionless in the chair. He watched the Sith’s eyes pick out one star, then another, and yet another, his expression distant and searching. The subliminal hum of Vader’s frustration, mingled with a strange sense of urgency, made Trey want to rub at the prickling hairs on the back of his neck.
“Mutiny.” Vader was speaking to himself now, the word thoughtful, considered, and for an insane moment, Treylan had the impression that the Sith actually relished the idea. But he shook off the strange, chilling impression and cleared his throat, leaning forward finally to avail himself of the Dark Lord’s brandy after all.
Trey could feel Vader's dark amusement as the younger man poured himself a full glass of the amber liquid, but he ignored it, and downed half the goblet in the first swallow, in simple, private gratitude that at least Vader was still not looking at him. Jenrelm immediately regretted his reckless move as he gasped twice, exhaled hard, and then attempted a third time to suck in a breath. Mildly successful, he blinked the tears from his eyes, tried to act nonchalant, and resumed sipping the brandy far more carefully.
“Corellian vintage,” Vader offered belatedly, wryly, still staring out the port.
Jenrelm could only nod, and he raised his glass slightly in a token gesture of appreciation, breathing slowly through his nose and waiting for the heated flush to leave his face. The Dark Lord didn’t linger on the Intel officer’s embarrassment, however, and instead tapped his fingers slowly on the soft leather arm of his own chair, as though absently contemplating something, yet Trey knew there was nothing absent-minded about Vader’s thoughts.
“Tell me, Trey,” Vader began slowly, his tone speculative and mild, but with something of an edge, “What would you do if you found out that there was one person – just one being – out there in all the galaxy, who held the key to your entire future? What would you do if you were me, and you learned that this person could destroy Palpatine – will destroy Palpatine, if he is able – and change the Empire forever?”
Jenrelm almost choked again, and quickly swallowed the sip of brandy he’d been taking. He stared at the Dark Lord and lowered his glass to the table. “Are you contemplating assassination again, sir?” he asked tentatively, hoping he misunderstood. The last business with that objective Vader had involved him in had led to a very unsuccessful end, and Jenrelm had no desire to tread such a dangerous path again. Trey’s own feelings about what they’d nearly done were ambiguous at best, and he’d believed at the time that Vader’s were even more uncertain. Yet Vader had given the order once; could he not give it again?
“No…” the Sith answered slowly, not sounding entirely convincing, and the officer wondered suddenly, uncomfortably, whether Vader were answering his question, or responding to his very thoughts. The Dark Lord gave no clear indication, though, and continued ominously, “But this person is being trained to that end – to kill Palpatine, to kill me , to bring down the Empire.”
Trey frowned. “That seems unlikely. Who in their right mind could hope to pull that off? Even a Jedi would have a difficult time of—”
“He is Jedi.” Vader’s interruption stopped Trey cold. The news itself was shocking, but there was something more in the Dark Lord’s tone, something more daunting, more serious, more dangerous even than that stunning news. Vader turned once again to look at Jenrelm. “Or, at least, he soon will be. It seems they took him from birth to be a reserve weapon against us, in case the Purge succeeded. They hid him from me. And now, soon…it will be too late to undo the damage. If it isn’t already.”
Vader sighed at this, and reached for glass and bottle again, leaving the younger man to puzzle over his words in heavy silence. Undo the damage…? Too late…? Vader had killed hundreds of Jedi. Trey couldn’t imagine that one more half-trained fledgling could pose enough threat to even give the Dark Lord pause, much less send him on the rampage he’d been running, if this Jedi was, indeed, the cause of all the commotion.
“He was on Hoth, lord?” Trey ventured, trying to piece a bit more of it all together.
“Yes.” There was a crushing disappointment in that single word. A blinding, furious, desperate frustration that had led to the deaths of several officers, and still remained – unassuaged, unabated. This new Jedi had escaped their assault on Hoth, and Vader was clearly still unforgiving.
“And…he is on the Corellian freighter?” Jenrelm pressed.
“No,” Vader shook his head. “But his friends are. And if I have his friends, I will have him. But if we lose them….” The Sith left the thought unfinished, glancing once more to the viewport, and Jenrelm followed his gaze to the endless expanse of stars beyond, beginning to comprehend the urgency of finding and securing that small ship and its crew.
“No, you do not understand at all,” Vader stated calmly, and Trey started from his grim musing, realizing his thoughts indeed had been read this time. It was something Vader did not usually do with him so casually, and he wondered how much brandy had gone before the mostly empty bottle now on the table. But the Dark Lord seemed to ignore the officer's discomfort, and let the newly awkward silence draw out between them. Vader swirled the vintage liquid in his glass, watching it almost – but not quite – overtake the rim, then leveled his gaze once more on Trey. This time, Jenrelm went very still, pinned by the sheer intensity in those icy blue eyes.
“He is the young Rebel pilot who destroyed the Death Star. He is the youth on the security tapes that I had you destroy two years ago – the one who freed Princess Organa. The boy who was with Obi-Wan Kenobi aboard the Death Star.”
Treylan absorbed it all smoothly, knowing he’d deliberately never asked why Vader wanted those tapes destroyed, or why the Sith had wanted the boy’s name never to reach Palpatine. The Dark Lord always had his reasons, and by then Jenrelm had long since learned to trust Vader’s orders without question. He suspected that perhaps he should have asked, but it was moot now, since Vader obviously intended to tell him. “Luke Skywalker,” Trey remembered aloud.
“Yes,” Vader answered softly, as if just hearing the name spoken by another gave him pause. He took another long swallow from his brandy, then leaned toward Trey, resting his elbows on his knees, his posture suddenly alarmingly casual for all the leaden pressure in the air between them. “And before I became…who I am,” the Sith continued just as quietly, “I was Anakin Skywalker. The boy is my son.”
Trey was glad he’d put down the goblet, because he surely would have dropped it then. Intel files contained nothing on Lord Vader prior to his joining the Emperor Palpatine, as if the Sith lord had sprung fully formed from the very ether (or, more likely, some lower and more frightening mystical plane), or perhaps even from the rumored sorceries or adamantine will of the ruler himself. Jenrelm did not really believe such whispered theories, circulated among Vader’s half-worshipping, half-terrified crew. He was too much a pragmatist for that.
Moreover, Vader possessed too many pragmatic and Jedi-like skills for Trey to believe in such otherwordly, occult explanations. Jenrelm had seen glimpses of the Dark Lord’s humanity—his wry humor, distinct sense of honor, and occasionally, as now, his obviously intense and mortal emotions – too many times to believe such superstitious nonsense.
Yet, despite all that, Jenrelm had never considered Vader so mortal and ordinary as to have fathered a child. Not that human, at least…
But he had to say something. His decorum, and Vader’s continued expectant gaze, demanded it. “I see. You are right, lord. That does present something of a problem.”
Vader’s mouth twitched, but this time the smile failed to form. “You have no idea.” He sat up straight again, stretching his long legs out before him, as though he’d been sitting in one position too long. Settling himself more comfortably, he resumed swirling the contents of his glass, his gaze on the viewport, his focus somewhere else entirely.
“I have been hunting from the moment I learned his name. I have lost immeasurable amounts of sleep, have formulated and reformulated plans, and have ended up here, so close…” Vader sipped at the brandy. “And now he is gone again, and that Corellian ship is my only remaining thread to grasp. If we lose it, I have to start over. And there is no time for that now. No time left at all.”
Trey ventured carefully, “Why not, my lord?”
“Palpatine knows.” The Dark Lord’s flat delivery of this news did nothing to dampen the chill that ran down Trey’s spine. Jenrelm abruptly understood all too clearly why Vader was sitting in the dark, deliberately getting drunk. “He calls Skywalker our ‘new threat’, and has ordered me to destroy the boy. I have stalled him, but I am out of time. If I lose Luke here, now, I do not know whether I can find him again first, before Palpatine or his agents do. If they find him first…” Vader glanced at Trey, and the Intel officer knew the Dark Lord must see the pallor on his face, the tension in his frame. “Palpatine may simply kill him. Or, he may not. Luke’s potential is considerable. He could prove to be more powerful than I am. Palpatine could decide to take a newer, more vital and youthful apprentice, and I would be…retired.”
Horror and incredulity vied for Trey’s allegiance. “No,” he whispered, partly in denying dread, but then his voice firmed. “No,” he insisted more confidently. “I have watched His Majesty discuss you in your absence, sir, and have heard his tone when he does. I am sure he would never…” He trailed off, unable to make himself utter the words. “Not for a stranger , lord. Certainly not that.” Jenrelm hoped Vader would not interpret this as defiance, or insolence. Trey did not intend it so, but as much-needed precious truth. He knew it on nearly a visceral level, and was amazed the Sith had not realized it, too.
“Perhaps not.” Vader shrugged, an uncharacteristically casual gesture for him. He sounded less than optimistic or certain, the brandy apparently weighing heavily upon his own secret doubts as well as his mood. “But at the very least, he fears the boy. He has foreseen that Luke can destroy him if he becomes a Jedi, and so the boy’s life is worthless unless I find him.”
Another terrible possibility occurred to Trey suddenly, virtually derailing his attempts to assimilate all this disastrous information into a practical array of potential solutions. “The Emperor has agents aboard this vessel, lord, and many operatives scattered across the galaxy of which I am not even aware.”
“I know.” The wry smile did touch Vader’s lips once more, then, and Jenrelm knew that at least the Dark Lord did not hold Trey personally responsible for such eyes and ears planted aboard his ship. “That is about to become your problem, Trey.”
Jenrelm held up a staying hand, shaking his head in bold refusal, shock and the Corellian vintage beginning to wear away at his caution. “You must not ask me to eliminate His Majesty’s spies, sir. That is too much a conflict of interest, even for me.”
Vader waved off Trey’s concern, unruffled. “I had something far less problematic in mind. When reports begin coming in from the bounty hunters, I want you to make certain that no one sees them but me. I can then filter accordingly, and disseminate only what information I choose.”
Jenrelm nodded, relieved, and took another drink, noting as he did that his usually steady hand shook slightly. Vader was not watching him, though, and continued on thoughtfully: “I do not know how long the Emperor has been aware of this, or why he chose to tell me now, rather than just setting his agents to kill Luke immediately, without my knowledge, without risking my intervention. Perhaps he is testing me. Or perhaps his agents have been unable to find the boy. Force knows, I have had enough difficulty with that myself…”
After a short, pensive pause, Vader resumed. “I know that you are stunned, and that you have grave reservations, but I need to know I can depend upon your support in this, Trey.” The Dark Lord’s eyes locked upon his then, direct and unyielding. “Your loyalty to me has proven invaluable more times than I dare count, but now more than ever I need to know you will not waver.”
The MI officer's mouth went dry beneath Vader’s intent stare, but he knew instinctively that the Sith was not threatening him. He was asking, not demanding, and Trey had no choice but to be forthright about his own doubts, and his ability to live up to Vader’s expectations. “You know that my loyalties are unfailing, lord,” Jenrelm began earnestly, trying furiously to think of a way to say what he must without angering Vader. “But if this boy… If this youth…” he faltered, then forced himself to form the strange, surreal words: “If… your son…slays Palpatine, I will kill him. If he harms you , lord, I will kill him – even if it takes me years, decades, to hunt him down and find that perfect moment for a sniper shot to the back of the head, or poison in his meal, or—"
Vader held up a hand, forestalling any more of Trey’s heartfelt list of vengeances against his lords' hypothetical assassin. “He has the potential, but not the skill. That is why time is so critical. Not only because I must find him first , but because I must find him before he is fully trained.
“And you must also understand," Vader continued, "before you despise him too thoroughly, that he does not know who he is. He has been raised on lies, raised to the belief that I murdered his father. The Jedi planned it so, intending that one day he would commit patricide, believing that he is avenging his long-lost father’s death at my hands. He is a tool they would use from beyond their pyres, to strike one last spiteful blow at me. And they did not even care, when they stole that infant child, that their plan for him would very likely get him killed.” Vader’s tone grew cold with a new flush of alcohol-enhanced anger, and his ravaged bare hand curled into a large, crushing fist. “I will not allow their last gasp to succeed, and I will not allow him to be destroyed by their callous scheming of decades past.”
Trey sat in muted, wary silence at Vader’s intoxicated vehemence. He was surprised by the revealing hint of bitter, personal betrayal in the Dark Lord’s voice, and he still reeled at the sheer enormity of all that Vader had told him this night, and the endless possible repercussions of endless potential outcomes. He ached to ask questions – countless dozens of them – about these Jedi whom Vader clearly had known personally, about this man Anakin Skywalker, and the child he’d fathered and lost, and the powerful Sith he’d become….
Jenrelm had never realized there was so much about Vader that he did not know, had not even thought to learn, even though he’d always dismissed the ridiculous, wild speculations of Vader’s creation, his mysterious materialization into his Dark existence at Palpatine’s right hand. Of course he’d had a life before that. But now did not seem like a good time to pry for more of the fascinating details, and Trey kept his curiosity to himself.
“He should have been mine all along,” Vader stated unequivocally, his tone growing almost wistful, apparently once more oblivious to Trey’s thoughts. “But perhaps he still can be.”
There was a simple longing and sharp loneliness to that final statement that Jenrelm knew Vader would never have revealed had he not been well on his way to being drunk and desperate to make the Intel officer understand. Trey, for his part, knew that he probably understood Vader better than any of the Dark Lord’s other officers did, and he was not surprised – or at least, not much – that Vader’s hidden humanity included such a sense of isolation.
For a brief moment, Trey allowed himself the thinnest ration of regret that he could never be close enough to his lord to ease that loneliness. And he permitted himself the smallest flare of jealousy that some stranger, some enemy youth the Dark Lord had never even known, was being offered that enviable chance instead, and didn’t know it – or when he did, would not want it. What terrible pain would that unaware, unappreciative stranger cause his lord then? What would this terrifying new reality do to, or elicit from, their mercurial, possessive galactic ruler? Treylan shuddered to contemplate any of it.
The moment passed, and Jenrelm temporarily swept aside the troubling emotions with the ease of a man long skilled in compartmentalizing himself. He finished off his glass of brandy, and put the goblet on the table, then straightened his shoulders. “I will do what I can to assist you, my lord. If your son is half the man you are, I’m certain he’ll prove worthy of all this effort. I look forward to meeting him.”
Vader sat motionless for a long moment, appraising Jenrelm with an unreadable expression, then lifted his glass slightly in a gesture of appreciation and respect. “I hope we will not both be disappointed,” he mused softly, and downed the remaining contents of his goblet, as well. “What of my officers, then, and the threat of mutiny?”
“I will inform General Veers that all of this… chase… will be ended very soon, if I may say that, sir. And I will tell him to let the others know that anyone who attempts or advocates mutiny, including the high-ranking officers, shall receive my special attentions, and those of the Emperor’s agents. Then they shall have to return as ghosts to their families, explaining their sudden, unexpected ends.” A sort of iron bitterness coated Jenrelm’s tone; if asked, he would not have been able to specify his resentment’s truest nature or source.
Vader assessed Jenrelm for the space of several heartbeats, clearly noting the suddenly sharp undercurrent in the younger man. If he understood, if he disapproved, if he sympathized…he gave no sign. The Dark Lord merely nodded slowly, and answered, “I know that you will handle the situation as capably as you always do. I will be waiting for those incoming reports.”
Trey heard the dismissal and accepted it smoothly. Rising from his chair to stand briefly, respectfully at attention before Vader, he felt abruptly eager to dispense his subtle threat among the officers and alleviate the unwelcome pressure that had formed somewhere behind his sternum. “I will deliver them the instant they arrive. Good evening, my lord. Try to rest, for a change.”
Vader smiled faintly. “I shall, Trey. Thank you.”
Jenrelm nodded, and broke his stance, turning to escort himself from the Sith lord’s dark quarters, sensing Vader’s piercing eyes fixed intently upon his back until the outer door closed behind him.
* * *
The Dark Lord dreamed.
The dank cave crawled with slithering things and the echoes of dripping water in the otherwise unbroken stillness that hovered like a held breath. The Darkness was a living thing there, unseen but omnipresent, and it fairly trembled in an anticipation that was neither sentient nor pleasant. Despite his armor, Vader shivered in the damp chill and moved forward cautiously, half-walking, half-floating, dreamily compelled to seek, not knowing why or what.
Something growled abruptly, angrily in the gloom ahead of him, the sound sending a start of adrenaline through his body and bringing his lightsaber into the ready grip of his hand. The growl turned to indignant, scolding croaks and hisses, as whatever offense had occurred ended, and Vader sensed something new permeate the dankness about him, like the evolving glow of a candle approaching from a long, black passageway.
His grip tightened instinctively around the saber as he stepped forward again, the crawling things of the strange cave forgotten, the new impending danger of an older and more coherent foe fanning the edges of his senses. The Light clung to its presence more densely than the slime and moss adhered to the cave walls, and Vader’s dream-stride lengthened purposefully as his anticipation merged with that of the pseudo-awareness that lived (and yet didn’t) all around him.
Jedi…
His gloved thumb depressed the activation switch on the hilt, and the saber erupted into ruby, lethal coherence before him as he swung it up into attack position and rounded a bend in the twisting, erratic passageway. The lightsaber cast bloody illumination over the moisture seeping down the walls, and the snakes that hung from earthy ledges and root-ends, and it painted the face of the young blond boy that materialized before him with crimson shock and fear.
The young Jedi backed away from Vader in dream-weighted slow motion. The youth’s own ignited saber rose before him almost before the Dark Lord could recognize him, let alone check his own aggressive advance, his own premature arcing swing at the youth’s half-crouched body. But the bright blue blade intercepted Vader’s, deflected it, and the boy swung at him impulsively, more out of fear than any true desire to kill.
The Dark Lord, still sluggishly backpedaling in the wake of recognition and reassessment, left an inexcusable opening in his guard. In the agonizing slowness of dream-doom, Luke slammed aside the red blade of his saber and slashed at his head. The Sith lord didn’t feel the impact, didn’t feel the searing pain that he expected – he only felt the breathless second when Luke drew back, staring wide-eyed at him, as though surprised by his own success. Time seemed to freeze around them, the Darkness of the cave drawing close in predatory hunger.
Then, distantly, he felt himself fall – crumpling bonelessly, soundlessly to the uneven cave floor – and impossibly, he watched his severed helmet roll away from him, toward the astonished boy’s feet. It came to rest directly in front of Luke, face upward, and inexplicably exploded.
When the smoke cleared, it wasn’t Vader’s face that gazed out with deadened eyes at the stunned young Jedi. Luke’s own death-stare looked up at him from the ruined mask, and the boy paled, paralyzed with horror and confusion. His still-ignited saber forgotten at his side, the youth stood transfixed by the baffling, gruesome vision.
Vader tried to speak, tried to say his son’s name, but with the loss of his body he’d apparently lost his ability to communicate, as well. Instead, the voracious Darkness closed in around him, its anticipatory patience rewarded as it devoured him utterly, with cold indifference to the outcome of the brief clash, and the blackness of its belly replaced the cave, the boy, and the dream…
* * *
The Dark Lord awoke in a dense cold sweat, still in darkness. In a moment of uncharacteristic unease, he reached for the control panel next to his bed and slapped a switch. The lights obediently came on, and the features of his bedchamber materialized about him, silent and undisturbed by slime, snakes, or young Jedi. He sank back against the pillows, reassured by the sound of his own accelerated breathing.
What did it mean? His mind churned immediately into analysis, the heart-pounding tension of the vision automatically, habitually subsumed into methodical, detached examination. Did he rush to claim the boy he’d never known only to meet his own death at the youth’s inexperienced hands? It seemed unlikely. And what of the face? Did it warn that Luke was to be his killer? Perhaps not now, but later, when he was fully trained – when he, too, wore the black of a Sith? Or was there some yet deeper, more complicated meaning to the enigmatic dream?
Possibilities and risks conflicted within him, threatening his trained detachment, stirring his emotions to volatile unrest. He found himself unable to disentangle the grim vision of his own death from the heady rush of encountering his son, or the indecipherable meaning of the face in the mask.
Restless, disturbed, Vader rose and slipped on a long, silken black robe, wrapping it close around himself as he walked barefoot out into the main-room of his suite. He crossed the dark chamber to the powered-down console and sat before it, picking up a datapad that had been delivered to him just before he’d retired for the night.
Its contents remained unread. Jenrelm had told him what he needed to know, and beyond the viewport, doppler-stretched stars testified to Executor’s headlong race toward Bespin. Vader retained the upper hand, and Palpatine’s agents could not out-distance him in this leg of the hunt. Whether or not they even tried was unimportant – he would not take that chance.
Now, the Dark Lord stared at the intercepted report from Fett, barely seeing the words, his mind filled with the blond, blue-eyed image of the boy in the cave. Hopelessly distracted, Vader returned the datapad to the console and leaned back in the chair, absently wrapping his arms around himself, and staring up sightlessly at the wall above the screen. He knew he would have to meditate upon the dream to try to ascertain the true nature of its warning, but for the moment he could do nothing but allow himself the simple indulgence of remembering the boy’s face – his young, smooth features, the soft blond hair, the blue eyes so like Vader’s own…
The urgency that had plagued him for months surged into a sharper intensity in his vitals. The boy was so raw, so vulnerable .
Vader resisted the futile impulse to contact the bridge and demand an update. Executor would arrive at Bespin as soon as her best speed allowed, and no order from him could change the physics of hyperspace. Jenrelm had done his part, and the crew was doing theirs...all that remained was to wait.
The Dark Lord rose with a sigh, and moved to the viewport, sinking into his usual chair, all thoughts of sleep forgotten, replaced with dream-gifted images of sky-blue eyes. Lost in half-brooding, half-wistful contemplation, he unconsciously resumed his long, restless vigil – silent, alone, and in the darkness.
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* Thank you to Historian Veronica for letting me borrow Jenrelm, and for her assistance with his reactions and dialogue.