Repairs were estimated in months and double-figures at that. The Fury had always travelled with the Peerless as fallback support, so much so that the crew of the Peerless had nicknamed her 'Little Sister', much to the good-natured indignation of the Fury's crew.
In the low lights, the Fury's aft bay was a scene of shattered destruction, Imperial and Rebel soldiers still laid on the floor where they'd fallen, pools of blood almost black in the dim light, their slick reflections picked out by the white glow to the edge of the hold's newly-slaved atmospheric shield and the dim glimmer of the stars beyond. Slugthrowers made a hell of a mess.
Frowning, Luke crouched before the nearest corpse, setting his head on one side as he studied the glassy eyes of a Rebel in a pilot's flight-suit, staring blankly into infinity, absolutely still.
He remembered vividly when he wore a flight suit so similar to that; when he was a Commander in the Alliance... and when it was his responsibility to write that letter - the one that began, 'Dear Sir, it is with greatest regret that I must inform you...'
He always wrote them, whether they could be sent or not. He'd written a great many of them, as he recalled.
He was still staring at the dead man when Mara walked up beside him, glancing momentarily at the downed Rebel before looking back up, eyes taking in the ruined Destroyer. "Call me a cynic, but I don't think you're going to get your deposit back on this one."
Luke didn't speak; didn't acknowledge her at all, his head still on one side, eyes on the lifeless Rebel, on the dark, glassy pool which had seeped out about him, forming perfect right-angles at its edges as it had been channelled along the indented corners of the grey deck-plates. It could so easily have been him when he'd been a Rebel pilot, Luke reflected dispassionately; a hundred times over. Why had he survived but this man had died - what would have changed in the galaxy had their fates been reversed?
Mara continued, not noticing his distraction, "All the crew are aboard the Peerless and the prisoners have been transferred over."
"The Rebel task force from the Detention Level?" Luke asked distantly without standing or looking up.
"Aboard." Mara confirmed, glancing down at the inventory on the automemo she carried, mildly curious as to why he should bother to check.
"The Attin'Cho and Karrde's freighters?" Luke prompted, moving her thoughts along.
"Adrift."
"Get a 'tractor lock on the Attin'Cho; transfer her to the Peerless' hold."
Mara thought to query this, but something in Skywalker's manner held her to silence, so she merely nodded, stepping back and pulling out her new comlink to pass on the order.
She glanced out at the nearing shuttle on its final journey between the Peerless and the Fury, all other non-essential staff now evacuated. Luke had remained to oversee the securing of the Fury, strangely reluctant to leave the crippled vessel, so Mara had of course stayed with him. But now they too were leaving, and not a moment too soon; despite emergency life-support, the destroyer was already cold enough that she could see her breath misting before her, the edges of the bay nearest open space twinkling with the beginning of frost crystals forming.
"I won't be sad to leave this outsize coffin." she murmured, realising only now how silent Luke was. She looked to him, then back to the corpse on the deck, whom he was still staring at.
"Friend of yours?" she deadpanned of the lifeless Rebel, then broke off, realising what she was saying, wishing she could kick herself.
"Friends are an unaffordable luxury." He murmured impassively; no answer at all, before standing to walk silently away, an insular, isolated shadow in the gloom of the bone deep cold.
.
.
.
Han struggled to consciousness, the light bright enough to make him squint, his head pounding at the effort, a distant ringing in his ears. Slowly, memories leached through his addled mind - of the mission, of his capture... of Luke.
He rolled onto his side, groaning, aware of the cold, hard floor below him, the vibrating hum of a struggling air exchanger rattling loose deck plates. It smelled empty and fusty, as if no-one had been here for a long time... which was never true of any Imperial detention cell. Realisation that the high-pitched warbling wasn't in his head finally filtered through, along with vague recognition as to what it was; comm signals weren't generally a feature of detention cells either...
He dragged his eyes open... and stared at the underside of an ageing holo-chess table, set into the corner of a battered hold, surrounded by a half-curve of dilapidated acceleration seats.
"Chell!!" he scrabbled upright, stumbling back a few paces over a huge roll of something on the floor to hit his hip against the corner of the hold ops console, his arm grabbing at the chair there.
"What the..." Was this a dream? How hard had Luke knocked him out?
He rested back against the console, his hand dragging a line through the dusty surface. Every bang and hum and patter was right- every vibration trembling through his boots and buzzing right up into his brain...
He was in the Falcon. The Millennium Falcon.
He had no idea - none whatsoever - what to do. His battered brain just couldn't come up with something equal to the moment. For a long time he just stared, waiting to wake up.
Finally he staggered forward, stepping over the mass of the huge roll on the floor without even seeing it, reaching out for the dust-encrusted holo-chess table, a gradual, unstoppable grin spreading across his face.
He could have hollered and whooped and yelled himself hoarse... but in the moment, he simply reached out to the wall and ran his fingers over her, feeling again that familiar vibration which had always made his heart beat in quicktime.
"Hey Baby- ya miss me?"
The comm still trilled for attention and Han staggered, lightheaded, back to the ops console and flicked a switch- it was a little sticky; he really needed to fix that.
"...vessel this is the Alliance Frigate Arcturus- do you read me? I say again, you are adrift at the edge of a battle-zone. Do you require..."
Han grinned, "Hey, hey, hey- look what I found!"
Leia's voice came over the comm, echoing slightly with distortion, her shock and relief audible. "Han?!"
He was grinning so wide now that his cheeks were starting to ache - his two favourite ladies, together again. "Hey doll, don't go... I mean, Highness. Don't go crossing me off the Duty List yet."
"Han, how did you... never mind. Standby, we're coming alongside. We'll tractor-beam you in."
In his excitement, Han didn't even bother to refuse. He just turned about to take in the old bird all over again, "Yep-" He murmured deliriously, "Still there."
Heading for the cockpit, still giddy from excitement, wondering where the hell he was... where the Fury was; what had happened, Han stepped again over the huge canvas roll on the floor and was three paces up the corridor before he paused and returned, frowning.
Laid across the floor of the main hold was what looked like a massive roll of very old, stiffened canvas about twice as long as Han was tall and easily as big around as Chewie, tied in the centre with a braid cord.
Frowning, Han nudged the roll with his toe, but it was heavy enough not to move. Reaching out, he took the end of the slip-knot and stepped back, pulling the knot free. The bulky roll immediately sprang open, partly unfurling into a huge stiff sheet across the floor, covering the big hold from wall to wall.
On it was a painting- a very famous painting. It depicted a night-battle beneath the stars of some foreign planet, rendered in blacks and midnight blues, bright flashes of red and caustic yellow traced across the darkness.
It was the artwork Han had wanted to take as payback when they'd first been taken to the Imperial Palace and he'd said he would stay with Luke. He remembered distinctly pointing the massive canvas out; remembered Luke agreeing in the condition that he didn't have to carry it...