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The Emperor narrowed his eyes, his fury tempered by his pleasure at the boy's justification. Skywalker had not so much broken the rules as bent them to answer his needs...and that was why Palpatine would have him.
Rationalization of the methods necessary to achieve one's goals was the slow fall of many good men, his father included. He would be no different.
Already now he could see this new blade sharpening under the heat of pressure. See that edge forming, that heightening of his Jedi's mercurial temper, the hardening of his perceptions, the blurring of his precious principles.
That fascinating, gradual shift of perspective...
"I am not here to argue specifics with you," the Sith snapped finally.
.
.
Luke spoke the line he had waited twelve long weeks to say, knowing there would be a penalty...but then a price would be paid one way or another tonight, anyway. "Then shut up."
The reply was instant. No warnings, no threats, no second chances. The Emperor lurched up--
Bolts of bright white energy surged from his hands like lightning, grounding into Luke to throw him back against the curved wall like a ragdoll, the impact sounding a resounding c-r-ack!' which jolted the air from his lungs--
For a second his vision whited out entirely, then his chest was heaving as he struggled to take in breath, tasting blood in his throat as he rolled over onto his knees, shocked at the suddenness and the violence of the attack, bending double to try to ease his breathing. Pain exploded through his chest with each breath and he knew the 'crack' had been ribs breaking. He'd never even heard of such a corruption of the Force, let alone had any idea of how to counter it
"That was a very, very foolish thing to do," Palpatine said, voice afire. "I gave you every chance--every opportunity to step gracefully into your future role--but you refused them all. Surely you realized that it would come to this? My patience is not infinite."
Luke heaved a breath, mind still reeling at what Palpatine had just done.
"Nor is mine," he gasped without conscious thought, surprised at his own words, at the threat implicit within them.
The second bolt came immediately, slamming him back into the wall, his head hitting hard enough to knock reality into a slow loop as sound muffled and sight grew dim. Then the pain stabbing into his chest shocked him awake again and he crumpled forward, struggling for air in short sharp gasps.
He saw blood speckle the floor as he rasped a breath out, his winded lungs beginning to cramp with the effort, shocked muscles contradicting each other so that his chest froze--
Then another bolt, with no time to brace against it, no time to gather mental defenses.
And another.
Everything was pain; white light which seared his eyes, heat blazing through him so intensely that his muscles cramped and his lungs paralyzed. No time, no awareness, only torment so profound that everything else was scorched away.
.
.
Palpatine attacked without mercy, without restraint, wild fury at the boy's continued willful resistance driving him to a vindictive rage.
He drew every dark frustration to him and threw them at Skywalker with devastating strength, incensed rage given physical power as sharp arcs of light hurled at the boy, coursing over him to ground. Fury that lashed and slashed at him until he cried out, but the Sith only watched him bleed. Bones pushed with incredible slow, deliberate, Dark power until they popped and splintered. Until his Jedi no longer made any noise at all, just the silent outrush of air as the relentless blows made contact, all strength and spirit beaten out of him...
.
In the long silence that followed, the sound of the boy's labored breathing reverberated around the empty room, the metallic smell of burned air and seared flesh hanging heavy.
"Never think to threaten me," Palpatine hissed with absolute finality. "Never."
He remained still for long minutes, watching the boy drift in and out of consciousness before, finally satiated, he moved to crouch beside him, head tilted to one side as he studied with silent, detached fascination.
.
.
Slowly surfacing from this excruciating agony, the metallic tang of warm blood in his mouth, Luke opened burning eyes to see Palpatine stretching out a hand for him--gently, almost; compassionately.
If he could have, Luke would have twisted away. As it was, he could barely stay conscious as the Sith took his head and turned it easily toward him, his voice calm and cold and deadly.
"I offered you everything and you turned it down. But I see now that the mistake was mine, in not clarifying the alternative. In not illustrating to you the consequences of defiance. I have been too lenient; allowed too much free thought, too much free will. I shall endeavor to correct that. You have spent your favor now, child. You have spent your choices. From now on, every decision you make will carry a consequence. Every word you utter. Choose them with care, as I will choose my redress."
.
.
Palpatine rose in a rustle of raven robes and walked to the door, arranging a veneer of self-restraint and civilized calm about himself as it cycled open. Pausing, he turned to the man huddled half-conscious in the corner of the empty cell. "No more games."
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Han sat nursing his third drink of the morning, listening to the buzz of the Third Strike cantina, and trying very hard to ignore the feeling in his gut.
Something was wrong.
Luke hadn't arrived yet. He should have been here this morning. He should have fixed the comm on the Falcon. They should have landed somewhere back in the Capital so they could've gotten out of there together in the first place.
He'd already been to see Karrick--twice. He'd wandered the docking bays on all three linked islands--not that they were actually islands, of course. In reality the Tyren Islands were a group of three massive habitation platforms atop a trio of towering industrial factories, originally given over to low-budget housing but as often happened in such areas, slowly taken over by less scrupulous tenants. It was here he'd sat in the Third Strike cantina and waited...and waited.
He ran through his memory again--he was sure he'd said the Third Strike--sure. And the kid was careful--he'd grown up on a pretty inhospitable planet where people didn't take chances. With no way to contact each-other, he'd follow the plan as agreed and he'd check in as soon as he got here. And if he couldn't...he'd sure as hell find a way to let Han know, if only in the amount of trouble he caused when they captured him, so that everyone was talking about it.
Something was wrong.
He'd sent out a short call on the emergency frequency late last night, leaving only a comm sign of his own, knowing that the Alliance would contact him. It was standard Alliance operating procedure: no names, no places, just a contact reference and an active code number.
He'd figured by the time that Luke got here, they'd already have contacted him in reply. Figured he'd barter that flashy little skimmer he'd flown here in for parts for the Falcon, then they'd fix the old bird and blast off this high-class rock, not a moment too soon. In fact he should...
He interrupted his own thought, gut twisting again: skimmer. He'd barter the skimmer...
A stray memory had cut in, of Luke's words yesterday.
"Do you have your skimmer's call-sign? Actually, don't say that on the open comm."
"Your skimmer's call-sign..."
Idiot! Han upbraided himself. Why didn't you spot it?