How could Luke know that? How did he know Han had stolen a skimmer? Han hadn't mentioned it--not once. There were all kinds of speeders and skiprays and shuttles in that hangar--how could the kid know he'd taken a skimmer if he hadn't still been watching on security images?
Which meant he'd still been in the ops room he claimed he'd abandoned...which meant that he hadn't been anywhere near the docking bay or the Falcon, or any chance of escape.
Han's mind raced now, pulling the pieces together, remembering other snippets of conversation--
"Do you remember that safe harbor... Meet there?"
Meet there how? Han had never given Luke the actual co-ordinates of the Tyren Islands. He'd never given them.He shook his head, sighing out frustration and dismay as realization of what the kid had done began to seep through.
"You should have gotten yourself out," Han murmured quietly, knowing why the kid had played it that way, but desperately wishing he hadn't.
He was still staring blankly at the table when his comlink sounded.
For a split-second, he thought it was Luke--thought he'd been wrong about everything and the Falcon had just limped into port somewhere nearby, battered and broken and a little worse for wear, just like its pilot. But still in one piece--and here.
He wrenched it from his belt. "Yeah!"
"Sir, we received a comm on this line. Could you identify yourself, please?"
Han felt himself slump again, hope evaporating. "My ID's 77285. I'm attached Unit one-oh-nine. I need a pickup and a channel through to Home Oneas soon as possible."
"Stand by, sir. We're confirming that ID."
Han waited, mind already beginning to work again...
This was okay, he could make this work. He'd get back to the Rebel base, pick up a few commandos...he could be back here within a week or so. He knew the Palace layout, he had Luke's probable location... Yeah, that would work. Even if the bigwigs thought it was unfeasible, which they probably would, then Han could rustle up a healthy contingent among the kid's friends to make a raiding party. Luke often piloted undercover missions for Madine's Special Ops, and they didn't mess around. Kid was pretty popular; Han'd have a good choice of able bodies...
"Hang on, Luke," he muttered, worried what reprisals the kid might be facing now. "Hang on."
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"And how are you today, my friend?"
The easy, amicable words floated through a haze of vague awareness as Luke came round slowly, a shock of pain jolting through him as he tried to move his head towards the voice, aware that he was lying on the freezing floor where he'd fallen yesterday.
He didn't bother trying to answer.
Instead, he forced his eyes into focus in the dim light of the room, unsure why it was so dark, his senses thrown off by the constant curve which gave no delineation between the walls and ceiling, the cell a perfect half-sphere. Vaguely, looming over him, he could make out the towering form of Palpatine, dark, vermillion red robes whispering against Luke's face, so close did he stand.
All he knew--all he knew in the whole of creation--was that he had to close his eyes and rest. His left arm and his right ankle stabbed sharply with every heartbeat, arm broken near the wrist, fingers burning from the same. He blinked slowly, and when he opened his eyes again, the Sith was somehow several paces back, sitting on the chair, watching him.
Luke took in a sharp breath, which sent another jolt of pain through his tight chest. How long had he closed his eyes? He had no idea--none at all.
"You have used a healing trance," the Emperor observed dispassionately, igniting foggy memories in Luke of waking in the darkness hours ago and summoning all his strength to guide his mind to meditation.
Master Yoda had always spent so much time drilling into him the ability to do this anywhere under any circumstances; he'd seen the vision of Cloud City whilst balancing upside down on his hands, arms aching and head pounding from maintaining the unnatural position for so long. Now, finally, he understood why: understood the importance of being able to summon that mindset without conscious effort, to create that connection with the Force instinctively--a lesson he wished he'd not had to learn.
"This is unacceptable," the Sith stated levelly as if it were a statement of fact. "It will not happen again."
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Palpatine had woken in the early hours of the morning, the strident, discordant timbre of the Light side of the Force grating against the Darkness which he had wrapped about himself for so long, knowing that it could be no other than the boy, and it was immediately obvious what he was doing. There was little premeditated awareness, but the control was accurate and precise--flawless. Perfect attunement, even then...one had to appreciate that.
It was, of course, quite unacceptable; it slowed the course of Palpatine's intentions, and as such was to be dealt with ruthlessly. "If you do it again then I will simply injure you further...and further, until you are no longer capable of healing."
The boy didn't react; didn't move at all, remaining on his back, broken arm cradled across his stomach, breathing so heavily that from his chair several feet away, Palpatine could see the beat of his heart against his ribs; hear it catching in his breath.
He had every intention of taking his Jedi down that shadowed, arduous route anyway, but it was important that the boy felt he had no control, particularly in his connection with the Force--and of course the drug which Palpatine had invested so much in having developed would now come into its own.
DNA-specific drugs were commonplace, as were self-replicating drugs, but this one, capable of maintaining a constant chemical level in the body even against a Jedi's midichlorian-laden blood, had been two years in the making. Ironically, Palpatine had first supplied his chemists with a sample of Vader's blood, for the sole reason that he hadn't wished to supply his own, and the blood of a Force-sensitive was necessary in order for them to learn how to deal with midichlorian content. But with the boy's identity came the realization that the samples his chemists had been working with, would already be conveniently close to the required formula.
Such ironies always made life interesting...but it was challenges like this which made it truly compelling.
The drug would enable Palpatine to ensure that the boy had no access to his precious Force unless Palpatine allowed it, his mind too diffuse. It guaranteed specific, precise levels; enough to render him sedated beyond conscious thought if Palpatine were not here, or merely sluggish and listless before his persecutor, disoriented and passive, as he was now.
"Sit up," Palpatine ordered, and despite the drugs, he was unsurprised when the boy ignored him. Pleased, even, in some self-indulgent way.
He set his head to one side, studying the still form before him. Already the featureless white tank vest the boy wore was stained by uneven smears of dry brown blood, his bare arms and shoulders scuffed, face grazed, nose bloody.
Now, today, the game began. The true game, mind against mind, will against will, nothing hidden, nothing held back, anything and everything justified.
How long would he last? Days? A week even?
How long before the fight was beaten out of him, leaving only that wonderfully stubborn, willful drive to endure--to survive--and Palpatine could reach within that stormy mind and twist it...watch it snap.
The boy turned, perhaps sensing some shadow of that eager craving, and Palpatine allowed a thin, impious smile to his bloodless lips; let the game begin.
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Yellow eyes came to pale blue as Luke turned, sensing some inverted twist of Darkness, and abruptly the Sith's full attention focused on him. A burst of confined energy sang out through the Force like a knife-edge, making Luke flinch in anticipation--