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Title: Force of Destiny
Author: Llarian (webmaster@llarian.de)
Rating: PG

Genre: AU, adventure

Summary: An accident reveals an old deception, and Darth Vader must make a decision that will change not only his life.

Prologue

Anakin desperately raised his lightsaber to parry Obi-Wan's angry attacks. The blows rained down on his defense, pushing him back further and further. Behind him, though, was the abyss. Hot, poisonous smoke billowed from the volcanic crater, making his eyes water. Deep down Anakin could hear the noise of the boiling lava. Strange how mortal fear sharpened ones senses. Anakin was wounded already; a hit from Obi-Wans luminous blade had laid open his face and scalp. But he lived still. He could still fight for his life. Obi-Wan, too, was bleeding from several wounds.

With a wild scream Anakin threw himself to one side, sword raised to counter another attack, but his foot slipped on a loose pebble. Time seemed to stretch and like in slow motion he saw Obi-Wan's blade sever his right hand. The hand, still clutching the lightsaber, whirled away. Anakin saw less blood than one would expect from such a severe injury. The energy blade had cauterized the stump. His brain barely had time to register the pain when he felt the ground crumble beneath his feet and he plummeted into the abyss. He tried to call up the Force, but it eluded him.

The crater wall was not smooth, but pocked with fissures and ledges. Anakin hit several of the latter during his fall and he felt his ribs break and the bone in his left upper arm splinter. He did not scream; it would be pointless, he would die anyway, burned to ashes by the lava. But he was wrong. Another ledge stopped his fall. He did not feel the impact; he only heard the sickenig sound of his neck breaking. Neither did he feel the pain from his severed hand anymore, nor that from his broken arm, although he could see the white bone splinters protrude from his flesh.

For a moment he thought he heard Obi-Wans voice call his name.

Breathing became increasingly difficult. He could barely draw air into his lungs. At least he did not have to feel the acrid smoke burn his lungs. Finally, darkness descended upon him.

Chapter One

The Accident

22 years later, on board the Executor

Darth Vader entered the bridge with measured steps, as he did every morning. Few crew members still raised their heads as the Sith Lord went past them. They used to, only to avert their eyes again in fear. They used to, before Bespin. Vader had grown milder since the day he had confronted Luke. That he had almost lost his son - by his own doing! - had changed him. He had become quieter. More thoughtful. He used to act first, and think later. Too often he had his anger allowed to lead him, with disastrous results. Not anymore.

Vader stepped close to Admiral Piett, who was just signing the last watch's reports.

"Good morning, Lord Vader."

Vader returned Piett's greeting with a nod. "Any news, Admiral?"

"No reports on the rebellion or Skywalker, My lord. But the first ten TIE Avengers were delivered by transport ship last night."

"Excellent," Vader rumbled. "Have one of the fighters readied. I will make the first test flight myself."

"Already done, Sir."

Vader smiled behind his mask. "You know me too well, Admiral", he observed, turned and left the bridge.

His steps were more energetic. Piett allowed himself a thin smile. Yes, he knew Lord Vader. And he admired and respected the man.

It had not always been like this. In the beginning he had feared Vader, his brutality as well as his sudden mood swings. But soon he started to rely on Vader's inspirations, and he did well with that. Vader, on the other hand, learned to rely on Piett's quiet competence, and the relationship between the two men soon grew much more relaxed than that between Vader and Ozzel had ever been.

Darth Vader strode into the main hangar. He was looking forward to trying out the new TIE Avenger. The joy he always felt when he could fly, the only freedom left for him, was doubled by the fact that these new ships were his own design. Ten of them stood on the tiles of the hangar, their hulls gleaming in the harsh light. Darth Vader regarded them with pride. They were even more beautiful than he had dreamed, sleek, deadly, the fastest and most maneuverable fighters ever built. Slowly, he stepped up to the nearest Avenger, gently laying his gloved hand on a solar panel, almost a caress. They would need a light touch on the controls, responding almost to a thought. Vader suppressed a sigh. Oh yes, he was going to enjoy flying this deadly beauty.

A young man in the coveralls of a mechanic, sporting the rank insignia of a staff sergeant, stepped up to Lord Vader and bowed reverently.

"My lord, we have readied an Avenger for flight," he announced.

"Good," Vader acknowledged. "I will test it myself. Which one is it?"

"This one," replied the youngster, pointing at the TIE Vader had been admiring.

The Dark Lord almost chuckled. Judging by the exhausted looks of the sergeant and his team, they had prepped not one, but all ten fighters for him to choose. Such diligence was commendable.

"Good work, Sergeant. What is your name?"

"Garin, My lord. Torb Garin."

Vader nodded and undid the clasp on his cloak. "Hold this," he commanded, handing Garin the heavy garment. "I will be back soon."

With catlike grace, Vader climbed upon the panel support, foregoing the use of a ladder. Throwing the top hatch open, he squeezed his massive frame through it to settle into the pilot's seat and strap in. The push of a button closed the hatch again. Another button opened a comm channel to the bridge.

"This is test flight one, requesting permission for take off," he spoke into the commlink.

"Permission granted, test flight one."

Quickly Vader went through the pre-flight check.

"All systems read green. Test flight one is ready for launch."

He fired up the engines, and, giving Garin the age-old thumbs-up sign, he lifted off and took the Avenger out of the hangar.

Vader opened the throttle just enough to gain some distance from the Executor before flying some basic maneuvers. He quickly became familiar with how the Avenger handled; she reacted to his slightest touch, just like he had designed her to.

Bolder now, Vader accelerated, taking the Avenger first into a loop and then into a tight spin. He was determined to take the fighter to its limits. His heart sang as the engines roared, the acceleration pushing him back in his seat. This was what made life bearable for him despite his handicaps. Flying ever more complicated maneuvers, he guided the Avenger in a wide arc back to the Executor when he first noticed that something was not quite right.

A slight imbalance in engine power caused the little ship to drift off to the left. Frowning behind his steel mask, Vader gripped the control stick a little harder and corrected the course. The Avenger obeyed easily enough, but it still felt sluggish and unresponsive compared to its earlier behavior. And suddenly yellow warning lights began to flash.

Vader pulled the control to neutral position, allowing the craft to drift, and opened a comm channel to the ship.

"Executor, I have a problem," he announced.

"This is Executor. Lord Vader, we have you on our screen. Your engines are overheating."

The voice of the flight controller was calm, unhurried, despite the situation. Vader realized the man was trained to keep control of the situation, to calm down a panicked pilot.

"Affirmative, Executor," he answered. "You'll have to pull me in. Shutting down engine..."

At this moment, the warning light on the No. 3 engine went from yellow to an angry red. Vader cursed under his breath.

"Repeat, please, test flight one. We did not copy that."

Of course not, Vader thought, realizing that he had lapsed into gutter Huttese. He reached for the controls that would shut off the overheated No. 3 engine when another engine went critical and exploded without warning. Vader would have been thrown out of the seat had it not been for the safety harness as the small craft spun wildly out of control. As it was, his chest connected hard with the control stick, shattering his respirator, knocking the breath out of him. A part of the overhead control panel broke loose, smashing into his helmet, and everything went black.

"Test flight one, please respond. Lord Vader, do you copy?"

"I have him on my scope. He's alive, but he's fading fast."

Piett heard the commotion and hurried over to flight control.

"What happened?" he demanded.

"It's Lord Vader, Sir. His engines went critical."

Piett paled visibly. "Pull him in. Now!" He reached over to the commlink and threw the switch. "Stand by tractor control. Submitting coordinates." He signaled the flight controller, who punched the numbers into the board.

"Coordinates confirmed. Locking on target... flight control, the target is not stable," came the slightly distorted voice from the hangar deck's tractor control room.

"Never mind, tractor control. The pilot is still alive. Pull him in now!"

"She's spinning too fast! She'll break up before we can get a grip on her."

"Do it!" Piett shouted and broke the connection. Next he opened a channel to sickbay. "Medical team to the hangar deck," he commanded in a clipped tone.

"Sickbay here, Dr. Hanley speaking. What is the nature of the emergency?"

"What?" Piett stared at the commlink.

"We're pulling in a fighter with engine trouble. Nature and extent of injuries unknown. Pilot will need full life support," the flight controller cut in.

"Understood. I'm on my way," Dr. Hanley confirmed.

Piett cut the connection and ran out, heading for the hangar deck.

A claxon blared, alerting Torb Garin and his team just as the tractor beam pulled the crippled Avenger through the hangar's electromagnetic seal. Tractor control had worked a miracle and managed to pull the craft in in one piece. Now they were about to set it down right way up. Garin ran up to the Avenger, taking care to stay clear of the beam.

"Sith", he muttered under his breath and gesticulated wildly in the direction of the tractor control room. The officer in charge noticed him and caught on immediately.

"Turn her on a panel," he commanded.

"Sir?"

"Put her down on one of her panels, or they won't be able to pull Lord Vader out."

"Yes, Sir."

The controller complied and spun the small ship before setting her on the deck. Garin wasted no time opening the hatch, while his men sprayed the overheated engines with a fire-extinguishing agent to prevent them from combusting within the ship's atmosphere. That was the greatest immediate danger; outside, in the hard vacuum of space, there was no oxygen to fuel a fire. But once pulled inside the atmosphere on board a larger ship, pilots already thought to be safe had died horribly when the plastics built into their ships went up in flames.

Smoke poured from the fighter's cockpit, and Garin coughed, blindly reaching in to release the safety harness. Lord Vader's seemingly lifeless body hung partially out of the seat; Garin managed to free him and grab his shoulders. He started to pull the man out, swearing as he did so.

"I could use a little help here," he grunted. Kenny, the most junior member of his team, dropped his fire extinguisher and hurried to assist him.

Together they pulled Darth Vader out and carried him a safe distance from the Avenger before laying him on the deck. Garin wiped the sweat from his brow. Where was the medical team?

Kenny's voice cut into his thought: "He's not breathing."

Chapter 2

The Accident

"He’s not breathing!“

"Kreth! Can you get a pulse on him?" Garin asked.

Reluctantly, Kenny laid his hand on Vader’s chest. "I... I think I feel a heartbeat, but it’s weak and very slow." Kenny looked up at Garin for guidance.

"We’ve got to get his helmet off. Where is that medical team?" Garin practically shouted that last sentence.

He took Vader’s helmet off and threw it aside. The upper part of the mask came next, revealing Darth Vader’s pale, scarred face. Kenny gasped at the sight. Garin fumbled with the lower part of the mask. It was attached to a kind of neck guard, but within seconds, he managed to pry it loose and put it aside. He bowed over the unconscious man and started to give Lord Vader mouth-to- mouth.

"His pulse is still slow," Kenny said in a small, scared voice.

The boy could not take his eyes off Vader’s face. Fresh out of training, Kenny had yet to see a battle and what it could do to a human body.

Having done all they could do with the fighter at the moment, the team gathered round Garin and watched in morbid fascination as he continued to breathe for Vader.

Admiral Piett arrived in the hangar at a dead run, cursing the size of the ship and the speed limitations of turbo lifts and tube cars. He skidded to a halt in front of the tableau before him; Lord Vader was lying on the floor, unconscious or worse, without his mask and helmet. An ugly purplish bruise was forming on his left temple. A staff sergeant was crouched over him, giving him mouth to mouth, while a young crewman, hardly more than a boy, knelt next to him with his hand on Vader’s chest. Three other men stood watching them in a semi-circle. The boy looked about ready to pass out; his face was almost whiter than that of the Sith Lord.

The staff sergeant stopped his attempts to resuscitate Vader and slapped the Sith Lord’s face, hard.

"Breathe!" he yelled. "Breathe, dammit! I won’t let you slip away like that!"

"He can’t," Piett told him with a calm he did not feel. "You must continue to breathe for him. The doctor is on his way."

Garin looked up for a moment, nodded once, and continued.

Piett gently laid a hand on Kenny’s shoulder. The boy looked up at him, his eyes wide with shock.

"He’s alive, Sir," he whispered. "I can feel his heart beat."

"It’s alright, crewman. You’ve done well. Let me take over now."

Kenny scurried back to allow the admiral to take his place. Piett knelt down at Vader’s side, touching the side of his neck lightly, searching for a pulse. Vader’s skin felt cold and clammy under his touch. The pulse was weak, thready, and much too slow. At least he was still alive. They only had to keep him that way until the medical team arrived.

Piett heaved a sigh of relief when the hangar doors opened again to admit Dr. Parker Hanley, followed by a 2-1B unit with a repulsor gurney heaped with equipment. Piett had met him only once, when Dr. Hanley reported to him as he started his tour of duty on the Executor. The new CMO’s brusque manner earned him the admiral’s instant dislike, but aside from being insubordinate, he was also a good physician and an excellent surgeon. Back then, Piett decided he would simply have to put up with the man. After he, he could not be worse than Darth Vader, could he?

"Alright, people, the show’s over," Parker Hanley announced, glaring at the tech team that still gawked at their Lord lying unconscious on the floor. "Move out of the way and let me do my job."

Shoving the onlookers out of his way, he gestured to the 2-1B to hand him a scanner.

"But Sir, this is Lord Vader," the droid complained. "He has his own 2-1B unit to take care of him."

Hanley’s eyes narrowed. "Well, I don’t see it here, and we don’t have time for professional courtesy. The man needs help now."

"Yes, Sir." 2-1B handed him the medical scanner before lowering the gurney so that they could load the patient onto it.

Quickly, Hanley ran the scanner over Vader’s limp body, avoiding to disturb Garin, who was still breathing for the Sith Lord. Laying the scanner aside in favor of a small lamp, he lifted Vader’s eyelids and shone light into the startlingly blue eyes to check pupil reaction.

"Good," he muttered. "A mild concussion and a couple bruised ribs, complicated by his need for constant life support." He patted Garin’s shoulder. "You can stop now, Sergeant. We’ll put him on oxygen." Garin slumped back, red faced and sweating. Hanley signaled Garin’s team to help him lift Vader onto the gurney. He did not have to explain much; every tech team was routinely trained in first aid. They hastily assumed position around Darth Vader.

"Okay, boys, on the count of three, lift him up. One, two, three!"

They did, and Hanley, who supported Vader’s head and neck, nearly dropped him when a strangled, gurgling sound came from the Dark Lord’s throat.

"Trying to breathe on your own, hmmm?" he muttered. "Good man. Do that again."

The team moved back as one when Vader’s left hand twitched in a sudden cramp. The still unconscious man struggled to draw air into his lungs.

"I can see you need help here. Relax," Hanley murmured, pressing a respirator over Vader’s face. Pure oxygen was pumped into his starved lungs, and Vader’s body went limp again.

Hanley stepped around to Vader’s left side, and, removing the glove first, cut open the sleeve of the Dark Lord’s suit. Producing a ready prepared syringe from the gurney’s integral drug and instrument compartment, he injected Vader with a medication to counteract the symptoms of shock the Sith Lord was showing.

On Admiral Piett’s curious stare, he explained: "His blood pressure is too low, only 80 over 40. He probably went into shock when his life support system failed. He’s not showing all classical symptoms. His pulse is slow instead of fast, but I believe that is part of his condition." He gestured towards the smashed respirator on Vader’s chest. "We need to stabilize him before we move him to sickbay."

Checking Vader’s pulse and blood pressure again, Dr. Hanley grunted in satisfaction. "That did the trick. He’s stable enough for transport."

"I will check with you later, Doctor," Piett said as Hanley prepared to leave with his charge.

The physician nodded, obviously already in sickbay with his thoughts.

Piett then turned to Garin, who was just picking himself up from the floor.
"Sergeant, I believe you and your team are in for a commendation. That was excellent work, and you probably saved Lord Vader’s life today."

"Does that mean he won’t be court martialed, Sir?" a member of Garin’s team piped in.

Piett looked at the man. "Whatever for?" he inquired.

The man blushed deeply, fumbling for words. "Well, he... he did hit Lord Vader. In the face."

"Oh, that." Piett’s lips twitched in amusement. "Lord Vader is not a member of the military, so the paragraph about hitting a senior officer does not apply to him. However, he does not need to know about it." He turned his attention towards Garin. "Incidentally, what made you hit him?"

Garin straightened up, wiping the sweat from his brow with his sleeve.

"Sir, I’ve never lost a pilot without enemy fire. I wasn’t going to this time," he said, tightly.

Piett nodded, satisfied. "Report to me later, sergeant. You and your team get some rest now."

"With your permission, Sir, I would like to find out what caused this." Garin gestured towards the crippled Avenger.

"Later, Sergeant, after you’ve rested. I will make sure nobody touches the ship until then. Dismissed." Piett signaled two stormtroopers and ordered them to guard the wreck before leaving for sickbay himself.

General Veers caught up with Piett almost at the door to the Executor’s sickbay.

"Tomas! I just heard. How is he?" he called.

"I was just going to find out, Max," Piett replied. The two highest ranking officers on board the Executor had been on a first name basis for several months now. "He was still unconscious when they moved him."

"What happened?"

Piett palmed open the door before answering. "He took a TIE Avenger out for a test flight. The engines overheated, and one of them exploded. He’s lucky to still be alive."

"I heard one of his rescuers slapped him?" Veers grinned at his friend. "I don’t know if I should believe it, though."

Piett raised an eyebrow. "Believe it." He sighed. "I had no idea the rumor mill was that fast," he added.

Veers chuckled. "It’s not. It will be at least two weeks until everybody on board knows. And I don’t want to be in that crewmember’s shoes then."

They both laughed when they entered sickbay’s reception and emergency room.

Hanley entered the room at the same time, coming from the Intensive Care Unit.

"He is still unconscious," he said in way of greeting, shooting the officers a disapproving glance.

"How long till he wakes up?" Piett inquired.

"Difficult to say." Hanley shrugged. "He could regain consciousness any moment and have nothing more than a headache. Or he could still slip into a coma. It all depends on how long he was without oxygen."

"You’re talking brain damage, right?" Veers asked quietly.

The idea of someone as indestructible and fiercely independent as Vader turned into human vegetable seemed vaguely obscene to him.

Hanley nodded. "It is still a possibility. A remote one, gentlemen. His reflexes are good, and that is an excellent sign. However, it’s impossible to check his higher brain functions before he is fully conscious."

"Any gut feeling, Doctor?"

Hanley snorted. "My gut feeling, as you so aptly put it, tells me he’s going to be fine. But I would prefer to back it up with a scan. Now, you will excuse me while I see to my patient. I’ll keep you posted."

He turned on his heel and marched back into the ICU.

"Did he just throw us out, or what?" Veers asked with a look at Piett.

The admiral shrugged.

"I never said he was nice. He’s good at his job, though," was his reply.

Some time later, Hanley was immersed in the scan report.

"That’s impossible," he muttered under his breath. "There must be a reason for his breathing impairment and his cardiac problem. I just know there is."

He was loathe to turn to any of the other medical officers on board for their input, if only for the sake of his patient’s peace of mind. A man who kept his own medidroid would not appreciate being turned into a study subject for a whole group of physicians. Thus, Hanley had restricted access to Vader to himself and the one 2-1B unit that assisted him.

Clearing the report from his computer screen, he rubbed tired eyes and leaned back in his chair. He had spent the last three hours turning Darth Vader inside out, trying to determine what exactly was wrong with the man. His lungs and heart were definitely not the problem; Vader’s lung capacity matched that of an athlete, and his heart was one of the strongest Hanley had ever seen in his career. Both were adequate for a man of Vader’s size and muscle development. Obviously, the Sith kept in excellent shape. Hanley silently wondered if there was a single man on board the Executor who could take Vader up when it came to sheer physical fitness. Oh, there were bound to be a few men stronger than Vader, but these were slower and less well coordinated. Others might be faster, more agile, but lacked Vader’s height and strength.

No, Vader’s health problems were not caused by his heart and lungs, at least not directly. It was obvious to Hanley that the respiratory muscles were paralyzed, and thus Vader simply could not draw enough air into his lungs to survive for long without external help. The muscles themselves, including the diaphragm, were as well developed as could be expected from someone who worked out on a regular basis. In addition, his heartbeat dropped to a mere thirty beats per minute without external stimulus. The life support unit Vader wore as an integral part of his suit acted more like a pacemaker for both heart and lungs, supplying them with the impulse necessary to work according to his body’s need for oxygen.

No, it had to be his nervous system. But where? Hanley got nice, strong impulses from the medulla oblongata, the brain stem, on the scan, and the broken neck Vader had suffered some time in his youth had been expertly repaired. The crushed vertebrae had been replaced with implants, and his nerve roots with cybernetic ones. Without them, Lord Darth Vader would be a helpless quadraplegic, paralyzed from the neck down and dependent on others to feed him, turn him over in bed, even clean him up.

Or had they? Hanley sat up in his chair, ramrod straight. What, he mused, if only part of the nerve roots had been repaired? What if the ones responsible for respiratory and cardiac function had been left out, considered too damaged even for that kind of repair at the time? He called up the scan again, enhancing the picture until it became too fuzzy to actually see anything.

"Damn", he muttered under his breath and got up to stalk into the ICU unit

"2-1B, I need another scan of Lord Vader’s neck, highest resolution."

"Yes, Sir," the droid replied and swiftly reset the scanner. "On screen now, Sir."

Hanley leaned closer to the screen, until he nearly touched it with his nose.

"Enhance area Delta 2", he ordered.

The 2-1B complied, and the screen changed to a large picture of one cybernetic nerve root snaking its way from the artificial vertebrae down. Hanley studied it, imprinting the tiniest details into his memory when he saw it. The structure that did not belong there.

"Oh gods of my ancestors, have mercy," he breathed. "2-1B, I need a scan of the nerve impulses in the cybernetic nerve root directly above screen area Delta 2, section 1 and below Delta 2, section 3."

"Scanning, Doctor. The pattern appears to be different. How is that possible?"

"Because somebody put an interfering transmitter in there. Prepare the patient for surgery."

"But, Sir, is that wise? He appears to be waking up."

Hanley looked down at Vader; the Sith Lord’s eyelids fluttered, and a low groan escaped the man’s throat.

"I don’t care. Frankly, I don’t want him to wake up now. Sedate him immediately."

"But, Sir..." the droid protested.

"I said now!" Hanley hissed, and stalked out of the room to change into scrubs.

2-1B injected Vader with a sedative, and the Dark Lord slipped into a drug induced sleep.

Two hours later, Hanley removed the last of the transmitters attached to Vader’s cybernetic nerves and slowly retracted the instruments from the tiny cuts in Vader’s neck. Vader was placed face down on the operating table. Hanley had opted for a minimum invasive technique that allowed him to see what he was doing on a large screen, while being less of a strain on the patient at the same time.

"Okay, 2-1B, take him off the pacemaker now. Let’s see if his heart beats without help."

The droid, who had been assisting Hanley, complied immediately. Vader’s heart faltered, raced, then settled into a healthy rhythm.

"Goo," Hanley observed. "Very good. Give him a minute, then take him off the respirator."

2-1B did exactly as ordered. For a moment, Vader’s heartbeat picked up again before he drew his first independent breath. But soon he was breathing regularly, without help. His heart beat at a steady 68 beats per minute, perfectly normal.

"Yes!" Hanley crowed. "We did it! Close him up, and move him back to the ICU. But continue to monitor him. I don’t want anything to go wrong with him."

On the bridge, Admiral Piett had been pacing for hours now, much to the silent amusement of his closest friend on board, General Maximilian Veers.

"You worry too much, Tomas," he observed. "You’re going to wear down the floor if you keep it up, and how are you going to explain that to him?"

Piett stopped, gave Veers a strange look, and threw up his hands in disgust.

"I give up! I’m going down to sickbay and check for myself now," he announced. "Captain Durreen, you have the bridge."

He stalked out at a quick pace, not even waiting for Veers.

The general shook his head and followed, although he had to run in order to catch up with Piett before he reached the turbo lift.

Hanley came back into the reception and emergency treatment area just as Veers and Piett entered.

"Gentlemen, I was about to call you," he began. "Surgery went well, and Lord Vader should wake up soon now."

"Surgery?" Piett echoed. "I was not aware of any injuries that made an operation necessary."

"He didn’t have any. But he did have this."

Hanley threw a small, clear plastic container to Piett; the admiral caught it effortlessly and looked at the tiny specks inside.

"What are these?" he asked.

"You could call them interference transmitters. Lord Vader had his neck broken, years ago, and these little buggers were implanted either along with or shortly after the cybernetic nerves that repaired the damage to his nervous system. They filtered out all but the strongest nerve impulses through the cybernetic system to his heart and lungs, making him dependant on a respirator and pacemaker."

"What?" Piett turned red with anger. "Who would do something like that to a sentient being?"

Veers, standing next to him, simply balled his fists. This was unbelievable, and yet Piett held the proof in his hands.

"Do you really want to know?" he asked quietly. "I know only one person powerful enough to do that to Darth Vader."

Piett gulped. "There’s no proof. But if you’re right, we’re all in deep..."

"... Bantha Poodoo," Veers finished the sentence for him. "He'll be stark raving mad when he finds out."

Hanley looked from Piett to Veers and back again. "Care to enlighten me, gentlemen? And what in the galaxy is Bantha Poodoo?"

"Oh," Veers said lightly, "it’s usually translated as Bantha fodder, but it actually means excrement. Now, can we see Lord Vader?"

"Of course. He should be awake by now."

Hanley ushered them into the ICU. Vader had been placed back in the diagnostic bed, surrounded by medical monitors. He seemed to be resting comfortably.

Piett stepped closer to the bed, eager to see that the Sith Lord was indeed going to be alright, but at the same time reluctant to interrupt his rest.

"Lord Vader?" he asked quietly.

Vader’s eyelids fluttered open, he slowly turned his head towards Piett, and the admiral noticed that the blue eyes did not quite focus.

"Admiral?" he asked in a slightly raspy voice. "What happened?"

"We were hoping you could tell us. How are you feeling?"

"My head hurts," was the simple reply.

Vader frowned, trying again to focus his eyes on Piett. His head felt as if an AT-AT was tap-dancing on it, and he was so damned tired. Somebody touched his shoulder; he turned his head, and saw something blurry close to his eyes. A hand?

"How many fingers am I holding up?" an unknown voice asked.

Oh, the old check for concussion... Vader groaned, decided he did not even want to try before the AT-AT danced somewhere else than on his head, and allowed his eyelids to drop close. They were too heavy anyway.

"Okay, what day is it?" the voice asked again.

"Depends," Vader mumbled. "How long was I out?"

The voice chuckled. "Good answer. Don’t worry, you’re going to be alright. Just rest now."

Who’s worrying? Vader wanted to say, but found that he was too tired to do so. All he wanted right now was rest his eyes, and get that damned AT- AT off his skull. A moment later, he was sound asleep.

Hanley straightened up.

"He’s going to be right as rain in a few days," he said, still chuckling. "His sense of humor definitely has not been impaired."

"I disagree, Doctor. Lord Vader never displayed a sense of humor before," Veers commented dryly.

"Except when he was going to kill someone," Piett added. "This is not normal for him."

Dr. Hanley raised his eyebrows.

"Chalk it up to his weakened and sedated state, then. He was quite coherent for someone just waking up from anesthesia. Now, gentlemen, let him get some rest. You can see him again tomorrow, if you wish." He ushered the two officers out again.

"Is it just me," Veers asked Piett in the corridor, "or have we just been thrown out again?"

Chapter 3

The Truth Is Revealed

Piett ran his hands over his face. Suddenly, he felt very tired.

"Does it matter?" he asked. "Lord Vader will go berserk when he hears about those implants."

"He certainly will, my friend," Veers nodded gravely, "he certainly will." He patted Piett's shoulder. "It's been a long day. Don't know about you, but I could use a stiff drink."

"Not yet. I have to give the techs the go-ahead to take the TIE apart first. Garin wanted to start right away," Piett replied and started walking towards the hangar.

Veers frowned and followed him.

"Do you think that's wise? I know he saved Lord Vader, but his team also prepared the fighter."

Piett smiled thinly. "That's why I read their conduct reports and had a scanning crew check out the fighter first. I did more than just pace on the bridge, my friend."

Veers chuckled. "You're always a step ahead, Tomas. Been taking lessons from Lord Vader again, have you?"

The other man shrugged. "Well, you have to when you work for him. He does not take incompetence lightly." He sighed. "Anyway, the scan came up negative. No sign of explosives."

"That's still no proof that the ship hasn't been tampered with."

"No, it's not. But the conduct reports look alright, too. A few minor points, but nothing serious. Not too clean, either."

"A perfect report would be a bad thing?" Veers raised his eyebrows.

"Naturally," Piett nodded. "Only a man who has too much to lose would take care to keep his record perfect. A spy, perhaps, or a rebel agent." He waved his hand dismissively.

Veers shook his head, slightly amused. "If you ever decide to leave the fleet, you could start a career with Imperial Intelligence."

His friend grimaced. "Never. I hate this backstabbing spy business."

"Then why do you know so much about it?" Veers asked.

"I guess it falls under the header of 'know thine enemy'," Piett replied.

Veers' curiosity was piqued.

"Tell me, then," he inquired, "how many rebel spies do we have on board?"

Piett laughed at that. "Surprisingly, none. But we do have a number of II agents."

Veers stopped dead in his tracks. "You're kidding! Our own people are spying on us?"

Piett snorted. "I would hardly call them our own people. And yes, we are under constant surveillance. After all, this ship is the largest ever built, and until the new Death Star is operational, it is also the most powerful weapon the Empire has."

"But that means..." Veers shook his head.

"... that the Emperor will know about the accident soon, if he doesn't already," Piett finished the sentence for him. He turned to his friend and regarded him with a grim look in his eyes. "Trust no-one, my friend. We're heading for dangerous times, and your prowess on the battlefield will not help you in this fight."

In the main hangar, Staff Sergeant Torb Garin and his team of four snapped to attention as the doors opened and the two highest ranking officers entered.

"Sir!" he bellowed.

Piett waved his hand.

"At ease," he ordered.

The team assumed the formal at-ease posture.

"Gentlemen, I want you to take this ship apart until you've found the reason for the failure. Use any means you deem necessary. You will report to me personally. Furthermore, you are free from all other duties until further notice."

"Yes, Sir! Thank you, Sir!"

"Well, what are you waiting for? Get to it!"

"Sir, if I may," Garin began, clearly insecure.

"Yes, Sergeant?" Piett regarded him curiously. What now?

"I... uh... I mean, my men and I were wondering about Lord Vader. Is he going to be alright, Sir?"

Piett's expression softened somewhat. "Thanks to you and your team, Sergeant, he will be. And he will be most displeased if you don't have some answers for him by the time he is up and about again," he said.

A broad grin appeared on Garin's face.

"Sir, yes, Sir!" he bellowed at the top of his lungs. "You heard the admiral, boys, let's get this show on the road! Zev, you take the flight recorder. I want the data in that thing secured and I want it now! Jay, Kenny, you start on her solar panels. Avery, you'll assist me."

The team scrambled to follow their sergeant's orders.

Piett was up earlier than usual the next morning. He had the distinct feeling that Dr. Hanley would not wait for his and Veers' presence before breaking the truth to Lord Vader, and Force only knew how Vader would react. No, that wasn't true; Piett and Veers both had a pretty good idea of what Lord Vader's reaction would be. The term 'blind rage' came to mind, as well as 'mindless violence'. Not that he could blame the man; he had every right to be upset. For the thousandth time Piett wondered why he wanted to be present at all. Of course, he did not want to lose his CMO. Hanley certainly had no idea what Vader was capable of.

Sighing, Piett palmed open the door to Veers' quarters. The general was just pulling his boots on, uniform impeccable as ever, hair still slightly damp from the shower.

"You're up early, Tomas," Veers greeted him. "Thought I would have to wake you."

"Not everybody is such an early bird like you, Max. But I can manage getting up in the middle of the night if I have to," Piett grumbled. "Come on, I don't want to be late."

Darth Vader gradually came back to awareness. First he felt the throbbing pain in the left side of his skull, then the aches and pains all over his upper body. He could hear the soft clicks, beeps and whirrs of medical equipment nearby. Strange that he had never noticed all those sounds in his quarters before. He slowly opened his eyes. These were not his quarters at all.

I must be in sickbay, he mused. How under the stars did I end up here?

Pushing himself up on his elbows, he looked around. Getting out of bed was out of the question, since he was hooked up to a stationery life support system. A small oxygen mask covered the lower part of his face, and what seemed like a myriad of wires ran from his body to various monitors surrounding the bed. But there had to be a medic or at least a droid around!

"You're awake!"

Vader turned his head in the direction of the strange voice.

"Obviously", he stated. "And who are you?"

"Forgive me. I am Dr. Parker Hanley, Chief Medical Officer," Hanley introduced himself. "And how are we feeling this morning, Lord Vader?"

Vader rolled his eyes. Why did medical personnel always include themselves when inquiring about a patient's well being?

"I feel fine, except for a headache," he finally said. "And you are extremely pleased with yourself, although you did not get much sleep last night and your left knee is giving you trouble," he added in a dry voice.

"What?" Hanley was dumbfounded. How could Vader know? He shook his head. "Never mind. I'd like to run a few tests, if you don't mind."

"In fact, I do." Vader sat up in bed, ignoring the wave of dizziness that hit him. He must not show any weakness, or this quack might decide to keep him in sickbay for Force only knew how long, a thought Vader did not relish. "I would rather return to my quarters. Where is my suit?"

"I'm afraid we had to cut it off you." Hanley adjusted the head of the bed and fluffed up the pillows so Vader could lean back comfortably.

"Understandable," Vader nodded. "I have spares in my quarters. Have one brought here."

"After I've examined you, My lord. And only if I'm satisfied with the results."

Vader glared at him; how dare he?

"You are trying my patience, Doctor", he rumbled.

"Really?" Hanley asked lightly and held up two fingers. "How many fingers?"

"Two. Are you satisfied now?"

"Very good. What is the last thing you remember?"

"I... " Vader was taken aback by the question.

Force be damned, what had happened? His head was still pounding, making it hard to concentrate.

"I was on the bridge," he recounted, "Piett reported to me that the new TIE Avengers had arrived. I went to the hangar and took one out for a test flight. She flies like a dream. And then... then... I don't know. Something must have happened, but I can't remember."

He whispered the last words. His inability to recall the event that brought him to sickbay bothered him more than he wanted to admit.

"It's alright," Hanley said, patting his shoulder. Vader gave him a warning glance that was completely lost on Hanley. "There was an accident. One of the engines exploded. You were lucky, though. You only suffered a mild concussion and a number of bruises. Your recollection of the last minutes before the explosion may return later, or never. But I would not worry about it too much."

"So, can I go?" Vader inquired. After I have my mobile life support back, he added silently.

"I would prefer if you stayed and rested for a while. A day or two, perhaps. But I can certainly take you off the monitors now," Hanley answered and reached for the oxygen mask.

Vader nearly bolted from the bed.

"What do you think you're doing?" the Dark Lord shouted, grabbing Hanley's arm to stop him when another wave of dizziness hit him. He groaned, shaking his head to clear his suddenly fuzzy brain.

"Easy, Lord Vader. Told you you'd better stay and rest." Gently, but firmly Hanley pressed him back into the pillows.

"You don't understand. I can't..." Vader began, but Hanley interrupted him: "Yes, you can."

He calmly removed the oxygen mask and switched off the monitors while the Sith Lord was still too shaken to resist.

"No... you don't understand", Vader moaned, "I cannot brea..." He stopped short as realization hit him. Inhaling deeply, he put a hand on his chest.

"I can breathe", he whispered. "I can't believe it! How is that possible?"

The emotions that ran through him clearly showed on his face; joy, happiness, fear that this would not last.

"Relax," Hanley told him. "I will explain everything to you, but I want you to stay calm. You're still healing."

Vader nodded, his mind numb from the thousand questions that ran through it simultaneously.

"My lungs...", he began.

"...are perfectly alright. Always were, in fact," Hanley interrupted him again.

"But I was told I would never be able to breathe without a respirator again. That I would be dependent on artificial life support for the rest of my natural life," Darth Vader choked out.

Hanley seated himself on the edge of the bed, laying a hand on Vader's forearm. The man was clearly in shock from this sudden revelation. Dr. Hanley knew he had to take this slowly, one step at the time.

"Tell me, did you inhale any noxious fumes at the time you broke your neck?" he asked.

Vader nodded slowly.

"Yes," he said. "I fell into an active volcanic crater. The smoke was highly caustic and burned my lungs."

"I see. But still, your lungs were not the problem. I only found minimal scarring of the alveoles when I examined you. You didn't inhale enough of the smoke to do much damage, probably due to the broken neck. Certainly not enough to significantly reduce your lung capacity. No, the problem always was in your nervous system."

Vader frowned.

"But that was repaired. I regained full mobility right after surgery." He looked up at Hanley. "And the doctors told me my lungs were burned badly," he added.

Veers and Piett opened the door to the ICU just in time to hear Vader say: "And the doctors told me my lungs were burned badly."

"Lord Vader," Piett greeted his superior with a bow, "I am glad you are feeling better."

Vader turned his head to face them, slightly irritated at the interruption. "Admiral Piett, General Veers. What are you doing here?"

"You gave us cause for concern, My lord," Veers answered smoothly. "You nearly died in that accident yesterday, and it is certainly good to see that you are recovering."

Vader felt strangely touched by Veers' words. "Thank you, General." He turned his full attention back to Dr. Hanley. "You still owe me an explanation."

Hanley nodded slowly, not quite sure how he should break the news to his patient. He finally opted for the direct approach; Lord Vader was too intelligent not to figure out the truth eventually, now that he had the first parts of the puzzle. But he was also not a very patient man. Better to get it over with now.

"When I examined you yesterday, I was just as puzzled by your inability to breathe as you are now. I took a closer look at the cybernetic replacements of your vertebrae and nerve roots, and found these." He reached into his pocket and produced a small plastic container which he pressed into Vader's hand. The Dark Lord held it up and looked at it, noticing the tiny electronic devices inside.

"What are these?" he inquired. "They look like transmitters, but I've never seen that particular design before."

"They are transmitters, My lord. Interference transmitters which blocked the nerve impulses to your heart and lungs. I surgically removed them. You have been breathing on your own ever since."

Vader froze. This could not be possible. This would mean... no, no, he could not believe that!

"No...," he whispered, his voice rough. His hands started to shake. "That's impossible. You must be wrong. There must be another explanation."

He was grasping for straws, he knew it, but the alternative would make more than half his life meaningless. And yet, it was true. He knew it.

"Lord Vader, it is the truth. Somebody deliberately implanted you with these devices. I don't know why, but it is the truth."

"I know. Somehow, I've always known."

Vader drew a deep, shuddering breath, trying desperately to keep control of his emotions.

"I would like to be alone for a while," he asked, still in that rough whisper. He didn't dare speak louder for fear he would scream.

Hanley lightly touched his shoulder, and the Dark Lord flinched.

"If you would like a sedative," he offered.

"No. Just leave me alone," Vader choked out.

He felt his grip on sanity slip with every passing second.

In this moment, Piett noticed that a tray with instruments on a shelf nearby started to rattle. He pointed it out to Veers, who nodded.

"Come, Doctor. We should really leave Lord Vader alone now," Veers said calmly.

Hanley looked at him as if he had lost his mind.

"I don't think so," he replied.

Another tray started to rattle, and one of the monitors surrounding the bed wobbled on its stand.

"Frankly, I don't care what you think, Doctor," Piett shot back. "Get out now!"

Grabbing the protesting medic by the arm, he hurled him out of the room with Veers' help. No sooner had the door closed behind the three men when the first scream rent the air. It did not sound like anything a human throat could produce, more like the howling of an enraged animal. Something heavy hit the door, leaving a dent in its metal surface.

"What is happening in there?" Hanley shouted. "What is he doing to my sickbay?"

He tried to go back in, but Piett and Veers held him back by both his arms.

"Don't!" Piett commanded. "You wouldn't survive it."

"What are you talking about?" Hanley turned face to Piett, enraged that the man tried to stop him from doing his job. "He needs help, dammit!"

"Right now, you wouldn't be able to reach him before he killed you, Doctor. How do you think that would help him?" Piett shouted back over the noise of more equipment flying around and hitting the walls.

On the Rebel Alliance Cruiser Freedom, Luke Skywalker woke up screaming.

"Father!" he cried.

He was breathing heavily, realizing that he was in his own cabin, not the sickbay of an Imperial Star Destroyer. Calming himself with difficulty, he tried to recall the details of his vision. He did not even question that is was more than a nightmare; Luke Skywalker knew how nightmares felt, and this had all the markings of a Force vision.

Darth Vader... his father!... had been there, in a room that looked like a sickbay. He was in pain, not so much physical as mental and emotional pain. He was confused, and angry, and suffering. He had called out to Luke in agony, and Luke made a decision.

It took more than ten minutes for the noise from the ICU to subside and finally die down completely.

The three men waited in silence for another two minutes before Veers spoke up: "You think we can risk it now?"

"Sounds like he's exhausted himself for the moment," Piett replied. "I say we go in."

He palmed open the door; it got stuck halfway due to the dent in its surface, but the men were able to squeeze through. They were greeted by eerie silence and total destruction. Not a single unit had remained in its place. The bed had been turned on its side. The floor was littered with debris and shards of broken glass. Even parts of the ceiling had been ripped down, revealing cables and pipes, some of which where broken as well.

"What happened here?" Hanley whispered. He could hardly believe his eyes.

Veers whistled.

"Now that's what I call a temper tantrum," he observed.

Piett gave him a dirty look.

"This is not funny," he stated.

"Right. Let's go and look for Lord Vader. He must be somewhere in here."

They found him easily enough, behind the overturned bed. Vader was sitting on the floor, knees drawn up to his chest, arms wrapped around his knees, staring straight ahead and shivering violently. Veers dropped to one knee beside him, gently taking his face in both hands.

"Lord Vader, can you hear me?" he asked quietly.

Darth Vader raised his head slowly and gazed at Veers out of blue eyes filled with pain.

"I'm cold," he managed through chattering teeth. His voice was hoarse.

"You're in shock. Do you think you can stand up if I help you?"

Vader nodded. Again, his movements were painfully slow. Veers took his arm and pulled him to his feet; the Dark Lord leaned heavily against him, and the General supported most of Vader's weight. Vader looked around him and blinked, for the first time realizing the scene of destruction.

"Did I do that?" he asked he bewilderment.

Clearly, he had no recollection of his own actions.

"Don't worry about that. Let's get you someplace warmer."

Veers steered the stumbling Lord Vader towards the door, carefully avoiding the broken glass on the floor, when Piett appeared at their side with a blanket which he wrapped around Vader's shoulders.

Dr. Hanley was still somewhere in the ICU, muttering and shaking his head, when the two officers settled Vader on one of the beds in the emergency room.

"I'll try to find a 2-1B unit," Piett announced. "Hanley is not going to be any help now."

He left, and soon returned with the same droid that had been assisting Hanley earlier. The droid quickly examined Vader.

"The patient is in shock. I will administer a sedative," the machine said, producing a syringe.

"No," Vader croaked. He was still shivering, although covered with several blankets. "No drugs."

Despite its skull-like metal face, the droid managed to look concerned.

"Sir, you have been severely traumatized. You should allow me to sedate you," it urged.

"No!" Vader insisted stubbornly. "I will not be drugged!"

"As you wish."

"How does some hot tea sound, then?" Piett asked softly. Vader looked up at him, surprised by the concern in the admiral's voice.

He nodded. At least he could trust Piett not to drug him into unconsciousness. Veers helped him into a sitting position, and Piett pressed a styrofoam cup into Vader's shaking hands. He had to help Vader raise it to his lips, though.

The tea was hot, almost burning his tongue, and extremely sweet. The Dark Lord almost choked on the first sip, but managed to drink the tea without spilling any. The hot liquid helped to banish the chill from his bones and calm his rattled nerves. He felt his eyelids grow heavy again. Vader tried hard to stay awake, but his violent outburst took his toll on him, and he fell asleep with his head on Veers' shoulder.

Veers gently lowered the sleeping Sith onto the pillows.

"Out like a light," he whispered. "What did you put in that tea?"

"Sugar," Piett replied dryly. "Lots of sugar."

"And?"

With a lopsided grin, Piett produced the empty halves of two small blue capsules from his pocket.

"Remember how I had trouble sleeping a couple months ago, right after Lord Vader promoted me? I knew enough sugar would mask the taste of these."

Chapter 4

Team Work

Two days later, Garin was stumped. On the first day, he and his team had taken the Avenger apart to its most basic components. It quickly became clear that the explosion had been caused by a failure of the cooling system, combined with a fault in an internal sensor that should have shut off the overheating engines. The resulting explosion of engine No. 2 completely destroyed its coolant pump. The pump of engine No. 3, however, also showed signs of burning out that were not a result of the explosion. But what caused the pumps to burn out in the first place? They had cross-checked every part of the craft with the technical specifications given to them by the manufacturer, Siena Fleet Systems, and still they came up empty. Everything was as it should be according to the manuals, but still the pumps had failed.

The second day, they had taken samples of all materials the fighter consisted of, from its solar panels to the hull, from tubing to wires, and even from the lubricants that kept its moving parts from freezing into place in the absolute zero of space. They painstakingly bagged and labeled each sample and sent it to the Executor's on-board laboratory for further testing.

Now, on the third morning after the accident, Garin walked around the remains of the craft, alternately rubbing his chin and running his fingers through his hair. He knew he had missed something, but what? To make matters worse, a communication from Siena Fleet Systems claimed that only a pilot error could have been the cause of the accident. No-one who had ever flown with Darth Vader, or serviced a craft Vader used, believed this claim. It was simply too ridiculous to even consider.

Tugging at his hair again, Garin made his decision. He picked up the No. 3 engine's coolant pump and tucked it under his arm.

With an air of exasperation, he addressed his team: "I'll be in sickbay. Maybe Lord Vader can solve this riddle."

"Where shall we send your stuff?" Zev called after his retreating back.

After what Veers had jokingly called his 'temper tantrum', Darth Vader had plunged into the deepest, blackest depression. He barely touched any food offered to him by the medidroid. He refused any medication, although his sleep was disturbed by nightmares almost as soon as he closed his eyes. Neither did he demand to be released from sickbay anymore. He just lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Nothing seemed to spark the Sith Lord's interest. He barely reacted when spoken to. Not even Hanley's persistent poking and prodding seemed to matter to him. When asked something, he answered in monosyllables, if at all. It was as if the fire in him had gone out.

Torb Garin did not have to search long to find Lord Vader. Although the Executor's sickbay was of adequate size for the ship's quarter million crew, it had only a few private rooms, only one of which was currently in use.

Garin entered the small room, trying to make as little noise as possible. He had no wish to disturb Lord Vader should the Sith Lord be asleep; after all, he valued his life and his ability to breathe. But the man in the bed, although he seemed awake, did not acknowledge his presence. He simply continued to stare unseeingly at the ceiling. Garin stepped closer. Lord Vader looked terrible. A large purple scar ran over his left cheek, another was on his scalp. Both stood out clearly against his deathly pale skin. He obviously had not shaved since the accident; a three-day beard covered the lower half of his face, and the stubby growth of new hair his scalp where it was not scarred. The bruise on his left temple had faded to a greenish yellow. But worst were his eyes. They were blue, and completely void of any emotion. Only the dark circles under them spoke of the inner demons Vader was battling.

Garin realized he was staring and cleared his throat.

"My lord, I am Sergeant Garin", he began. "I have come to report my findings on the explosion in the TIE Avenger." He shifted nervously. "We - my team and I - have determined that the cause is a failure in the coolant system. We have narrowed it down to the coolant pump itself, but were unable to find the fault. According to the manuals, the pump should not fail, but it has."

He paused, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. Vader still did not even look at him. Garin wondered if the man had heard a single word of what he had said so far. Daringly, he held the pump into Vader's field of vision, and proceeded to explain its workings in detail. He nearly dropped the pump when, after a few minutes of detailed technical explanations, Darth Vader suddenly blinked and focused his eyes on him.

"I know how that thing works, Sergeant. I designed the Avenger," the Dark Lord stated in a rough, tired voice. "What do you want from me?"

"My lord!" Garin exclaimed, shocked by the sudden change. "I... I was wondering if you remembered something of the accident that might help us determine the cause."

"I see." Vader closed his eyes. "I cannot recall the explosion, nor the last minutes preceding it."

"I understand, My lord. Maybe your expertise as the designer... "

"Leave me alone," Vader demanded, cutting Garin off in mid sentence.

"My lord," Garin continued, "Sienar Fleet Systems claim the explosion was caused by a pilot error. I can't believe that. It's impossible."

Vader glared at him.

"I just told you I can't remember," he snarled.

Garin held Vader's gaze; he would not, could not back down now.

"It has to be a design flaw," he said flatly, putting the pump on the nightstand.

Vader's eyes narrowed.

"Are you suggesting I made an error there?" he asked in a cold tone.

"No. I'm trying to find the cause, not place the guilt," Garin shot back.

"Give me the pump," Vader snapped, sitting up in bed so abruptly that the room started to spin madly before his eyes.

"Sir, are you alright?" Garin's voice seemed to come from a distance. Vader shook his head, blinking rapidly to clear his vision.

"Just got up to fast. I have been in bed too long," Vader grated out between clenched teeth.

Taking the coolant pump from Garin's hands, he turned it over, looked at it, and finally shook his head.

"It's burned out alright. This should not have happened," he mused. "I must see the rest of the craft."

Throwing back the covers and swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, he stood.

"Like this?" Garin exclaimed, horrified.

"What?" Vader looked at Garin, caught his expression, than looked down at himself, realizing for the first time that he was wearing nothing but a flimsy hospital shirt. The kind that was open in the back, allowing it to be changed by the medical staff without turning the patient over. Unfortunately, it also allowed for a rather detailed rear view of the patient.

"Oh," Vader remarked. "Of course, this won't do."

He looked around. The room did not even have a closet, only the bed, nightstand, a comm unit, and a fresher unit; then, he remembered Hanley telling him they had to cut his suit off him.

"Find me something to wear, Sergeant," he ordered.

Grasping behind himself, he pulled the thin fabric together to at least keep a bit of dignity and stalked towards the fresher unit.

"Uh.. how?" Garin called after him.

Vader turned around. Did he have to explain everything? The man was really trying his patience!

"Call quartermaster's and have them send something. A uniform, coveralls, I don't care. And don't forget the boots!"

Walking into the fresher unit, Vader pulled the door closed and shed the offending garment in one fluid motion. He dropped the shirt and stepped in front of the sink; the mirrored cabinet above it threw back his reflection.

"Ugh," Vader exclaimed, rearing back as he saw himself in a mirror for the first time in years. He really looked a sight.

'Now I even scare myself', he mused, chuckling quietly to himself. 'And to think that some believe my mask is supposed to frighten people...'

Leaning closer to his reflection, he said: "You look like death warmed over, old boy. Well, let's see what we can do about this."

Scratching the stubble on his chin, he decided to take a shower first.

The hot water loosened up his stiff muscles; Vader luxuriated in the feeling and allowed the water to pour over his body for a few minutes before reaching for the soap. Having spent the early years of his childhood as a slave on the desert world of Tattooine, a shower still held a special feel for Darth Vader, although he had lived most of his later years in space and on planets where water was not a rare commodity. On Tattooine, only the rich could afford a regular bath or a shower. For the poor and the slaves, it was dry sand or a bowl of soapy water at best.

Having finished his shower, Vader wrapped a towel around his waist and stepped in front of the mirror again. Already his appearance was much better. His skin was flushed pink by the hot water. Of course, there was nothing he could do about his scars, but at least he did not look like something that should have been buried days ago anymore. He was also feeling much better.

Trying to decide whether he should shave only his beard or the hair growing on his head as well - having to comb or brush with the scars he had was a nuisance, and painful too - he opened the cabinet in search for something to shave with. It was empty except for a toothbrush and toothpaste, a small bottle of shaving cream, and a tiny disposable razor. Vader picked the razor up with this thumb and forefinger and brought it close to his eyes for inspection.

"Oh, dear," he sighed.

There was no way he would be able to shave his head as well with this thing. In fact, he would be lucky if it wasn't dull before he was done scratching the stubble from his chin. With a deep sigh and a shake of his head, he settled to the task.

When Vader finally exited the fresher, clean shaven and with the towel still wrapped around his waist, Garin was still talking on the comm.

"No, this is not a joke," Vader heard him say in an exasperated tone. "For the hundredth time, just send some clothes here for Lord Vader!"

"I told you before, I'm not falling for this," the man on the other end of the line answered. "And I'm warning you for the last time. One more prank call, and I will report you, Sergeant."

He was about to cut the connection when Vader walked in front of the comm unit.

"Is there a problem?" he asked.

"And who would you be?" the other sneered. "Oh, wait, let me guess. Of course you are Lord Vader, right?"

"In fact, I am," Vader told him. "And I would appreciate a more civil tone from you, Lieutenant," he added coolly.

"Listen, buddy, I've about had it with you and your friend," the lieutenant raved. "I have some work to do here, so you either stop bothering me or you're gonna find yourself in the brig in no time! Lord Vader will certainly not appreciate you impersonating him. Do I make myself clear?"

Vader felt his jaw drop.

"Buddy?" he echoed.

This moron had actually called him buddy? And threatened him with the brig? He blinked, perplexed, when he suddenly found himself staring at a blank screen. The lieutenant had cut the connection.

Belatedly, it dawned to Vader that the man simply had not recognized him without the dreaded black mask. But to assume he was an impostor? He sure hoped this was not a common occurrence on board the Executor! He hit the redial button. After a few seconds, the lieutenant was on the screen again.

"You!" the man started angrily. "I just told you..."

"I am Darth Vader," Vader interrupted him, reaching out with the Force to squeeze the man's windpipe just enough to get his attention. The lieutenant started to cough as his throat constricted. "Now get someone to sickbay with some clothes for me or get me someone on the line with some brains. Do you understand?"

The lieutenant turned an ugly shade of green.

"M... My lord," he stammered.

Vader released him, and the man sucked the air in as if he was afraid it was his last breath. It might very well be, after all.

"I... I... I'm sorry, My lord. I didn't... I mean... I... I need..." He gulped and continued in a scared whisper: "I need a requisition form, My lord. Uh.. and your size, please?"

"Requisition form?" Vader echoed. "Did I hear you correctly?"

The lieutenant's face turned from green to a bright red.

"It's... regulations, My lord", he squeaked.

"You don't expect me to come down to you, wearing nothing but a towel and a smile, to fill out a form, do you, Lieutenant?" Vader asked him sweetly.

From the corner of his eye, he could see Garin clamp his hand over his mouth to stifle his laughter.

Someone shoved the Lieutenant out of the picture to take his place.

"Excuse me, My lord, I believe the Lieutenant is not feeling too well", the newcomer, a young ensign, said with a forced smile. "If you could give me your size, I'll bring something right away."

Vader told him, and the ensign shook his head. "I'm afraid we only have mechanic's coveralls and trooper uniforms in that size. There aren't many men on board with your built, Sir."

"Never mind, mechanic's coveralls are fine." Vader waved his hand dismissively.

"I'm already on my way, Sir." The ensign cut the connection.

Vader sat down on the bed. "Bureaucrats," he muttered, making the word sound like an obscenity.

The ensign arrived only a few minutes later, carrying a box and a datapad. Vader was already pacing the room impatiently.

"What kept you?" he snarled.

"Had to call the meds first, My lord," the ensign replied, handing him the box. "The lieutenant didn't look too hot, Sir."

"Understandable," Vader nodded. He checked the contents of the box. Boots, shorts, undershirt, socks, coveralls, all in his size.

"If you'd just sign here, Sir," the ensign said, sticking the datapad under his nose.

Vader scribbled his name on the pad and headed for the fresher, box tucked under his arm.

"Wait, Sir," he ensign called, producing a measuring tape. On Vader's frown, he quickly added: "I'll just take your measurements, won't be a minute, and we'll have some proper uniforms for you by tonight."

Vader almost smiled at that. Finally someone was using the brains they were born with!

"Of course, ensign."

He nodded, and allowed the ensign to take his measurements. As promised, it took less than a minute, and Vader could finally get dressed.

When Vader emerged from the fresher once more, dressed in crisp gray mechanic's coveralls and shiny new boots, the ensign had already left.

Motioning to Garin to accompany him, he left sickbay and headed for the main hangar. The sergeant almost had to run to keep up with Vader's long strides.

Vader slowed his steps when he entered the hangar and surveyed the room. Garin was still close on his heels, if a little out of breath. The parts of the Avenger covered a fair amount of room. It looked like they were strewn haphazardly across the floor, but to Vader's experienced eye they were neatly ordered by the place they had occupied in the small ship. Somebody had set up a table and several folding chairs nearby; the table was cluttered with manuals, thermos cans and empty cups. Several of the chairs were occupied by the men of Garin's team; upon Vader's entry, they scrambled to their feet.

Vader walked slowly around the remains of the craft, picking up a part here and there to look at it more closely, and putting it down again.

After a full circuit, he addressed Garin: "You have taken samples for the lab?"

"Yes, My lord. We're still waiting for some of the results, but I do not expect any breakthroughs from those," Garin replied.

The Dark Lord crossed his arms in front of his chest.

"You did a thorough job, Sergeant," he conceded. "We will learn little more from this wreck unless we take apart an intact fighter for comparison." Turning on his heel, he pointed at the next best Avenger. "We'll take this one."

Garin clapped his hands together. "Right, boys, you heard Lord Vader. Let's get to work! And don't forget to label the samples."

The team swarmed over the Avenger, picking up tools on the way, and began to disassemble the second fighter. Much to everybody's surprise, Lord Vader himself picked up a tool as well and started to work alongside the men.

Three hours later, a very irritated Darth Vader called a halt to the work.

"What is the matter with you?" he rumbled when the men had gathered. "I've never seen a team work together so badly. A bunch of green cadets could do better."

"I'm afraid it's you, My lord," one of the men spoke up.

"What? What do you mean?" Vader barked.

"We spend more energy pussy-footing around you than we actually use for work, Sir," the man continued. "Sorry, My lord."

Vader stared at him. Of course! How stupid. Being who he was, he had a reputation for a lot of things. Being a team player was not one of them. Instead of helping, he was actually hindering the team with his mere presence. The question was, how could he rectify this situation? He did not wish to leave. In fact, he found he enjoyed working on an actual piece of machinery once more. There had been little opportunity for that in the past years.

"You may be right, corporal," he acknowledged. "What is your name?"

"Uh.. Sorensen, My lord," the corporal answered.

Vader shook his head. "No. Your given name. You do use first names among yourselves, do you not?" Time to change perceptions a little.

"Why... yes, Sir. And it's Zev, Sir."

"Very good, Zev. And you?" Vader turned to the youngest member of the team, a short, skinny redhead.

"Kenny, My lord," the youngster whispered shyly.

"Kenny," Vader repeated. The others also introduced themselves with their first names, having caught on.

"Good," Vader finally said. "I shall call you by your first names, and you shall treat me like any other member of the team. Try to forget who I am, at least for the moment."

"Well, Sir," Zev began, scratching his head, "we can't really... I mean... I don't think we can call you Darth, Sir."

Vader froze. He realized he had almost gone about this the wrong way, or at least only half way. If he truly wanted to be regarded as just another team member, it would not help to have the men still call him by his title, or the name they had grown to fear. What a strange notion, anyway. For a moment, he wondered if he had truly gone mad now. But he quickly pushed that thought aside. It was time for some changes. He was not isolated by his mask anymore, he did not need to isolate himself now.

"No," he said slowly. "That won't do. Call me Anakin."

"Anakin." Zev nodded and smiled. "That's a pretty long name."

"Look who's talking," Jay chimed in, "Zevulon Iantine Sorensen III."

The others snickered, and even Vader' lips twitched. Then, the Dark Lord's eyes widened as he recognized the name. He remembered the scandal that had so upset the upper crust of Coruscant society a few years back.

"Zev Sorensen? As in Sorensen Enterprises?" he queried.

Zev blushed.

"I... um... I don't want this to be public knowledge," he entreated.

"I understand. Your little secret is safe with me," Vader nodded.

Indeed, being the heir to a multi-billion company could make things difficult for Zev. At least, Vader now understood how Zev was able to see the problem.

'He must have gone through the same at first', he mused.

"Alright, enough chatting, let's get back to work," Torb announced, making shooing gestures at them.

This time, Vader found himself working together with Zev under the Avenger's belly.

"Tell me, Zev," he said, reaching for a tool, "why did you run off to join the fleet?

"I didn't, really."

"Oh? Somehow, this is hard to believe, after the scandal you caused."

Zev smiled. "I guess I just wanted to have a normal life for a while before I took my place as heir. Grandmother agreed; she said it would give me a better perspective."

"A wise woman, your grandmother. Why not the academy?" Vader asked.

"Bah. In the academy, I still would have been Zevulon Iantine Sorensen III, pampered little billionaire's kid. This way, I'm simply Zev. Just another guy. Nothing special about me."

"I know what you mean."

They continued to work in companionable silence.

Chapter 5

Dinner with Lord Vader

Luke Skywalker swung his newly constructed lightsaber in a wide arc, deflecting another bolt from the remote. Having run its program, the remote settled on the floor and shut itself off.

Luke regarded the brilliant green blade for a moment before he switched it off with a satisfied nod and hooked the hilt to his belt. His new saber handled even better then the old one, his father's - Vader's? - which had been lost at Bespin. This was Luke's weapon, in the true sense of the word. He had designed and constructed it, following ancient Jedi tradition, and such it was a reflection of his own being. In a fight, it would be like a natural extension of his arm.

Luke summoned the remote to him with the Force to put it away when the door to the training room swished open to admit Leia Organa.

"Luke, I've been looking for you. Lando and Chewie have prepared the Falcon. We'll be leaving for Tattooine in an hour," she said.

Unsure of what to say, Luke smiled at her.

"Leia," he greeted her.

"What is it, Luke?"

He walked closer to her, taking her small hand into his own. Ever since his vision a few nights ago, he had felt uneasy. He knew he must address what the Force was showing him, yet he did not want to abandon Han and hurt Leia's feelings.

"There is something I need to talk to you about," he began. "I will not be coming with you."

"What?" Leia was appalled. "Luke, why? You cannot just back out now and leave Han to the Hutts!"

"I won't," he said, giving Leia's hand a reassuring squeeze. "I merely need to talk to an old friend first. I'll catch up with you later."

Leia regarded him with a frown. His duel with Vader on Bespin had changed Luke. Gone was the naive farmboy, replaced by a seasoned warrior. The young man had lost more than his right hand during that fight; he had lost the innocence of his soul.

"I had a vision, a few nights ago," Luke continued. "I'm not completely certain what it means, but I feel it's important."

"A vision, Luke? Are you sure it was not just a nightmare?"

Luke had been having nightmares for weeks after their return from Bespin; he still had them occasionally.

"I'm certain, Leia." He released her hand to brush a stray lock of hair from her forehead. "I must go to Dagobah and ask Master Yoda about it. Maybe he knows what to make of it." Luke smiled reassuringly at Leia. "I promise to meet you on Tattooine, Princess. I will not fail you, or Han," he said, unconsciously repeating the same words he had tried to allay Yoda's and Ben's fears with when he left Dagobah all those months ago.

Leia wrapped her arms around herself tightly.

"I know," she whispered.

She knew she could trust Luke to keep his promise. She trusted him with her life, and the lives of those closest to her.

Why, then, did she feel like Luke was going to betray her trust?

"Gone? What do you mean, he's gone?" Piett stared unbelieving at Hanley.

"He left. He's not in his room. Is that simple enough for you, Admiral?" Hanley snapped back.

Piett bristled at the man's hostility as well as his obvious incompetence; after all, what did it take to lose a two meter tall Sith Lord in a room barely three by four meters? Fortunately for Hanley, Veers put a restraining hand on his friend's shoulder.

"Gentlemen, this bickering is pointless. Lord Vader has left sickbay, but he cannot have left the ship. I suggest we take a look at his room and try to find out where he went," Veers offered calmly.

Piett pressed his lips into a thin line and gave a single nod of his head.

"Lead the way, Doctor," he ordered.

Hanley glared at him, but complied.

The three entered the small room assigned to Lord Vader. Veers gestured to Piett and Hanley to wait at the door while he started looking around. The bed had been slept in, of course. Veers checked the nightstand. It was empty. He slowly turned; not a single personal item spoke of the room's latest inhabitant. Satisfied that he would gain no knowledge here, he moved on to the fresher unit. What he saw made him smile. He picked up the hospital shirt and the still slightly damp towel and threw them to Piett, who caught them and looked at them, slightly puzzled. If the shirt was here, what was Vader wearing? Piett had a sudden flash of a stark naked Lord Vader roaming the Executor's hallways. Nah...

"Told you he'd bounce back," Veers beamed. "He's a survivor."

"What makes you think that?" Piett inquired.

"Elementary, my dear Tomas. He took a shower and shaved. He hasn't done that since the accident. It means he's starting to take care of himself again," Veers elaborated.

"But where is he?"

"Let's take this one step at the time. He must have gotten some clothes. If he left without, we would know. A naked man in the hallways would be kind of hard to miss. Since even Lord Vader cannot materialize a suit out of thin air, he called someone to bring him clothes. You're following me so far?"

Piett nodded. Hanley crossed his arms in front of his chest.

"So, we simply use the redial on this comm unit, and see who he called last. I bet my boots it's quartermaster's."

With a smug grin, Veers stabbed his finger on the redial button. After a few seconds, a fresh young face appeared on the screen.

"Quartermasters, Ensign Lewis," the young man answered the call.

"General Veers here. Ensign, has Lord Vader called this morning?"

Lewis snapped to attention.

"Yes, General. He ordered a full mechanic's outfit to be delivered to sickbay, Sir."

"Thank you, Ensign. That will be all," Veers said, satisfied, and moved to break the connection.

"Uh, General, may I inquire where we shall send his other stuff?" Lewis asked quickly.

"Other stuff?" Piett moved into the range of the comm unit; he and Veers exchanged a glance.

"Yes, Sir. We have several new uniforms for Lord Vader. Shall I have them sent to sickbay, or to his quarters?" Lewis continued.

"His quarters," Piett answered without thinking, and stopped short. "No, wait."

After all he'd been through the last days, would Lord Vader want to return to his meditation chamber? It would only remind him of the more than twenty years he spent as a cripple, dependent on medical help every moment of his life. A slow smile spread on Piett's face as an alternative presented itself. "There is a VIP apartment just below the bridge level."

"The one with the view?" Lewis inquired.

"Yes, that is the one."

Indeed the quarters Piett had been thinking about were equipped with a large viewport that allowed a beautiful forward view of the stars over the Executor's bow.

"Have it prepared for Lord Vader."

"Yes, Admiral. Shall we move his personal belongings from his old quarters as well?"

"No, I believe he will do that himself. Dismissed, Ensign," Piett cut the connection. On Veer's curious stare, Piett cocked his head and asked: "Would you like to sleep in an operating theatre if you didn't have to?"

Veers chuckled.

"You are right, of course," he granted.

"Yes, but we still don't know where he is," Piett sighed. "This is a big ship, and I would hate to call a search."

"We won't need to," Veers declared. "Think about it: Lord Vader was nearly killed in an explosion on a ship that he designed. If I were him, I would be hell bent to find out what caused it. So, the most likely place he is would be..."

"...the main hangar!" Piett exclaimed. "You sly dog, you knew it all along."

"Of course, Tomas," Veers grinned, "but I didn't want you to think I had suddenly picked up Lord Vader's talents and become clairvoyant."

The two officers hurried out, leaving a very frustrated Dr. Hanley behind.

Jay, working on top of the Avenger, looked up when the hangar doors opened and lost his grip on the hydrospanner. The tool clattered down past the solar panel and disappeared in the shadows under the Avenger's belly.

"Ouww!" Anakin's deep voice boomed from below. "Watch what you're doing up there! I'm not wearing a helmet!"

"Uh... sorry, Anakin," Jay called down.

Damn, he had almost forgotten who he was working with. At least he could apologize for his clumsiness; there was a chance Lord Vader would let him live. A slim chance.

"Are you alright?"

Piett and Veers exchanged a glance. Anakin? Veers mouthed silently. Piett shrugged. There was no-one on Garin's team by that name.

Vader emerged from under the Avenger's belly, rubbing his head.

"I'll live," he growled.

Looking up, he noticed Admiral Piett and General Veers approaching. So, that was what had caused Jay to drop a spanner on him. Not the nicest way to get his attention, but on the other hand, the kid was still trying to get over the fact that he was working with Darth Vader. Having the team call him by his old name had worked to a certain degree, but they were still a bit jumpy. All except Zev, who was used to being around the Empire's most powerful. Vader decided not to make an issue of it, and wondered fleetingly if he was growing soft in his old age.

Sithspit, when did he get so understanding and forgiving? Oh, yes, being a father did that to you, or so he had heard. Although slashing your firstborn's hand off probably didn't rank among the top ten parenting skills. Now, where had that come from?

He pushed the thought aside and addressed the two officers: "Admiral Piett, General Veers. What brings you here, gentlemen?"

Veers looked down at Vader sitting calmly on the floor. "We were a bit concerned, My lord," he answered. "You went AWOL from sickbay."

Vader rolled his eyes in annoyance.

"I am perfectly alright. And if the two of you stop scaring the team into dropping tools on me, I will likely stay that way, too."

He slid back under the Avenger. Piett squatted down next to him.

"I wanted to remind you of the weekly officer's meeting this afternoon, My lord."

What? That was today? Damn, he really had lost track of time in sickbay!

"17:00 hours, isn't it, Piett?" Vader asked aloud, remembering the schedule just in time.

He craned his neck to glance at the clock mounted on the far wall; it was barely past noon.

"Yes, My lord."

"Well, then you are a couple hours early. But since you're here, you can make yourself useful and hand me the No. 12 spanner."

He pointed at the toolbox that sat next to his knee. Piett peered into the box, did not recognize any of the items in there, and finally chose one at random to hand it to Lord Vader. Vader took the tool and noticed immediately that it was the wrong one. With a sigh, he slid out from under the fighter again.

"Piett, this is a screw driver. That is a spanner," he explained, pointing the correct tool out to Piett. "Don't they teach you anything at the academy?" he asked in an exasperated tone.

"Not that, My lord. At least not in the courses I took," Piett replied.

"A shame. Well, since you obviously cannot help here, you may as well return to the bridge. Dismissed," Vader told him.

So he was being deliberately cruel. But Force forbid he should have the admiral hovering over him like some mother hen the whole afternoon! Come to think of it, Piett and Veers had both displayed an awkward tendency toward that kind of behavior during the past days. Vader found it annoying, distracting, and strangely compelling. It had been so many years since someone had honestly cared for him, he simply didn't know how to feel about it. Or what to do with it. He almost regretted his words when he saw the slow blush that crept into Piett's cheeks. Almost.

The admiral picked himself up from his kneeling position and cleared his throat.

"Yes, My lord," he confirmed, keeping his back ramrod straight and his shoulders squared, trying not to show his embarrassment.

He had overstepped the lines, and Vader put him back in his place. Executing a precise about turn, Piett left, Veers close on his heels.

Zev stared at Darth Vader for a long moment, but said nothing. It was the Sith Lord who finally broke the silence.

"What?" he growled, fixing the other members of the team with a cold stare.

"N-nothing, My lord," Kenny whispered.

Zev stepped protectively in front of the youth. Vader frowned; Sith, he'd done it again! He scared the people around him without even trying. Sighing deeply, he put his head in his hands.

"I'm 42 years old, I don't need anyone to mother me," he muttered. "It's embarrassing."

A small smile tugged at Zev's lips.

"I guess I know how you feel. My mother used to do it to me all the time. Of course, I was only a kid back then."

Vader threw him a glance. "Well, I'm not a kid anymore. And Piett doesn't even remotely look like my mother."

The whole team laughed at that. Good, he had managed to disperse the image of the fearsome Sith Lord again.

"We still have a lot of work to do."

Luke climbed into his X-wing and strapped in. R2-D2 was already mounted in the socket behind the cockpit; the little droid beeped at him, excited that they were finally on their way.

Luke read the translation on the small screen in front of him.

"No, we're not going directly to Tattooine, Artoo. We're making a stop at Dagobah first."

The little astromech droid beeped another inquiry.

"No, Artoo, the others will be taking the direct route. That is why we're using two ships", Luke replied patiently and fired up the engines.

He took the X-wing out of the Freedom's hangar. The Millenium Falcon followed close behind him. Luke switched on his comlink.

"I'll see you on Tattooine."

"Take care of yourself, Luke," Lando answered.

"You too. Don't go up against Jabba without me."

Luke cut the connection and pulled the X-wing in a sharp left turn, gaining speed as he did so. He punched in the coordinates for Dagobah and activated the hyperspace engines. The stars turned into streaks of light, and he was finally on his way.

Hours had passed since Piett had found him in the hangar, and Darth Vader was starting to feel the strain of a full work shift mostly spent in positions the human body was not designed for. His head was pounding again, and he felt slightly dizzy every time he moved too fast. But he would be damned if he caved in before the rest of the team! He was a fully trained Jedi after all, and that meant he was supposed to be more resilient than the average human, among other things.

Still, he found himself wishing for a break. His stomach rumbled... again. When was the last time he had eaten anything? Definitely not today. He vaguely remembered breakfast being something that turned his stomach by merely looking at it, so he had not touched it. And they had skipped lunch in favor of disassembling the fighter's engines. Some merciful soul provided them with coffee, but Vader felt he could not run on caffeine alone. It seemed to help his headache a little, but after the third or fourth cup he started to feel a little queasy. Must be the fact that the stuff had been simmering for hours. Made it taste like burnt engine grease, too.

Torb looked up just in time to see Vader sway slightly on his feet. The Sith Lord was white as a sheet. Damn, how could he forget that Anakin was injured? He was clearly not up to working any more today, and the admiral would have Torb's head if he allowed the Sith Lord to collapse. Torb looked at the other team members; they, too, were exhausted. He had driven his men hard during the last three days, working long hours every night. He had not spared himself either, being a firm believer in the theory of leading by example. Well, at least they had almost finished disassembling the craft; Torb felt it safe to call a halt without making Vader feel like he was receiving a special treatment.

"Okay, boys, that's it for today," he announced loudly. "Let's hit the mess hall before the rush sets in."

Too tired to cheer, his men put their tools away and stretched, groaning when cramped muscles protested.

"He's finally come to his senses. I don't think I could work a minute longer," Zev moaned.

Darth nodded. He slowly straightened to his considerable height and rolled his shoulders, trying to work the kinks out of his back.

"I don't know about you, but I could eat a whole bantha," Zev continued.

Vader grunted. The thought of bantha, with or without a side dish of Tusken Raiders, seemed quite appealing. He silently trudged behind the others to the nearby mess hall and lined up with them at the counter, picking up trays and cutlery on the way. They were lucky; they had beaten the daily rush into the mess hall and were the first ones there.

After twenty-two years of breathing air that was filtered beyond recognition, the various aromas in the mess hall assaulted Darth Vader's sense of smell and nearly overwhelmed him. The whole place smelled... delicious! Darth felt his mouth water. Force, how long had it been since his last meal? Forget the last meal, when did he have anything that even remotely smelled and tasted like real food?

"Hey, Torb, you're driving your men too hard," the man behind the counter called in good-natured banter. He was wearing an apron over his uniform. "Made them skip lunch again, huh? That big guy looks like he's about to faint with hunger."

Torb turned around to face Vader and was shocked; the man was practically drooling!

"Anakin, when was the last time you ate something?" he asked, and could have kicked himself the next moment when he remembered Vader's reaction to Piett's mothering him.

But Vader only blinked.

"Not sure," he mumbled. "Yesterday, I think."

Control, a little voice at the back of his mind admonished. You're staring at the stew like a starved Jawa. And you're looking like a complete idiot, too. With difficulty, Vader tore his gaze away from the food display. Wordlessly, Zev grabbed his arm and shoved him to the front of their short line.

"Give him a plate, Josh, before he starts eating his boots," he ordered.

Josh laughed. "I'm sure the boots would taste better than this," he replied, filling a plate with bantha stew and some sort of gruel.

"What's wrong with bantha stew?" Vader asked, slightly puzzled.

Josh grimaced.

"You must be a rimworlder, boy. Those filthy beasts aren't fit for eating, if you ask me. But out here, in the Outer Rim, it's near impossible to get decent meat." He handed the plate to Vader. "At least it'll fill your stomach," he concluded, giving Vader a second, smaller plate with a small, syrup filled cake.

The team chose seats at one of the long tables and started eating. Vader tried to eat slowly, savoring every bite. It took almost all of his control not to shovel the food in, but he told himself that it certainly wouldn't do to shock his empty stomach by eating to fast and be sick in front of the crew.

He started to feel better after the first few mouthfuls, though. The queasy feeling subsided, as did his headache. And despite Josh's misgivings about the source of the meat, Vader found he liked it. Small wonder, since bantha had been among his favorites during his childhood. His mother had not been able to afford meat very often, so a dish of bantha stew had marked special occasions like birthdays and holidays.

Having finished his portion, Vader got up to get a second helping. The room was quickly filling up with more crew members arriving for dinner; it must be shift change, Vader mused. He briefly considered cutting to the head of the line, but decided he did not want to risk his anonymity just yet. He had begun to pick up some of the conversations among the crew, and a surprising number of them had him as the subject. He would never get a better opportunity to eavesdrop on his crew and learn what they thought of him.

"A second helping?" Josh's eyebrows threatened to disappear into his hairline. "You either are a rimworlder, or you're still growing," he commented, shaking his head, "but you have a Core World accent, so I guess you must still be growing, and at your age, too. You can't get that horrid country bumpkin accent out of them, you know."

Vader shrugged and returned to his table. If he only knew... it had taken him years to cultivate the proper Coruscant accent with its rolled r's and clipped vowels, and he still slipped back into his native Tattooine accent when under stress.

In the meantime, a good number of other crew members had joined the team at the table, and a lively conversation was going on during the meal. Vader saw Kenny shift uneasily in his seat, while Torb was putting on a stony face and Zev tried hard not to grin. He immediately knew who was the subject of conversation. Pretending not to notice, he reclaimed his seat.

"I tell you, he's gone totally nuts," one man seated opposite him and slightly to the left stated. "He cracked. Completely wacko. Fit to be admitted."

"Who told you that?" another wanted to know.

"I overheard two of the doctors talking. He destroyed half the sickbay. Attacked the CMO, too. There's talk they're going to send him to the funny farm."

Interesting, Vader thought. I knew they think I'm a sadist, but my reputation seems to have reached a new level.

"You new here?" the crewman opposite him asked.

Vader nodded an affirmative.

"What is your name?" the man continued.

Vader swallowed a mouthful of the bland gruel before answering.

"Anakin," he said.

"Well, welcome aboard, Anakin. I'm Terence." He shook Vader's hand. "So, where are you from?"

"Tattooine," Vader mumbled, straining his ears to hear more of the conversation he had been listening to.

"Oh, wonderful, yet another rimworlder," a man in a pilot's uniform cut in sarcastically.

Vader gave him a slow, calculating glance.

"Don't like rimworlders, do you?" he drawled.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Zev throw him a bewildered look.

The pilot leaned back in his chair, and arrogant sneer on his face. "Well, I guess you are doing the best you can, but still, you rimworlders leave a lot to be desired. Education, for one thing."

Vader nodded slowly. "Yeah, you're right. Speaking four or five alien languages ain't education."

"Pah," the other snorted in disgust. "Let them learn Basic. If they can. Half of those non-humans cannot even wrap their tongues around it. Take Wookies, for example. Those beasts only growl and howl, and they call that a language."

Vader's expression darkened.

"Wookies are an honorable people," he stated. "I've known a few."

"Next thing you tell me it's wrong to keep them as slaves. You rimworlders sure have funny ideas."

Vader felt very much like strangling this supremacist idiot on the spot. What did this fool know of slavery?

"You better keep your mouth shut. Lord Vader doesn't share your ideas about slavery, you know," Terence warned the pilot.

Vader looked at him, surprised. Sure, he had actively opposed slavery throughout his career both as a Jedi and later under Palpatine, but to his chagrin, he had never seemed to make much of a difference.

"And we don't either," Zev added.

"Than you are as insane as he is. Tell me, why do slaves never try to escape? If they didn't want it, why don't they simply fight for their freedom?"

"Because slaves are implanted with a transmitter equipped with an explosive device," Vader told him quietly. "Try to run, try to fight your owner, and boom, no more slave," he added in an almost whisper, mimicking an explosion.

Several of the men at the looked like they were going to be sick.

"How do you know...?" Terence began, suddenly realizing just how Anakin knew. "Oh, shit, man, I'm sorry."

Vader shrugged. "It's been a long time since then."

"Come on, guys, let's change the subject," Zev suggested.

Learning that Darth Vader had once been a slave made him feel uneasy. No wonder he's been pushing anti-slavery laws, he thought. No wonder he killed the head of the slave trader's ring on Kashyyk with his bare hands.

"Yes," the pilot said. "When will you clowns finally let us fly the new ships?"

Uh-oh, Torb thought. This guy sure has a talent for getting into trouble.

"When we think they're safe," he answered. "One already exploded during tests, and I'm not risking another pilot's life by ignoring that."

The annoying pilot leaned closer. "I happen to know that it was pilot error. Sienar Fleet Systems have tested the Avenger thoroughly. They wouldn't deliver a faulty craft."

"You've never flown with Lord Vader, have you?" Kenny piped in. "He's the best pilot in the fleet. He doesn't make mistakes."

Ah, hero worship. So that's why Kenny is so nervous around me, Vader thought. Wonder when he'll ask me for an autograph.

"You people make me sick!" the pilot announced.

He got up abruptly, leaving his untouched tray on the table.

"Hey, aren't you eating this anymore?" Vader called after him.

The man certainly was a sore loser. With a shrug, Vader pulled the plate towards him and started to polish it off. He noticed the others stare at him.

"What?" he asked, exasperated.

"That's your third helping. I've never seen anyone pack away that much," Terence said.

"I'm hungry. And it's not like the fleet can't afford to feed me," he declared.

Suddenly, Terence jumped to his feet, hissing, "The admiral," under his breath.

Everybody followed suit; chairs were pushed back, men stood, and backbones snapped erect all over the mess hall as Admiral Piett entered and looked around. Everybody except Darth Vader, who calmly stayed seated and kept eating.

"At ease," Piett called to the room at large.

The crew members resumed their seats and continued their meal.

"Piett," Vader greeted him, gesturing with his spoon to the empty chair opposite him. "Go get some and join us. It's delicious."

"I am certain of that, Lord Vader, however, I have already eaten," Piett answered smoothly. "But if I may join you for a cup of coffee..."

"Coffee sounds good. Get one for me too, will you? Black, with sugar."

"Certainly, My lord."

Piett bowed to him and went to get the coffee.

Several men at the table had paled visibly when Piett had greeted Vader; the one who had declared Vader a nutcase and insisted he was 'completely wacko' got up in a hurry and rushed toward the bathroom, looking quite green.

Vader leaned back in his chair and sighed. It had been an excellent meal until now. For the first time in many years, he had been able to share a meal with others, and in relative anonymity as well. Well, he knew the latter part could not last. Sooner or later, the men under his command would know his face as well as the mask he used to wear. He simply had to deal with it.

Chapter 6

Technical Details

Piett returned quickly with two mugs of coffee, handing one to Vader who accepted it with a nod of his he