by Cara J. Loup

Cloud City

The man on the scan grid twisted inside steel binders. Facial muscles twitched uncontrollably, reporting another hopeless struggle of pride against flesh and nerve as focused energy strobed purple across his frame, shattering tenuous limits of comprehension and control. A bead of blood appeared when the captive bit down hard on his lower lip. Stimulators targeted his neural pathways, rushing corrosive demands straight towards the brain, battering the man's senses with a phantom agony that left his skin unscathed. He'd hung on to belligerent silence for the longest time, but the increase of intensity forced vocal acknowledgment. Curses in Corellian came first, then half-muffled groans until a furious scream wrung from his sore throat. And another. And another.
      The Dark Lord signaled for a due measure of respite. He could sense the captive's defiance and confusion, emanating from a mind that clawed through the slow ebb of pain. The man had expected interrogation; now pain-fogged comprehension struggled feebly with his captors' lack of interest in the petty secrets he protected.
      Darth Vader nodded at the stormtrooper captain. The scan grid reactivated, and the man's head jerked back at the first stab of tightbeams targeting his body. His eyes were glazed, his teeth bared in a subhuman snarl. Within less than an hour, Vader calculated distantly, the prisoner would be reduced to shivering flesh and mindless instincts, ready to betray the scant principles he'd lived by, his Rebel friends, the Princess, even his Wookiee companion. But he had nothing valuable to offer. He was bait.
      Measuring his steps, the Dark Lord headed for the door. Another scream trailed behind him, and intense pain washed around him in slowly building waves, glittering with the life energy that was drained from the man on the grid. Pain was just another form of that volatile energy, generated by a violent conversion of flesh into spirit. Vader felt it sparkle on the edges of his awareness like a mild intoxicant, but his mind was poised aloof. Waiting. Sharpened with expectation, his senses turned outward, straining for the slightest echo.
      If Solo's agony brought no resonance, the Princess would be next to scream her soul out for an unlikely savior. A sandy-haired farmboy who'd stumbled into her prison cell, declaring his purpose with shining eyes and the witless arrogance of youth.
      I'm Luke Skywalker, I'm here to rescue you.
      Such unworldly innocence. Such unrefined power.
      Darth Vader had studied the recording many times in private, apprehensive of the rampant sentiments those images stirred. My son.
      But the boy's untrained senses were unresponsive to the father's demands and promises, sent impatiently across an unfathomed distance. Luke required less subtle summons, it appeared.
      As the Dark Lord strode towards the lift, Solo's muted screams rang through the corridor, the pauses between them shortening steadily. The bounty hunter's prattle and the complaints of his reluctant ally Calrissian intruded on Vader's concentration.
      "I'm altering the deal," he told Calrissian sharply. "Pray I don't alter it any further." Cloud City burned in brilliant white, the color of unknowing, flared at him in mockery of his impatience. The Dark Lord had not known that sentiment since --
      The lift doors snapped shut, abruptly cutting off thought and sound, though Solo's uncontrolled screams continued to whisper enticingly against the outer defenses of the great dark mind. And yet there was nothing. No echo, not the faintest tremor in the shifting webwork of the Force.
      Are you so insensitive, my son? Vader thought restlessly. Or have you learned to shield your mind against all needs but your own? Nothing. And then -- The shockwave pulsed through Vader's senses. A white glitter of agony, a piercing flare of rebellious fear, scintillating until the raw power filled his hungering mind for a brief, entranced moment.
      Luke! he called back, insensibly longing to convey his presence through the riot of unchecked emotions. He floundered for a moment, adrift between possibilities, immersed in the clash of conflicting futures. If he discarded this truth, Luke would still come to him; he had foreseen how they would meet in lethal combat --
      An instant later, the heedless flood of emotion ended abruptly.
      With a mental command, Vader stopped the lift and stilled his quickened breathing. If he were to encounter his lost child in armed confrontation, he might find himself forced to harm Luke in order to demonstrate the weakness of Kenobi's schemes and ideals. Yet he wished no harm on his only son. If there were another way...
      An upsurge of triumph brought with it the unfolding of new possibilities, plans more complex and intriguing than any Vader had considered before. Before he'd learned his son's secret.
      A split second had laid it bare to the father's probing mind. Luke's response to Solo's anguish had exceeded every expectation; bursting past all the limits of compassion and friendship, his reaction betrayed him. Within the privacy of his mind, Vader savored the lingering fragrance of his son's passion. Sharply controlled, shaded with untimely bitterness, yet frantic for requital.
      Han -- Han, where are you?
      From the edge of annihilation, Solo's mind had called out to Luke, and he had responded with the brightest despair that swept aside every thought of self-protection.
      Vader commanded the lift to reverse its course and relished the lightning change of plan for another second. The bounty hunter would have to leave Bespin without his trophy, Solo would serve a higher purpose now. No longer bait, but the agent who could guide Luke where he belonged.
      Beyond the plexicurve of a viewport stretched wind-swept skies, infused with the copper hue of the day's decline towards night. The Dark Lord breathed deeply and gathered a final reserve of patience to himself. It would be worth the waiting.

***
"Captain Solo."
      Without turning, Vader appraised the man's instant reaction to being so formally addressed. Suspicion and quick calculation pierced the haze of anguish that shrouded Solo's mind. Giving him time to adjust, the Dark Lord studied the sight beyond the viewport a few seconds longer. The steely splendor of stars penetrating a vault of layered blackness, gleaming like unfulfilled promises.
      He'd had the Executor rotated away from the gaseous planet to face this challenging depth. And when he turned, he caught the expected glint of longing in Solo's dark eyes.
      The sentiment was swiftly shuttered. Considering his state of destitution, the man's degree of control was remarkable.
      "What d'you want?" Solo asked into the silence.
      The Dark Lord's gesture snapped electronic binders off his bruised wrists and sent them clattering on the deck plates. "Some of your time," Vader said calmly.
      Solo's laugh was hoarse and raspy. "Sure. Could've saved yourself a whole lotta trouble if you'd asked nicely in the first place. Before you had me strapped to that grid."
      "I doubt that you would have been so accessible to reason. I am your enemy, am I not?"
      Solo's fingers rubbed across his wrist in an unconscious, reassuring gesture. "You got that right," he said defiantly. "We're not the same side, that's for sure."
      "Indeed?" Vader let a touch of amusement slide into his tone. "Have you then become a Rebel at heart, that you can be so certain which side you're on?"
      The dark head shook reflexively. "I'm not entirely anybody's side, except my own," Solo returned. A forced grin broke on the haggard face. "'Cause no one's entirely on my side, y'see."
      The man's candor was almost refreshing. "You may find it difficult to believe," Vader answered him after a calculated pause, "but I am familiar with this particular constellation." A clash of denial and sober reflection brightened Solo's eyes, and Vader raised a hand before either could find a voice. Let the man consider this in private. The Dark Lord was confident that some unadmitted doubt had been stirred. "Let us simplify the argument," he suggested easily. "If you cannot define the side you're on, perhaps you will find it less complicated to explain what makes me your enemy."
      "Ain't nothing personal," Solo snorted, "counting out the past few days. How about, you tried your best to blast my friend out of the sky at Yavin 'n had the Princess set up for execution on the Death Star. Not to mention what you did to our cozy little base on Hoth."
      "Come now," Vader chided, his tone almost pleasant. "Surely you realize that such acts are prompted by the dictates of war. Your Rebel friends could be charged with equal crimes against loyal servants of the Empire." He took a step closer. "Isn't it true that you, as all your companions, consider me an incarnation of evil?"
      The challenge met its mark and produced the anticipated response. "Evil?" Solo echoed sarcastically. "Sorry to disappoint you, but I ain't got no use for superstition. Hell's a gun pointed at my head, period. Whatever you are, under all that get-up, you're just as mortal as the next guy."
      Vader looked down at the man who prided himself enough on his libertinism to disregard his own security. Narrowed eyes burned darkly in the bloodless face, openly challenging retribution. But nothing of the kind was necessary. Solo's pragmatism had thrown open several doors all of which Vader would examine carefully.
      "I see," he said solemnly. "Your insight serves you well, Captain. If all your companions were possessed by such rationality, this conflict could be ended soon, and to our mutual benefit."
      The dark head tilted defensively. But underneath all that insolence, Solo was battling a growing weakness of flesh and spirit. When Vader probed the smuggler's presence in the Force, drifts of confusion brushed his mind.
      "No need to flatter me," the man replied with strained mockery. "It's not gonna get you any closer to what you want than your torture rack did."
      "But I have made no request of you yet," the Dark Lord reminded him. "And you don't seem particularly interested to learn my purposes."
      "Would you tell me if I asked?" Solo squared his shoulders. "You'll let me know in your own good time, if it suits your plans, right? And besides, I can guess a few--" He bit off the rest, mouth curling.
      "Yes?" Vader prompted. "Indulge my curiosity, Captain. I rarely have the pleasure of conversing with such an outspoken and fearless individual as you are."
      "You're after Luke," Solo said with sudden violence. "You've had it for the both of us since Yavin. Didn't take Lando telling me that."
      "You are protective of Skywalker," Vader observed. "What has he done to inspire such loyalty?"
      The Corellian snorted again, a hollow sound, and a poor disguise for his battered state. "What's it to you anyway?" Chin raised, Solo stared back at him, but some vague uneasiness began filtering through his hostile front.
      For the moment, Vader abandoned this line of inquiry. "It hardly matters indeed," he agreed off-handedly. "Essentially, you make no distinction between good and evil; therefore, your loyalty -- and your betrayal -- are available at a certain price, is that not true?"
      Denial sprang to Solo's mouth and twitched there before it was caught back. With an angry flip of the head, the Corellian tossed straggly dark hair back from his forehead. "You wanna hear what my price is, Vader?" he charged. "Gotta warn you though, you're not gonna like it."
      "Of that I am almost certain," the Dark Lord conceded.
      Solo's upper lip lifted in a sneer. "Leave Luke alone 'n let my friends go -- there you have it. No point in carrying this conversation any further, is there? Seeing that I ain't who you're after."
      "Very noble, Captain Solo." Vader studied the man a moment longer, watched the disquiet climb and tighten the skin around his dilated eyes. "Yet you have merely tasted pain during our prior meetings. A few more hours in the hands of our inquisitors, and I assure you, the survival of your friends would no longer concern you."
      He stepped closer and saw the Corellian's muscles tense beneath his soiled shirt. Grounded in the reliable strength of flesh and bone, this man's pride was a most vulnerable creature, already bruised and driven into rage by the recent abuse Solo had endured.
      "I'd advise you to seat yourself," Vader said smoothly. "We are not finished yet, and in your present condition, it would be unwise to waste your resources." Behind the black mask, enhanced optic nerves picked out a frantic flutter of pulse in the Corellian's throat. Sweat glistened on his collarbones and tension thrummed in his body, surrounding the man in an aura of apprehension, spite, and powerful survival instincts almost like a discrete scent. Vader focused on the chaotic currents of Solo's mind. Is this the consort my son desires? And what are your secret cravings, Captain?
      Solo gave a rough laugh. "You don't care if I live or die anyway."
      The Dark Lord shook his head. "You lack vision. There may yet be a way for us to end this and allow you to survive. You and Skywalker, both."
      Dark eyes narrowed reflexively, refusing credence as conflicting responses were reined back sharply. Interesting, Vader thought, his mental probes already funneling through the turmoil of an unschooled spirit. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, the Corellian was torn between resentment and need, between grudging attachments and the petty criminal's life he'd carved out for himself.
      "What do you want from me?" Solo asked in an unsteady voice. Fear shimmered close to the surface of his thoughts -- and shattered into disparate fragments when the Dark Lord overrode all defenses with an imperious influx of vision.
      That is not what I ask of you now, he countered. What do you want for yourself? What is your true price and purpose? With a sweep of will, Vader opened the man's inner sight to a vista extracted from his own mind.
      A cargo hold crammed with Alderaani crystal and latinum and judiciously sealed boxes of Kessel spice. A port town on some fringe world ruled by the appetites of a smuggler who'd struck it rich, squalor swathed in the gilding clouds of various intoxicants. Part of the Corellian's mind latched eagerly onto a scenario pulled from juvenile fantasies, but the rest of him regarded it with a startled disinterest that almost shadowed Vader's distaste.
      Solo's desires were a confused tangle edged with hunger and spite, and the Dark Lord had no wish to inspect them closely. Impatience turned his approach harsh, the incorporeal onslaught shuddering through Solo's frame. He sagged against the bulkhead and began sliding down. Without loosening his grip on the man's mind, Vader caught his fall. The Princess, he suggested, isolating another ambition.
      Haughty Leia Organa, challenge and prize for a man of Solo's inclinations and background -- an easier target, some nameless voice whispered in the gaps between one mental presence and the other. From some reserve of unconcerned sarcasm, Solo sneered at the vision of himself as prince consort. Uneasy regrets laced through his recollections of the Princess, of her tremulous smile when control made way to helpless attraction. The Corellian had succeeded in kindling her passion -- and realized that affection would render Organa more vulnerable than capture and inquisition possibly could.
      How perceptive, the Dark Lord thought. Fickle desires of the flesh were a tool he could apply to his purpose, regardless of personal disdain. Once exposed to their treacherous nature, Luke would grow beyond such entanglements and learn to cherish the rewards of undiluted power. Within his mind formed an image of the young Skywalker, radiant with the Force that poured from him like visible energy. The sight brought an instant reaction as Solo struggled weakly against the crushing mental hold.
      Sweeping aside the feeble protest, Vader delved further, and there were the memories of Luke that he'd sought: memories of shared confidences, of playful contest and companionable silence. Vader knew a moment of absurd jealousy as he savored the wanton warmth of human closeness through Solo's perception.
      You've placed your life in jeopardy for him, and even now you wish to protect Skywalker. Show me the reward you desire.
      From the wafting steams of some common shower emerged the slim frame of his son, water beading on lightly tanned skin, spied covertly from the corner of the Corellian's eye. Violent refusal surrounded the memory, prompted by a bizarre sense of honor, most likely another guise of self-protection that recoiled from the living image of untouched innocence.
      Not much longer, Vader told his captive. I will give you what you want. You will take and destroy that innocence, you will be my messenger and the very agent of Luke's corruption.
      As he thrust his probes more deeply into Solo's mind, the man's anguish percolated through his thoughts like a strong wine. At the core of the Corellian's presence, Vader briefly sampled the mortal aroma of raw and powerful urges. Unstilled hunger lodged there, strong enough to flare into the kind of greed that reached beyond material possession. A sheer hunger for life burned in the man who lay sprawled on the deck plates at his feet, for a life entirely controlled by his own choices -- presumptuous, the Dark Lord thought, who could afford such luxury? -- but he was careful not to let that notion reach the Corellian's awareness.
      He examined the man's buried anger, pent up from all the times when his moves and plans had been curbed or stumbled into unyielding barriers. Each occasion of impotence had bred fury into him, and the Dark Lord gathered those threads into a tighter weave, nurtured the flaring unrest with commands and promises of absolute liberty. Inadvertently, the Corellian's willpower would buttress his own vassalage. Weaker minds were more susceptible to control, but likely to waver under duress. Given the choice, Vader preferred availing himself of the stronger tool.
      In another moment, he withdrew, having learned more than enough to refine his plans. Even before he'd planted his suggestions, Solo's sentiments had been ambiguous, tainted by instinctive warning.
      "Yes," the Dark Lord said, stepping away from the prone form on the deck. "Your reticence to allow Luke too close was justified. He and I share a legacy of power... and you are as afraid of him as you are of me. Because he has the power to bind you."
      For a while, the silence filled with Solo's labored breaths. Unmoving by the viewport, Vader shed the clinging residue of too-close contact with the clay and stench of human existence, his mind arcing outward for the welcome coldness of distant starlight. Although he stretched far into empty interstellar reaches, no trace of his son's presence remained now, but Luke's sentiments were not at all difficult to guess.
      Given the boy's miserable upbringing, it was easy to see how romantic delusion must have compensated for a dreary, futureless reality. Foolishly wearing his heart where it would take the most severe blows, loving with the blindness of youth, Luke had set himself up for scarring disappointment. For someone so young and inexperienced, temptation in one of its lesser guises would suffice, shattered trust would bring Luke into the fold of his father's tutoring and protection. All it took was one man. One betrayal.
      Absently, Vader signaled the guards outside the chamber. "Return Captain Solo to the detention cell," he ordered. "I will have him brought back for instruction later on."

***
Luke was in his arms, his body curled around final flickers of warmth, every muscle clenched up against the cold. Frost in his eyebrows, ice crystals in his thick lashes, melting slowly. Don't do this, kid, c'mon...
      He cupped his hands around Luke's, holding them close to the heater coil. Breath plumed white into frozen air, but Han was fighting random stings of heat in the depth of his body. Sensation crowded him. Luke's breath brushing ragged against his face as he leaned over, soft hair curling with sweat behind his ear. His own hands shook as he searched for a thready pulse. His fingertips dreamed the feel of skin beneath layers of insulating fabric.
      This ain't right, he thought with a desperate rage.
      Luke's eyes flew open, dilated and dark like the far side of the moon. The blond hair hung in damp tangles, muddy splatters covered the side of his face and throat. Han breathed harshly at the tearing sensation in his chest that could have been stifled laughter. Where are we? There was a nervous sound in the air, a rising buzz as if the atoms themselves had taken to the sky in a midsummer swarm.
      Dagobah, Luke whispered dryly. Wait for me.
      But as Han reached out to brush dirt crumbs off the blond strands, shapes and colors receded from his sight. Out of a deep purple haze swam a pale patch that split open and said in Leia's voice, "Don't move so much, Han."
      Her face was without contours except for the tense line of her mouth and her widened eyes, liquid with worry, anger, tenderness.
      "Must've dreamed..." Han muttered, listening after the slurred sound of his own voice.
      Compassion superseded every other sentiment on Leia's face as she curled her fingers into his. "I wish I could tell you it's all been just a bad dream," she whispered.
      Shadows and blurry patches of brightness slowly solidified into the likeness of a low-roofed, steel-enclosed cell. In one of its corners sat the torso of Threepio, a pale metal ghost in the gloom. When Han levered up on his elbows, sore muscles protested the sudden movement and shortened his breath. "Damnit," he gasped, "what happened? I didn't dream that part about... being taken to Vader's ship, huh?"
      "No," Leia answered, slipping an arm around his shoulders to help him sit up on the smooth slab that served as a cot. "What did he want?"
      "He asked me lots of questions."
      "About what?" Concern rang sharply in her voice. "About our bases and contingents?"
      "Nothing like that." Han lay back and closed his eyes to force the memory into focus. "It was more about... very general issues. The difference between good 'n evil, that type of thing."
      "Darth Vader had you brought to him to discuss philosophy? What is he trying to do?"
      "Beats me." Han let out a slow breath. "It's all about... Luke. I remember that much."
      "Vader must be afraid of him," Leia mused. "Luke has Jedi powers... perhaps Vader perceives him as a serious threat. His hatred of the Jedi Knighthood seems unlimited."
      "Yeah, maybe." But there was more, something Han couldn't quite recall, embedded somewhere in the murkier chambers of his mind. Assorted aches from every part of his body conspired against his efforts to remember and left room only for a searing sense of danger. "If the kid's smart, he's gonna stay away from this place," he rasped.
      Leia's cool hand caressed his temple. "How would Luke know where we are?"
      "He knows."
      The hand stilled and for a moment tightened in startled reaction, then Leia said, "I don't think so, Han. It would take him much longer to find out, and we will use that time to plan our escape."
      The steely note in her voice allowed no objections, and Han bit back a blunt retort.
      "I don't trust Lando," Leia said thoughtfully, "but I don't think he likes Vader either. Or the way Vader is about to take over his profitable mining operation."
      "He wouldn't," Han murmured, overwhelmed by a grey flood of weariness. "And it looks like he's taken a shine to you..."
      "Well, perhaps that will work to our advantage," he heard Leia's determined reply, but by then, he was sliding under.
      For an unaccounted, dim stretch of time, Han drifted along the nebulous periphery of consciousness until the sound of the door's unlocking slammed through his detachment. Boots clattered on the polished floor. Vague shapes of white helmets swayed into his field of vision.
      "Where are you taking him now?" Leia demanded in the regal tones that warranted no disobedience. "He won't survive more torture. If you're going to kill him anyway--"
      "Lady, we have orders from the Lord Vader himself," the stormtrooper captain informed her in an electronic snarl. "We're to take the prisoner back to his Excellency's ship."
      Armored fingers closed around Han's elbow and hauled him to his feet. "I'm comin'," he growled. "I can walk."
      Across the stormtrooper's shoulder, he met Leia's misted eyes, saw her control crumble bit by bit, and worked up a lopsided smile for her benefit. "Save yourself, Princess. You're needed, you know."
      He was swept from the cell before Leia could answer.

***
Time disintegrated into a weary cavalcade of fragments that no longer formed a sane whole. At times, Han floundered on the dissolute borders between hallucination and reality, slipping back and forth over that edge until it became a division within himself. There was a part of him that answered to Vader's summons and queries, gaining confidence as he learned the complexities of his enemy's mind.
      It was strange how the obsidian mask altered its expression when tilted toward starlight or turned to the shadows. How the amplified voice that rasped from the mouthpiece became capable of communicating subtle nuances and insinuations. The deck plates were reassuringly cool against Han's aching back as he listened, his vocal chords too raw to form articulate sounds, but a repetitive chant seemed to scrape the inside of his skull.
      Seven hells, what d'you want?
      my son my son my son... it echoed sickeningly.
      He could see Luke again, a slim silhouette between mist-shrouded trees, wheeling sharply as if alarmed by some half-perceived sound. A sudden surge of nausea plunged Han into vertigo, and then he was back with Leia, observing from a distance how she bathed his face and poured water past his cracked lips. On his other side, Chewbacca crouched, rumbling impotent threats against their captors.
      When they came for him again, Han knew the end instinctively. Fine with him, he was getting tired of all the riddles, the waiting, the dragging pain in his bones. Lando accompanied the stormtrooper detail, a pair of his own guards at his heel, the dark brow furrowed with concern and dissent.
      "So this is it, huh?" When Han pushed to his feet, he felt his mind clear like he'd just sobered up from a bout of serious drinking. Perhaps he'd dreamed the last few days, creating some subconscious escape from the scan-grid sessions.
      "Listen, buddy, I'm in a very tight spot here," Lando returned in a lowered voice, his face unrevealing. "I'm just doing the best I can."
      "Oh, great, I feel better already." Without turning, Han felt Chewbacca's presence at his shoulder, bristling with rage. "Relax, pal," he muttered. "Just hold your temper, it ain't over yet."
      Truth to tell, he wasn't sure if he believed that. But for all he knew, Vader's attention was focused exclusively on Luke and himself, and perhaps that raised Chewie's and Leia's chances of escape to the same degree. Han made no move to resist when his arms were pulled behind his back and binders slapped across his wrists.
      The snowy brilliance of the corridor blinded him momentarily. Against the white walls, the stormtroopers that marched them to the lift cabins became disjointed wraiths, and from the corner of his eye, Han caught a glimpse of open sky beyond a sumptuous viewport. Maybe for the last time.
      Leia moved closer to his side as they entered the lift. Reaching around, she gripped his hand with icy fingers that trembled. The doors closed, leaving Lando and Chewbacca and the other half of the trooper detail to wait for the next car.
      "Han," Leia whispered, leaning into him as if to absorb his body-warmth into herself. "There's so much I've never told you."
      "Shhh..." He turned his head to brush her unraveling braids with his lips, then pulled back to meet her eyes. He'd never seen her so vulnerable, so exposed. Regrets churned in his stomach, but he steeled them aside.
      "Look, Princess," he said, "you care too much about me, and I sure as hell ain't the right guy to waste it on. Like you said, you wanna pick a nice man for yourself. Someone like Luke."
      Her expression froze.
      "My timing really stinks, huh?" Han raised his shoulders in a dismal shrug. "Guess I'd just like to attend my own execution with a clean slate." As far as that was possible. He felt a clutching tenderness for her that thickened his voice. Leia deserved better than anything his limited stocks of affection provided. "And you'll need that stubborn head of yours for more important things than worrying about me," he finished.
      Leia's fingers unclenched slowly and released his hand. "Is that what this is all about? Are you trying to make it easier for me?"
      In a way, he was. Performing some sort of emergency surgery before the Princess could trap herself in illusions about him. Only the tuck of her chin betrayed an effort behind Leia's poise.
      Yeah, that's better, Han thought with sardonic amusement as he saw her old resilience revive. Turning away, he said, "Just stick close to Chewie, he'll take care of you."
      Lift controls chimed as the cabin slowed and stopped, releasing them into a lower-level corridor. Han could feel Lando's gaze prickle the back of his neck as the second group joined up.
      "So, what's next, buddy?" he asked without turning.
      "They'll put you into carbon freeze," Lando answered, his voice pressured and rough.
      "So I'll make a handy package for Boba Fett? Cute."
      "Just stay sharp," Lando hissed angrily.
      Whatever that was supposed to mean. Except for the pair of blue uniforms that flanked Lando, Han didn't see any security guards on their way into the vaults of Cloud City. All the passages were gorges of blackened durasteel, no need to shine them with the white polish of the public sectors.
      Han's breath caught as heavy portals dilated, exhaling an acrid stench of vaporized carbonite. The chamber closed around him with an architecture of banked fire, the steps that led down to the carbon pit glowing orange like slabs of liquid iron. At his back, he heard Chewie's apprehensive rumble, but his eyes were commanded by the dark figure on the other side of the pit.
      "Captain Solo," Vader acknowledged him with ill-timed courtesy.
      Boba Fett had positioned himself at a wary distance from the Dark Lord, the slitted Mandalorean visor glittering as he turned his head. "You have kept me waiting a long time," rattled the voice from the corrosion-bitten helmet.
      "The delay was necessary, bounty hunter," Vader replied indulgently, but Han thought he could catch a note of leashed anticipation in the resonant voice.
      Curling fumes stung his eyes as he watched the Dark Lord preside over the procedures. So you're really handing me over to Jabba? Han thought, unnerved by the frustration that coiled in his stomach. As if he'd expected better from someone like Vader. Sweat trickled down his backbone.
      He was dead meat to the Dark Lord who'd stooped so low to pluck through his mortal mind. Echoes of that voice throbbed at the back of Han's skull -- not a dream, but some incomprehensible violation he couldn't even remember. The Force has a strong influence on the weak-minded, he recalled in Kenobi's unassuming tones.
      And: I was once a Jedi knight. But who'd said that, Vader or Kenobi?
      Not that it mattered. Sith or Jedi didn't make so much of a difference, a difference only in the special kind of madness that came with all their obsessed superstition. Jaded Ben Kenobi with that trance-like brightness in his eyes and his Old-Republic nostalgia. Vader with his schemes for some grand, automated galactic order that discounted lives by the million. And Luke --
      Han swallowed sharply. Not my thoughts, he protested in silence, none of this, what do I know about the goddamned Jedi? He stared across at the black mask with a sickened hatred he'd never felt when he still considered Vader an enemy with a clear goal of destruction. The ebon helmet tilted slightly, as if acknowledging the sentiment, catching dull red lighting that sharded back at Han like a reflection of private glee.
      A stormtrooper sidled closer to the Dark Lord. "Lord Vader, ship approaching. X-wing class."
      "Good. Monitor Skywalker and allow him to land."
      "Luke," Han muttered through clenched teeth. "He's coming."
      Leia's troubled eyes flew up to his face.
      "Didn't you hear that?" he asked.
      She obviously hadn't. Well, perhaps imminent execution could sharpen any man's senses, and he had more urgent problems to consider. Over Leia's shoulder, Han caught Lando's eyes. "You gotta refuse the landing permission!" he hissed.
      Dark hands spread and signaled helplessness. Stepping forward, Lando placed himself in Vader's line of sight. "Lord Vader, we only use this facility for carbon-freezing. If you put him in there, it might kill him."
      "It might indeed," Vader replied after a moment's consideration.
      Lando's eyes widened in surprise. He sure hadn't expected Vader to take counsel from the voice of reason.
      "What are we waiting for?" Boba Fett rasped impatiently.
      Slowly, the dark helmet turned towards him. "Did you not warn me yourself that Captain Solo is no good to you dead?" Vader inquired.
      While the two of them engaged in some sort of stare match, Lando approached the controls of the carbonizing unit where a pair of Ugnaughts cowered, quietly waving them aside.
      Han's pulse accelerated irrationally. Another delay. Time was an icy trickle down his spine, suddenly picking up speed to hit his stomach with a savage chill. It drove him forward to the edge of the pit. He'd played the part of Vader's bait long enough. This wasn't how things should be. Right behind him, stormtroopers shuffled their feet nervously.
      "Han!" Leia whispered urgently. "Han, what are you doing?"
      From the way it looked, he'd been about to end the whole argument by dropping himself into liquid carbonite. His heart thundered in his throat, and there were distant footfalls along the corridor like an echo to his rampant pulse. Adrenaline swamped his veins.
      "Get out of here," Han bit out, "tell Luke it's a tra--"
      He choked on the last word as a vise of air and darkness closed around his throat. Staggering backward, Han fought for breath, his vision blurring. My son my son my son -- pounded through his head. And it was too late anyway.
      The portals sprang open with a shriek of tearing metal. Oxygen rushed into Han's lungs. He staggered back from the pit, scarcely catching his balance as he pivoted.
      The reddish shine slanted across Luke's hair and caught his eyes in liquid bronze. Skidded to a halt in the open doorway, he swung a sharp glance around the chamber and showed no reaction at the stormtrooper rifles trained on his head. "I'm here, Vader!" he called.
      And everything exploded into chaotic discharges of light and plasma, streaking inward to collide over the carbon pit. With his hands bound, all Han could do was duck and squint for some kind of pattern in the cyclonic action.
      The stormtroopers' shadows had assumed a life of their own, turning against the Imperial soldiers in the form of blue-clad guards that fanned out into the chamber. A savage hiss filled the air as dangling pipes released hot steam.
      "Down, Han!" he heard Lando yell. "Chewie, get him!"
      But Han had already taken a dive. "Get those damn binders off!" he shouted when Chewbacca's massive frame loomed over him. "And gimme a gun."
      While the Wookiee made short work of his shackles instantly, Han's other demand went unattended. Hauled to his feet by a long, furry arm, he was nudged towards the portals.
      "Let go of me, damnit!" Han shook his head to dispel the black sparks that danced in his vision. Shoving at the Wookiee's bulk, he turned back -- and froze.
      While Fett and the stormtroopers were exchanging fire with Lando's guards, Luke had rounded the pit and launched himself at Vader with a cry that shattered through Han's bone-marrow. The lightsaber ignited, painting pale blue streaks across his face and shoulders as Luke swung it in a two-handed attack. Vader's blade parried in throbbing crimson, but his defense was calm, unperturbed, as if the interruption bothered the Dark Lord not at all.
      And why should it. He'd played for time throughout.
      "Get me a fuckin' gun!" Han bellowed again, struggling with Chewbacca's protective grip around his waist.
      "Luke!" Leia screamed from some hollow, echoing place. "Let it go!"
      The lit blades clashed again and hummed like reverberating glass. Frozen in the motion of blind attack, Luke glanced over his shoulder, but his eyes found Han instead of Leia.
      In stunned silence, Han shook his head no. His stomach flipped when he saw the slight curving of Luke's mouth, blanked by another billow of steam -- and then Chewbacca swept him towards the open doorway with a roar that echoed achingly inside Han's ribcage.
      If he could just reach Luke somehow, warn him, yank him back from that edge. Dreamed up by a tenebrous mind, another reality was about to rise up around them at Vader's command. But he'd lost his voice, and his knees were buckling with each step.
      "All right, let's go," Lando snapped. He'd captured Leia's wrist and dragged her out into the corridor where five guards formed a tight circle around them. "We haven't got a second to lose."
      "Where are you taking us?" Leia asked sharply.
      "The Falcon. Believe me, I wanna get outta here just as badly as you do." Lando signaled to their escort to run ahead.
      They were moving. Tearing loose from the carbonite-drenched core of the city, jogging, shuffling along, catching their breaths during the brief ride in the lift cabin. Brilliant lighting made Han's eyes water, but as they stumbled out on an upper level, he knew he'd slipped into another insane dream, just couldn't figure out which part of him was dreaming.
      The part that staggered through the icy elegance of Cloud City's public sector, or the part which had stayed behind and watched their heedless escape through the drifting steams of the freezing chamber. It slowed him down like a dead weight in his flesh, no matter Chewie's frantic growls. I'm not here, he thought strangely, this isn't me.
      The next instant, fire seared his left side and broke his drunken run. Steps approached from behind, and blaster bolts whistled up in the wake of that first shot from Boba Fett's rifle.
      "Run!" Lando shouted, pushing Leia on in the direction of the landing platforms while he wheeled to face the pursuit.
      I've been shot, Han told himself, hanging on to that simple reality as he sagged back against Chewbacca's chest. Unconcerned, he glanced down at scorched fabric and blood trickling through it. Bursts of adrenaline kept the sensation at bay, sight suggesting the probability of a pain he couldn't feel. Unnatural heat burned in him like a fever.
      "You go on to the Falcon," he told Chewbacca quite clearly -- before a wave of blackness rolled through all his senses.
      From somewhere far away, he heard Luke's labored breathing.

***
Sweating fingers slipped on the lightsaber's hilt. Luke gripped it more closely as he circled his enemy.
      His blade half-lowered, the Dark Lord stood watching him. "Obi-Wan has taught you well," he said approvingly.
      Luke shook damp hair out of his face and clutched the hilt. The gunfight had spilled over into the corridors, slowly leaching from the carbon chamber until they were isolated on that liquid-iron reef amid the vapors. Exchanging blows, launching forward, retreating. From the aching heaviness in Luke's arms, it could have been forever.
      Each time their blades clashed, the jarring impact rocked through his bones, and Vader's grating breaths rang in his ears. This wasn't how he'd imagined it when he'd jogged lightly through the eerie silence of Cloud City's white corridors, every atom of his body jangling in anticipation of battle.
      "Your destiny lies with me, Skywalker."
      Without effort, Vader's voice filled the chamber as if setting down the law. Angered, Luke raised his blade high, but the Dark Lord parried with a sharp upward movement.
      "No," Luke gasped.
      "Obi-Wan knew this to be true." The black mask turned, and opaque eyes tracked his movements with unsettling confidence. "Only your hatred can destroy me," the Dark Lord said in an odd tone of regret.
      Luke backed off, avoiding the edge of the carbon pit. What do you know that I don't? He could see his own face under the black helmet again, the warning, the mockery of multiple meanings. A silent cry of protest raced through his body like a white thrill, and Luke flung himself into another attack. The Force thickened around Vader -- he'd never felt that so strongly in anyone -- and it seemed to incite a wilder energy in himself, the reflections bouncing back and forth between them.
      Trust your feelings.
      But what was it that he felt? Deep within him lodged a churning memory of the screams he'd sensed more than heard on Dagobah, the visceral echoes of torture that drew him halfway across the galaxy. He couldn't sleep, couldn't eat, couldn't even think clearly until he'd ended that, no matter which way.
      His whole body electric with rage, Luke swung his lightsaber through a savage sequence of forward thrusts. Destiny, maybe, to confront this enemy, kill or get killed, and he put his entire life into each blow.
      Driven back, the Dark Lord was thrown off balance and disappeared down one of the access trenches around the pit. When Luke glanced down, steam wafted sluggishly from a torn pipe. After a moment's hesitance, he jumped into metallic silence.
      Pungent smells assailed him in the gloom, but there was no sign of Vader's presence now, no sound except the low pulsations of the carbonizing unit and his own steps. He walked on, afraid, and with another part of his mind suspected that this was why Vader had chosen temporary retreat. Exposing him to his own fear until it rose to uncontrollable levels.
      No, Luke thought, all his senses straining, I am ready.
      He'd learned about the different shades of fear, and this state of alarm was infinitely preferable to his sickened dread on Dagobah.
      Vader stood awaiting him with the serenity of a monument, devoted to the midnight cold. Electronic hums swelled louder when Luke crossed the doorstep into a machinery-crowded chamber with a single large window. Expecting to continue the duel, he raised his 'saber, but this time, the Dark Lord made no move to engage him.
      "Fight me," Luke murmured, breathless in the twilight of this room. Perhaps all would come to an end here.
      The crimson blade moved fractionally, and there was a tooth-jarring screech behind him. Even as Luke whirled, a heavy panel ripped loose and slammed into his back.
      Yanked alive as if in unspoken fury, the steel and glass of the chamber joined the attack, directed by sparse gestures from Vader's blade. Pipes and electronic components hurtled towards Luke while the Dark Lord watched impassively. Some of the missiles he deflected, but the attack accelerated all around him. Wires whipped up from the torn panels and sparks hissed in his singed hair. A heavy pipe struck his temple before Luke could spin out of its path.
      His body burned with shame as much as agony from each blow. At the center of the disintegrating room, the Force curdled with a dull pressure that throbbed in his head. An energy storm swirled around him, bursting the large window, and a rush of decompressed air tossed glassine splinters into his face. Luke raised a shaky hand to wipe blood off his cheek, eyes fixed on the obsidian mask as another panel came rushing towards him. He fell through a cyclone of exploding glass.
      His fingers caught on a narrow ledge, breaking his fall so hard that he would have screamed, but there was no breath left in his lungs. Pulling himself to marginal safety, Luke slumped down and lay on his back. Icy gusts clawed at his torn ground uniform.
      Get up, Luke told himself, but when he moved again, it was with the mechanical determination prompted by a lost cause.
      He'd been given a demonstration of his own vulnerability, perhaps a warning. There was no hope for him to beat Vader in combat, and he wondered crazily if the Dark Lord would allow his escape, should he back off now. Something was not right here.
      From somewhere above, Luke heard the thud and crash of an explosion. A few moments later, ripples of a distant shockwave passed through the ledge. In the control chamber, an alarm wailed briefly, gurgling into silence as power failed.
      This city is dying, Luke thought with total clarity. He scrambled up. If the reactor core was affected, the floating city would be torn from its moorings and burn out in Bespin's toxic atmosphere. If he held Vader's attention long enough, they'd both get caught in the destruction. He could still turn his defeat into victory for the Rebel Alliance.
      Han, he thought, Leia. I can't do this for the Rebellion. I'll do this for you.
      The Dark Lord met him on a slim gantry. Pausing only for a moment, Luke reached into the vibrant energy that surrounded him and poured through him. This was the moment of his fulfillment. He would die fighting like his father, like Ben, like Biggs and all the pilots who'd given their life in the Death Star run.
      Such a lamb, a rich, dark voice whispered inside his mind.
      As if ripped from his own fantasies and nightmares, he saw an image of himself -- Vader's bane, a battered and bruised creature, pathetically struggling with overwhelming odds. His heart throbbed violently in his throat. He felt helpless to the last degree.
      "Why have you come?" Vader asked.
      "To stop you."
      "You hope to distract me from your friends' escape. And you seek revenge."
      Chilled, Luke felt himself stiffen. It was one of the passions Yoda had warned him against, but denial had become pointless. He nodded. "For my father. For all you've killed and destroyed."
      "Is that what Kenobi told you? That I killed your father?"
      The rasp of fury in Vader's voice made Luke's skin crawl. "Yes," he hissed, loosening his shoulders inside the uniform as he brought the lightsaber up. "And you've killed Ben." All the losses that he'd buried far from conscious reach burst through him once more, pressing up against his lungs.
      "He challenged me." There was a significant pause in the mechanical breathing, then Vader held out a hand. "Join me, Luke. You don't know your own power. Together, we can destroy the Emperor, we can build a new order."
      For a moment, the offer curled seductively into his thoughts, taunted him with a vision of dark splendor and effortless triumph. "No!" Luke shouted, snapping himself free, "don't play with me. I'll never join you!"
      His blade sliced the air, but before it reached the black-gloved hand, Vader had ignited his own lightsaber.
      This time, the Dark Lord countered his attack with unbridled force, his blade creating harsh patterns of biting brilliance. Step by step, Luke found himself driven back along the gantry. Trickles of sweat seared down his cut temples and cheeks. He spun with the lightsaber, coaxing a final reserve of energy into the motion, but his blade caught on Vader's, and the hilt slipped from his fingers. Thrown off balance, he stumbled and fell, landing hard on his back.
      He'd lost his lightsaber. He was as good as dead.
      "Don't make me destroy you," Vader warned.
      "I'll never join you," Luke repeated in a hoarse whisper.
      He stared at the crimson blade, waiting for the strike that would end his life, but it didn't come. Lowering the 'saber, Vader touched the tip to his shoulder, and the cold burning pierced him to the quick. Paralyzed, Luke watched as the glowing blade painted a swift line of fire and agony down his right arm, cutting through fabric and skin.
      You are mine.
      Red sparks erupted in his vision, and a burst of pain slivered his mind. When he surfaced, fire licked along the sides of the reactor core. The gantry quivered beneath them.
      Through the cold queasiness of shock, Luke felt a hand seize his left arm and haul him up, pushing him over the gantry's edge. For a split second, he sensed an endless fall down the reactor shaft, then his head collided with a hard surface, and blackness shot through him.
      A motion jolted him back to full consciousness, and again he seemed to be falling. Overhead, he saw the gantry dwindle, but Vader had disappeared. Abruptly, Luke realized that he'd landed on top of a service lift that slid steadily down the inner wall of the reactor core. There was a hatch immediately below him. Yanking it open with one hand, Luke dropped through into the small cabin and cried out loud when the impact lashed through him with a brutal flare of pain. Pushing to his knees, he managed to hit the lift's controls, and the cabin wobbled to a stop.
      Emergency lighting bathed the corridor in dull red when Luke staggered from the lift. His right arm was a mass of pain. Blood ran down his shoulder and dripped from his fingers as he sagged against the nearest wall. All was quiet here, but there was no telling how long these levels of Cloud City would remain stable.
      With closed eyes, Luke reached into the Force and clutched its healing warmth to him. His fingers shook violently as he fumbled for the comlink at his belt.
      "Han? Leia?" he rasped. "Anybody hear me?"
      A sizzle of static was drowned out by a Wookiee roar, then Leia's voice filtered through. "Luke? Luke, where are you?"
      "Somewhere on... the lowest levels." He paused to suck in a ragged breath. "Han -- is he with you?"
      "He was shot, but he'll be okay."
      "Where -- what happened?"
      "We're getting off in the Falcon. Boba Fett captured Lan-- Never mind. Luke, we gotta get out of here, fast."
      He couldn't have agreed more, but the odds for pulling it off were another matter. "I don't think I'll be able to reach my X-wing."
      "Then we'll pick you up. There are docking ports for freighters all along the underside of the city. Try to get to one of them, do you hear me?"
      He was already moving. At the next intersection, lit signs pointed the way to the docking ports, and Luke broke into a stumbling run.

***
"Chewie, how much longer until we can go to lightspeed? The Slave's catching up on us again." Leia divided her attention between the Falcon's sensor screens and wrapping a final layer of gauze around Luke's injured arm.
      Chewbacca's furred hand was already closing around the hyperdrive lever.
      "It'd better be," Leia answered his growl.
      Shakily, Luke leaned back into the passenger seat. Indicator lights danced dreamily in his vision. Yet all of this seemed infinitely remote, a false kind of comfort like a painted truesilk veil drawn across his overtaxed senses. Methane storms still roared in his ears, and his eyes watered from the sting of Bespin's harsh sunset.
      When he looked up again, stars reeled and blurred into a nebulous brilliance, and he saw Leia's shoulders slump with weary relief.
      "Plot a course to Sullust," she told Chewbacca, passing the back of her hand over her brow before turning back to Luke. "And now I guess you'll want to know how we landed ourselves in this mess..."
      With her account of their captivity on Bespin, Leia swept fatigue aside, retrospective agitation simmering behind every word. "We didn't know that Lando had planned an attack against Vader's troops," she said eventually. "Boba Fett came after us, and Lando covered for our retreat. That's the last we saw of him. Chewbacca had his hands full of carrying both Threepio and Han back to the Falcon..." Her mouth tightened to a line of white anger. "I don't know about Han... he went into shock and hasn't come around since. Only Vader knows what exactly was done to him."
      "I'll go and see him," Luke said quietly, the slight tremor filtered from his voice before he let himself speak.
      Pulling herself upright, Leia glanced across the displays of the co-pilot's station. "I'll be with you in a minute."
      Luke walked down the corridor favoring his right leg, the left hip still sore from a badly calculated jump through the Falcon's dorsal hatch. He supposed he should be grateful to the point of exuberance for being alive -- for all of them having slipped through the fangs of a death-trap -- but he felt only a vast, numbing confusion.
      Apprehension pulled him up short on the doorstep to the passenger lounge. His right arm was on fire, and failure hovered at his shoulder like a nightmare waiting to swoop in the moment he lowered his defenses.
      We're safe now, Luke told himself, drawing in a sharp breath as he struggled for credence and composure.
      Han's face was averted, turned towards the shadow of the bulkhead. When Luke approached the medical bunk, his pulse picked up again, stumbled at the sight of clenching hands and blood-drained face. Tangled hair fell into the high forehead, the set of Han's jaw defiant even in his unconscious state. Thin lines of pain were carved sharply around his eyes.
      The sight of him tugged recollection back into trenchant focus, and for a moment, Luke fell back into his final, sleepless hours on Dagobah when the future had imposed itself like a dead stretch of space without stars. He shouldered the memory aside with an effort and checked the monitor. All vital functions registered stable, and yet Han was only a hair's breadth away from slipping into a coma.
      For long moments, Luke searched the familiar face and ached with the strange fragility that had come over Han's features in sleep. The tight safety straps across his shoulders and thighs were too reminiscent of captivity, necessary though they had been for take-off and the jump to lightspeed. Luke slid them off gently and reached for Han's hand.
      Whatever he'd expected, it wasn't an instant reaction. Although it lasted only for the space of a heartbeat, an unfamiliar shimmer of the Force charged the contact with something close to electricity.
      Han drew a fitful breath and turned his head to stare at him, eyes unfocused and empty of all comprehension, reflecting a mind ripped from the dead of sleep.
      "Han," Luke said, his voice dry. "It's me."
      Slowly, the black absence of understanding faded from Han's expression. "Hey, kid," he muttered, and his hand closed hesitantly around Luke's. "How're we doin'?"
      Luke's breathing eased at the sound of that voice, and for the first time he thought he could forget the screams. "Not too bad," he answered, lacing his fingers through Han's. "Chewie and Leia are both uninjured. We're on our way to the Sullust sector, but we'll have to do a couple of decoy jumps to shake pursuit."
      "Your... arm." Han's free hand lifted for a vague gesture.
      "It's not bad. I guess I'm lucky to be alive." Relief set in the moment those words were out, and Luke felt a giddy weakness settle in his stomach.
      Han's mouth twitched in reaction. "What about... Vader?" he murmured, his eyes slipping closed.
      "I last saw him above the reactor core--" Luke started when Leia's voice interrupted him.
      "He got away," she said scathingly from the door. "There was an Imperial shuttle docking at one of those supply ports when we passed by, escorted by TIE fighters."
      Glancing back over his shoulder, Luke met her eyes and let go of Han's hand in reflex, as if Leia's presence had turned the gesture into something far too intimate.
      "It's a wonder they didn't pursue us," she added. "Well, maybe we deserved a little luck after all that happened lately."
      Leia had already turned back into the corridor when Han shifted on the bunk. "No such thing as luck," he mumbled. "He let us go."
      Luke froze, but Han said nothing more, his face relaxing as sleep overwhelmed him again. Something dark crawled across Luke's thoughts and was gone before he could reach it, leaving only a flutter that stirred faintly against the edges of his awareness, slow and strangely wistful. A shiver snaked down his spine.
      Vader could have killed him easily. And yet he'd let him escape.

***
Aboard the Executor, the Dark Lord stood by the central viewport of the command bridge, his eyes turned towards a radial configuration of stars. Clear as an ion trail, he could see the trajectory of the Falcon's headlong race towards hyperspace, and his mind yearned after the Corellian freighter. Allowing his son's escape had been a most difficult exercise -- close to impossible, once he'd encountered the boy's full presence in the Force.
      There was a blinding measure of power in his son, and whatever training he'd received had honed his battle skills as much as his keen senses. Possessive pride had swept the Dark Lord with astounding intensity, but the violence of his own reaction warned him against the wanton impulse to claim his son at once. He could not risk such rashness. He would pass this final test of his patience. In lesser men, the Dark Side brought out only the savagery of base mortal instincts, consuming themselves in an explosion of insatiable greed. Greater minds found discipline in Darkness.
      Luke, Vader thought. Son. But he took great care not to let the words coalesce into a Sending. If the Emperor became aware of his sentiments, he would bend his ravenous will on seizing the son of Skywalker before the father could get to him.
      With a certain effort, the Dark Lord turned his thoughts towards Solo and located his presence easily, like the waver of an unsteady flame. Spatial dimensions lost all relevance in the Force, and Vader no longer required the assistance of tracking technology to trace the Falcon's passage. Commands and suggestions were firmly planted in Solo's willful spirit.
      Guard my son, Vader thought. Nurture his doubts, fuel his hunger. Bring him to me when he's ready.


Sullust

Luke shivered in an icy gale. Below him, radiant gases twisted themselves into a cyclone, and savage flares of sunlight stabbed at his eyes. He was lost, hanging on to the frail metallic structure only to taste his full loneliness before he gave himself to the inevitable fall. His left hand began slipping, and his right hand...
      In its place, Luke felt only a numb throbbing. The lightsaber had cauterized the terrible wound, and all the agony was within his mind. Words cutting deeper than Vader's incandescent blade -- yet he couldn't recall what those words had been...
      A soft noise snapped Luke from the morass of his nightmare. In wild reflex, he groped for his lightsaber, but his fingers found only the rumpled sheet and the smooth sturdiplast surface of a bedside drawer. From the darkness of his room, Artoo beeped softly in concern.
      "I'm okay," Luke managed, sitting up on the edge of the bunk. "It's all right, Artoo, nothing to worry about."
      He ran his hand up the wall for the lighting controls, not yet familiar with the layout of his new quarters. It was only last night that he'd moved from the rehab wing of the clinic to the camouflaged base complex, nestling into the folds of a deep gorge below the med center. But if he'd expected the transfer to rid him of the persistent nightmare, that hope had just scattered to the winds.
      A lightpanel hummed to life and spilled its warm shine across the mussed bedclothes. Luke hauled in a breath of stale, recycled air and wished for a window he could open to Varoo's nocturnal winds, letting them blow away any residue of the dream's fear. He flexed the fingers of his right hand, touched trembling fingertips to his palm to assure himself of the living warmth and pulse.
      The nightmare was always the same, all the details of such excruciating clarity that he might have suspected another vision -- except that he recognized the feverish skies of Bespin and couldn't think of a single reason that would force his return to the gaseous planet. Cloud City had been all but destroyed, Intel reports stated after cautious inquiry. Instructed by the now missing Baron Administrator, municipal security had employed thermal detonators against the Imperial troops, and one of the explosions had set off a chain reaction. The city had been reduced to a floating ruin, drifting moorlessly and deserted in the methane blasts.
      Luke pulled the sweaty undershirt over his head and settled with his back to the cool wall. Was it possible that Force sight tapped into fraudulent currents of the past as much as the future? He'd have to ask Yoda -- provided the Jedi master still talked to him by the time he returned to Dagobah to complete his training. Which wouldn't happen anytime in the near future anyway. The recent events on Bespin had alarmed the Rebel Council in a way that would thwart unauthorized side-trips for a long time.
      Slowly, the clenching terror drained from Luke's muscles, but with it went every trace of sleepiness. Dawn being still a good distance away, he commanded himself to the shower.
      For minutes, he stood motionless under the spray, watching distractedly as the tepid water made rivulets down his right arm, snaking past the slender white scar that ran from shoulder to wrist. Cloned skin had been applied to the injury, half-healed by the time they reached the Sullust system, so that a thin seam of brittle tissue remained. Luke toweled himself dry until energy seemed to pulse directly under his skin. The training on Dagobah had toughened him up enough to recover fast, and all he needed now was some practice to get back into shape. Perhaps he and Han could begin working out together soon.
      Han... Worry dragged at him once again.
      Luke slipped into his jumpsuit and left the spartan room, both hands pushed into his pockets as he strode down the dimly lit corridor. A short flight of stairs took him up to ground level where he stopped by the drink synthesizer for a cup of kafin.
      Two weeks had passed since their arrival in the Sullust system, and by all ordinary standards, Han should have recovered from that blaster wound by now. Luke's fingers tightened around the plasticup as he thought of the gaunt, exhausted face and the dark smudges of insomnia under Han's eyes. Not much to anyone's surprise, Han tried to cover up the weakness, and his temper flared at every show of solicitude from his friends or the clinic's personnel, but the facts had been printed starkly in the medical report.
      A first cerebral scan had produced evidence of severe shock. Traumatized nerves, Luke recalled, signs of a minor hemorrhage close to the temporal lobe, unexplained by Han's visible injuries. The psychological report had diagnosed symptoms of disorientation and a tendency to compensate through aggressive behavior.
      Only Leia's station and rank within the Rebel Alliance had given them access to these confidential data, and they'd sat in stupefied silence for a long time after they'd studied the compiled test results and evaluations.
      Finally, Luke made himself voice what they were both thinking. "The torture?" he'd asked.
      "I don't know." Leia's shoulders twitched in a nervous shrug. "The doctors don't have any reliable statistics in that particular field. Understandably, most torture victims don't remember what kind of drugs they were given in which dosage, or for how long they were exposed to mind probes."
      "But he's going to recover?" Luke persisted, wrenching away from the gravitational pull of horrified imagination.
      "It's only a matter of time," Leia had assured him. "Meanwhile, the doctors want to keep Han under strict surveillance, and I agree." She'd paused there, reaching across the table to touch his hand. Her fingers were very cold and white. "Luke, for the time being, I think it would be best if you stayed here as well. This base is one of the safest places we have in the entire galaxy."
      Luke bit down on his lip as instant protest was overtaken by a sweep of ambiguous sentiments.
      "Don't even start arguing with me," Leia had stalled him. "You're important for the Rebellion, and we can't risk losing you. Right now, Vader seems very determined to locate you..."
      "Which means my presence could also endanger any of our operations," Luke concluded bleakly.
      "Possibly." Leia patted his hand in a gesture of distracted consolation. "But I don't think Vader can afford devoting his entire time to hunting you down, no matter how badly he wants to capture you. You'll just stay out of sight for a time, while we monitor their movements. Then we'll see."
      If it hadn't been for Han, Luke would have fought his confinement to the barren precinct of the medical complex. He might even have talked Leia into letting him accompany her to the conference with the Bothan delegation on the major planet, just to escape the lethally dull routine of this place.
      Head ducked between his shoulders, Luke crossed the entrance hall, barely acknowledging the guard by the door. When he stepped out into the open, a cool breeze caressed his heated face, and over the sable cliffs in the east, a fringe of grey twilight brightened slowly. It was a near perfect hide-out, all things considered, constructed on the largest moon in Sullust's orbit. Scranee, Varoo's twin satellite, was visible at dawn and dusk, a shimmering, wraith-like sphere, a white shadow to Varoo's dark mountains and valleys.
      Wandering up the path towards the med center, Luke turned for a glance at the Rebel base. Officially, this place was a research laboratory affiliated to the clinic, but since Sullust had in due secrecy joined the Rebel Alliance, the facility had been turned over to Intel and would soon be used to prepare operatives for undercover missions. At least he was close to their major source of information, Luke told himself, although he doubted that Intel's combined efforts could solve the mystery of Bespin. Or that the clinic's highly trained analysts would produce a convincing explanation for his recurring dreams.
      The curved rim of the second moon had appeared on the horizon, and Luke sent a sketchy salute in the direction of its ethereal light before he entered the clinic. Everyone in the staff knew him, and no one stopped him to offer a lecture about visiting hours. And it wasn't as if so many visitors ever found their way here.
      With bated breath, Luke let himself into Han's room. Heavy silence surrounded him, overlaid only by the ventilation's whirr and Han's slow breathing. Relieved at first that Han slept soundly, Luke eased into a chair by the bed. The psychological report had listed intense nightmares and pointed out that prolonged insomnia would contribute to Han's mental instability.
      Mental instability. The words stuck in his throat like fishbones. But evidently, that period finally lay behind Han. Without giving it much thought, Luke glanced at the diagnostic display beside the bed and recognized his mistake. They were keeping Han sedated for the night -- most certainly without his knowledge or consent.
      Annoyed, Luke pushed from his seat. How long had this been going on? He could just hear the doctors argue that Han needed his nocturnal rest to recover fully. Pacing the short stretch from bed to door, Luke resolved to discuss the matter with Leia when she returned, later in the day. Perhaps this kind of therapy provided the only answer to the puzzle of Han's unbalanced state, but it still didn't feel right.
      Luke's clenched fist shot out towards the nearest wall, but he caught back the blow at the last instant. Knuckles scraped white plaster with a muted thud. He had to get a grip on his own frustration, concentrate on gain instead of loss.
      Han was safe here and in the most competent hands. Nothing short of a miracle, considering Vader's plans for him: the difference between mild sedation and shock-induced hibernation had to be infinite. At least they'd spared Han the carbon freeze, with its predictable consequence of brain damage and a trauma-for-life sentence, if nothing worse. But no sense of pride or achievement came from the assertion. Han owed his freedom to Lando's intervention, not the amateurish swashbuckling of a would-be Jedi. Once again, Luke felt the clinging sense of defeat, defined sharply against his recollection of Vader's awesome power. Ultimately, perhaps Han owed his escape to the Dark Lord's disinterest.
      Luke returned to the chair and sat, unable to relax. The muscles in his neck and shoulders were all bunched up with resentment and impatience, his mind churning with questions. He'd failed Yoda -- and Ben -- by his untimely departure from Dagobah, but he couldn't regret his choice, even if it had earned him this chafing ignorance.
      Almost before he knew, his hand had lifted to reach for Han's, and he moved his fingertips down the back of that big, capable hand so lightly that he touched only the fine dark hair, not the skin. The fleeting contact couldn't wake Han, but it loosened a sting of heat in the pit of Luke's stomach. Split-second fantasy blossomed in his mind, and he was in that bed with Han, covering the lean body with his own, kissing warmth back into the pale lips -- but the image collapsed momentarily, scattered by a mordant sense of reality. Indulge this, and make things even worse.
      Withdrawing his hand, Luke laced his fingers tightly together as if to contain wayward imagination in the gesture. The vision on Dagobah had changed everything... that, and what he'd seen in the cave. But the latter still seemed like the easier lesson -- live by fury and transform into a monster -- although Luke suspected that there was something more personal to it than a general warning against the Dark Side. But when his mind had relinquished all anchorage within time, yielding to an influx of sight and sound that slid through every nerve with the fire of Han's torment, he'd also come away with merciless insight into some major self-delusion.
      He'd responded to Han's pain with all of himself, and the feeling crested until it blotted out the universe and reason with it. He'd managed to make himself stay on Dagobah through all of another twelve hours, and during each minute of every hour felt like a primed detonator ready to blow.
      By then, the heart-pounding terror of the vision alternated with brief spells of embarrassed incredulity at his own naiveté. Or maybe he was just particularly good at shutting out truths he didn't want to acknowledge. Like his own eagerness to spend time with Han, or the way each gesture of approval and affection went straight to his insides with a warm glow that could be made to last for hours and sometimes spilled over into confused, half-remembered dreams.
      Yoda's warning against passion suddenly made blinding sense. It had seized his body and mind with unrest like a fever, and he knew that this was one more reason why Yoda had opposed his decision. On some level, he understood the argument; on another, it made no sense at all. A Jedi's immunity to passion couldn't possibly come from ignorance or indifference. To reject love, you had to know it in the first place.
      Not that it's all that likely, Luke countered his own self-defense. With the truth about his own feelings, he'd accepted their impossibility, both were one and the same. Sure, Han cared about him -- much more than he liked, judging by his occasional bursts of denial. It's your Rebellion, kid, not mine, and if you wanna get yourself in trouble, don't expect me to come running. I'm outta here anyway.
      Right. And then Han stayed on a month or two, until another cycle was complete and closed with a variant of the same tirade. But there was Leia, and Luke had watched Han focus his charms on the females of diverse species often enough to know that Han had never looked or smiled at him that way. Instead, they had all the friendship, the trust and genuine affection between them that seemed to figure very little in Han's standard courting rituals. Luke could almost persuade himself that this was the part he would have picked, given a choice.
      He'd resolved all this for himself long before he'd plunged his X-wing into Bespin's atmosphere. And sooner or later, it would stop him from wishing.
      On the bed, Han shifted drowsily, lips parting to release breath like a sigh. How could anyone be immune to him? Luke felt heat rush his cheeks at the idiocy of that thought and levered out of the chair. Pale daylight was crawling up the curtains; he'd better remove himself before Han woke up -- or someone from day shift came in to initiate the process.

***
Late in the afternoon, Leia's shuttle landed on a plateau east of the clinic, dropping into the shadow of wind-bitten pinnacles. Luke waited until the runlights switched off and reached the hatch in time to hold out a gallant hand to the Princess. She smiled at him, the shine in her eyes easily dimming the crystal necklace she wore over her formal robes.
      "Good to see you," she said warmly, but her enthusiasm had little do with his presence.
      "So the meeting was a success?" Luke asked.
      "Much more so than I'd hoped," Leia answered emphatically. "The Bothans have an invaluable network of agents, and they're putting all those resources at our disposal."
      "What else?"
      She laughed softly, a rare sound of pure delight. "A group of Mon Calamarians attended the meeting, Luke. They're joining us at last. Just think of how that could tip the balance in our favor! They're wonderful ship-builders, and they've got the best navigators, and--" Leia broke off to brush trailing strands back from her face. "Listen to me! I sound as if we'd won the war already."
      "It's good to see you so happy," Luke said honestly.
      "I've been pretty morose lately, haven't I?" Leia stopped to meet his eyes with an apologetic half-smile. "How's Han?"
      "Pretty much the same as always," he returned with a shrug. Which meant grumpy and closed-off and bristlingly impatient with the dragging pace of his recovery. Leia knew all about it.
      She searched Luke's face for a few moments, worry building in her gaze. "Has he talked to you about... the things that happened on Bespin?"
      Luke shook his head. "But I didn't ask him either."
      "He should talk."
      "To get it off his chest? Or is it... do you think he knows something that might explain why it rattled him so badly?"
      Leia steeled back her shoulders. "Yes," she said after a moment. "I think he does."
      "But why wouldn't he tell us?"
      Some of the sudden tension faded from Leia's expression, and she shook her head. "Maybe he just doesn't want to think about it," she offered, but Luke could tell that she'd kept the disturbing part of her thoughts to herself.
      Before he could insist on a full answer, they'd reached the clinic's entrance, and different considerations imposed themselves. As they walked down the corridor, Luke told Leia what he'd discovered this morning. She frowned. "What does Han say about it?"
      "I'm pretty sure he doesn't even know. He wouldn't like being drugged that way."
      Leia massaged the bridge of her nose for a moment. "If you feel there's something wrong with it, perhaps you should talk to Han's doctor. But -- honestly, what are they supposed to do? Would you let a patient deteriorate, just because he happens to be touchy about accepting medication? I'm afraid this is all about Han's ego getting in the way once more."
      Luke knew she had a point, but the coolness in her tone made him uncomfortable. In silence, he followed her the rest of the way to Han's room.
      When they entered, Han stood by the window, dressed in a sleeveless tunic and loose pants that were too short for his legs. The faded grey color seemed to bring out an ashen shade in his skin.
      "Hey, Your Worshipfulness," he said flippantly, "if I'd expected you, I would've gotten out the dress uniform."
      Leia returned a strained smile. "I didn't know you had one."
      "There's a lot you don't know about me." Han's eyes wandered over to Luke. "Hi, kid. Thought you'd drop by earlier."
      "I actually came in this morning," Luke returned, a little flustered and inordinately pleased that Han's mood seemed on the incline at last. "You were still asleep."
      "So, what's the scoop, Princess?" Han returned to the bed and gestured Leia towards the only chair.
      Fleetingly, Luke considered sitting on the bed with Han, but leaned against the wall instead, content to listen to Leia's account of the conspiratorial meeting. More restrained than it had been on her arrival, Leia's enthusiasm was still tangible as she spelled out the scale of possibilities involved in an alliance with the Mon Calamari.
      "I mean, they've supported us with ships and technology wherever they could," she said, "but if they're willing to send a whole fleet when the time comes, it could make all the difference. They intend to become full members of the Rebel Alliance."
      "Good for you," Han said caustically.
      Annoyance clouded Leia's expression. "Now why had I thought you'd be interested at all?"
      "I don't know." Han's mouth curled into a mocking grin. When he pulled up his knees, causing his pants to slide up his thighs, Luke caught himself staring at those long, lean legs and averted his eyes fast.
      "Maybe you're tryin' to impress Luke," Han continued, "but you wanna be subtle about it."
      Leia's cheeks darkened, though with irritation more than embarrassment. "I don't know why I put up with you," she said snappishly. "But I have more news that you should hear. About Lando."
      "I thought Boba Fett had him."
      "He does indeed, and he's put word about, too. Our sources report that some of Lando's former business partners might be willing to pay for his head."
      "And now Fett's waiting for the highest bid?"
      "It would seem so," Leia confirmed stiffly. "We have to do something about it."
       "Lando can take care of himself," Han said dismissively. "Wouldn't be surprised if he 'n Fett got along just fine."
      "We owe him that much," Leia insisted.
      "He handed us over to Vader on a platter, remember?" Han shot back belligerently.
      From his place by the door, Luke could almost see Han's mercurial temper go through another flip towards the shadowed side.
      "He got us out of there, too," Leia persisted.
      "So what d'you expect me to do? Break down and cry? Or go after him? And how's that fit in with keeping me under medical observation?" Han bounced to his feet, and although the rash motion drained the color from his face, he paced over to the window. "You've got me as good as jailed here, Your Worship!"
      Startled, Luke's eyes flew to the tense profile, a chiseled study in cold anger. Leia had pushed from her seat.
      "That seems to be one of your favorite delusions," she said in chilled tones. "That I'm trying to keep you around at all costs."
      "Leia," Luke started, but she was already heading for the door. After brief hesitation, Luke accompanied her out into the corridor, sending a troubled glance in Han's direction that went unnoticed.
      "What's wrong?" Luke asked, matching Leia's angry stride. He'd seen the sparks fly between them too often to count, but this was different.
      Before, their banter had included a certain playfulness, and the kind of tension Luke had come to read as unadmitted attraction. Sparks would catch fire, given half a chance, and while he was on Dagobah, Han and Leia had spent considerable time alone together. Yet those undercurrents had faded, exposing a harsh discord. What he'd just witnessed was nothing short of animosity, though it seemed more personal on Leia's part. Han could fly into a temper at anything these days.
      "What happened between you and Han?" Luke tried again when Leia refused to acknowledge his presence with so much as a sidelong glance. "I thought you... cared about him," he finished lamely, groping for some inoffensive vocable.
      "I don't think I ever said that!" Leia snapped. "A droid has more heart and sensitivity than Han Solo."
      "He's been through a lot lately."
      Her lashes lowered. "I know," Leia returned on the faintest note of concession. "Luke -- do you feel the same way? That it's like... another kind of imprisonment? It must be difficult for you."
      "Sometimes." He managed a lighthearted smile. "I'm not used to having so much free time on my hands anymore. I guess it's the same problem for Han."
      When he walked Leia back to her shuttle, the planet's shadow had expanded, throwing a blanket of premature night over Varoo's mountains. It would pass, yielding to another hour of daylight before sunset.

Back in Han's room, Luke paused a moment to study his silent friend by the window. There'd been far too many times lately when Han went into stony withdrawal, blocking off reality like a threat.
      "Let's go for a walk," Luke suggested.
      Han turned slowly. "Guess I could use some fresh air."
      Waiting outside while Han got dressed, Luke watched the watered shadows lighten. Neon illumination flickered on and off in the corridor, timed to the moon's rotation.
      They took a path that skirted the plateau and from there sloped down towards a winding gorge. A brook snaked through its length, sustaining a patchwork of wiry vegetation.
      Gravel crunched sharply when Han suddenly broke his stride. "I didn't mean it like that," he said, squinting his eyes at nothing in particular.
      "I think Leia knows that."
      "Does she?" Taut discomfort seized Han's expression. "It's not her fault, you know." He began walking again in a quickened stride as if he'd given away too much. "So what've you been doing all day?"
      "Exercising, mostly."
      "How many laps around the prison yard?"
      Luke gave a chuckle. A note of dry humor had replaced the mordant sarcasm in Han's voice. It wouldn't last, but right now it was just enough to warrant hoping for a fresh start. "Thought you liked layovers. You used to complain about leave regulations--"
      "Leave means I get to choose where I spend it," Han said pointedly, pausing by the water that reflected a brightening sky.
      "Where would you wanna go?" Luke asked, totally unprepared for Han's reaction.
      Hands balled into fists, Han stared at him. "Anywhere," he said in a voice like sandpaper.
      Numbed, Luke shook his head.
      Something gave. Shoulders sagging as if the weight of weeks had just fallen over him, Han turned away, his fists loosened, hands coming up to rub over his face.
      Luke was with him, transported to that spot half a step behind Han without any awareness of the motion. He would have touched, except for the heaviness that surrounded Han, spreading outward to fuse the air into a barrier of glass.
      "I've been having... weird dreams," Luke said hoarsely. "Almost every night. It's like I'm looking at another life just... drifting away from me." He needed to pause for a breath. "Is that about the scope of what you're dealing with?"
      Han came around slowly, his expression another struggle against going under. "Got rid of the dreams." His eyes betrayed a flicker of anguish that shaded into something more savage before he glanced aside. "They're keeping me on tranks." His upper lip curled derisively. "You thought I didn't know, huh? I didn't ask for it, but..."
      As Han left the sentence hanging, the note of defeat lashed out at Luke. Alien, inacceptable.
      "We're going to pull through this," he said without the first idea what he meant by that, but kept talking.
      He told Han about Dagobah, about Yoda and the vision. He could hear the white buzz of insects over the swamp again, feel the warm, moist wind rush down from the sky. He talked himself into another reality so much that he didn't stop to wonder why Han wasn't cutting off all the Jedi mumbo-jumbo with some caustic comment. When he finished, drained and cold, sunset scintillated on the edge of the sky in shades of glassy green and jade.
      "And I was the bait," Han said into the silence.
      Luke yanked himself back to the present, to the facts of survival. "It didn't work out that way."
      At least the talking had unraveled a few knots inside him, and maybe it could do the same for Han, sometime soon. "It's gettin' late," Luke said. "C'mon."
      Without thinking about it, he caught hold of Han's hand and felt it lock hard around his own.
      All motion froze as Han met his eyes. "I'm sorry."
      "No," Luke said sharply, "don't be. That's the first thing."
      And from there -- what?
      Han's free hand lifted to capture his shoulder, forcing attention. "You shouldn't've come. You shouldn't be here. None of this is right."
      Luke couldn't guess what drove such an urgency into the words, but he had no time to consider, not with that look in Han's eyes and the touch of his hand trailing slowly up the side of his neck. He felt his expression slip, as if his facial muscles were exhausted from keeping up with the emotional leaps and bounds of the past hour. Han's fingertips brushed up into his hair, hesitantly, before the motion caught.
      Within the stillness, Luke could hear his heart kick into double speed. He lost the ground under his feet when Han leaned over with that same, reluctant thoughtfulness and brought their mouths together. Sharing a breath, as if that was all the oxygen they'd got left between them. Contact lingered, softened into searching closeness, and loosened a small shower of sparks in Luke's stomach. The rest of himself was focused on the gentle pressure of Han's mouth against his own.
      It ended just as quietly as it had started, but when Han let him go, reality took a while to gain Luke's attention.
      They were walking back up the path towards the clinic, casting long shadows across the gravel. Mind still bouncing back and forth between the many facets of total strangeness, Luke didn't know what to say. Perhaps he'd better trust all of it to the kind protection of silence.
      Han slanted him a quick glance. "D'you wonder sometimes... about Vader? Why he let us go?"
      It caught him cold.
      "You've said that before," Luke managed at last.
      "He's not what he seems. Same goes for the things he does..."
      The clinic's western wing offered its angular security straight ahead, but Han slowed again. "Not that much of a surprise, maybe, when you think about it. He was a Jedi before--" Han gestured vaguely, expansively. "Well, before he turned into whatever he is now."
      "How do you know?" Luke asked, startled. A young Jedi knight who turned to evil, he recalled Ben's words. Perhaps that was the reason why Vader had been reluctant to terminate his life. Some ingrained reflex? Curiosity? Or just unwillingness to crush the near-to-last specimen of a valued enemy?
      Han shrugged.
      "Leia says he interrogated you personally," Luke pressed.
      "Yeah, well, I don't recall so much of that part." Han paused, sweeping long fingers through his hair. "I remember he asked me about evil. Imagine that."
      A faint chill hunted down Luke's back.
      "I mean, what's evil?" Han continued. "I don't buy into all that mystical crap. There's laws and crimes and ending up on the wrong side of the punch. A matter of perspective."
      "There's random destruction," Luke suggested, coercing his mind into the argument, but his voice none too steady. "Pointless cruelty." And it flashed through him that he couldn't accuse Vader of either.
      "Yeah?" Han pulled up his shoulders. "Or is that just another way of saying we don't get the logic? Your Jedi master tells you to let us die -- how d'you call that?"
      Cruel, Luke thought despite himself.
      They'd reached the western wing's portal, automatic slide doors responding to their presence. Han gave a small and tired grin. "Too late to figure it out, huh? Maybe some other time. Right now, I feel more like cashing it in for the night."
      "Yeah, I'll -- uh, see you tomorrow," Luke said without much hope for making it sound casual.
      He couldn't tell if he'd expected anything more. As he directed himself towards the base and his quarters, lightheaded disbelief returned, and he abandoned conscious reflection. Galvanizing memory spread all through his solar plexus with a weightless warmth until nothing else could count anymore.
      At least not until tomorrow.

***
Two steps to the window, three to the door, Han paced his room in anticipation of the doctor's afternoon visit, temper kept on a very short leash. The way they made him wait was the kind of impersonal affront he'd never handled very well.
      An unnatural energy fired in him and refused to burn up. Only a short while ago, there'd been times when he'd thought the gears in his head were seriously slipping, but he was starting to adapt, almost liked it at times. It didn't register on any of the limited medical scopes, but he felt stronger, energetic. Except for those strange lapses when he blacked out, for a split second, sometimes less than that. As if he existed on two different time levels.
      Those seizures came and went, but he could tolerate that a hell of a lot better than nightmares or anything that left tracks in the conscious mind. By all rights, he should be released from the observation ward any day now. They'd cut down the tranks, and Chewie would be back on Sullust shortly, after hauling shield technology to one more remote Rebel base. Not that anyone had bothered to ask his permission for the use of his ship, but things were finally perking up. Another week maybe, and he'd be free to leave.
      When the doctor and his droid cronies finally showed, Han sat on his bed and looked placid. He'd had a lot of practice at that lately, with nothing much to do day in and out except fend off odd bouts of claustrophobia. That sense of being stalked, watched, appraised.
      Maybe the medics were right ascribing it to his scan-grid sessions -- he'd never had that kind of problem before, not in all the times he'd found himself confined to narrow spaces, from backwater lock-ups to the hidden compartments inside his own ship. And he was sure it would fade as soon as he took the Falcon skyward again.
      "Well, doc, how d'you like me today?" Han asked when all the minutiae of the physical had been completed to the letter.
      The doctor was a leather-skinned Durosian with a shock of white hair and a face like bad news. "Promising," he said shortly. "Of course, the committee will have to evaluate today's results."
      "Right."
      There was always some committee involved, no help for it. If he ever thought about the Rebels' utopia, Han pictured it like committee heaven, each overriding the other with happy chatter. They called it democracy, but there was something to be said in favor of the Imperial style with its cleaner chains of command, even if he'd never been good at taking orders.
      Han changed back into his outdoor clothes and went to find Luke. At least the kid had something to keep himself occupied, running long stretches, working out in the gym, or freezing in painful-looking poses for what he called meditation. But in between those dedicated fits of activity or total stillness, he got twitchy as well.
      Han didn't have to walk very far. Instead of the base's underground facilities, Luke preferred using the clinic's gym with its wall-to-wall windows. Pausing in the open door, Han leaned against the frame and watched.
      A lightmetal pole replaced the lost lightsaber, its length sparking off reflections as if to outblaze the radiant blade. Luke spun with it, flung it up high and managed to perform a backflip before lightly catching the replacement. From there, he went into a series of attack patterns, each strike deadly and executed with elegant, controlled precision.
      A cut that would open the standard human's midsection to the liver, an upward thrust that would take out the shoulder joint, an elegant slash to puncture the carotid artery just below the jaw. Pushing through the exercise, Luke was fighting a shadow host that gained in definition with each swing and thrust of the blade, spilling shadow blood over the gym's padded floor, while new limbs sprouted to join the violent dance.
      Abruptly dizzied, Han knuckled his eyes.
      At that moment, Luke paused briefly and sent a smile over his shoulder. "I'll finish in a minute."
      "Sure, go ahead," Han muttered.
      He made himself concentrate on the moves, the slide of muscles beneath Luke's undershirt. Every ripple and stretch of muscle and tendon took part in the performance, suffused with power and weightless confidence. Luke was all of the light, focused as if he could release his essence into bright motion and become that dance. The effect was pretty close to hypnotic.
      Han shifted with the crawl of a faint heat on his skin. That part of the sensation was familiar enough -- but not the hunger that opened inside him, a black void of incalculable dimensions, staring like a naked singularity. Like something had torn a bullet hole into him, and around it twisted threads of impossible hopes and unspoken needs. It took him here every day, with the mad promise that Luke could somehow tie all those ruptured threads together again, and it always ended in a rehearsal of forced endurance.
      Almost a week had passed since Leia's visit and their little outdoors jaunt. One day dragging into the next, each owed to the biting memory of letting his guard slip. It came back each time he saw Luke's glance slide sideways, the puzzled sadness in those cloudy blue eyes.
      Luke had no idea.
      Exercises complete, he settled down cross-legged on the mats.
      Han chose a spot by the wall like a security margin. "Done for today?"
      "Yeah." Luke fingered his 'saber prop. "But it just isn't the same, you know." When he looked up, his eyes reflected metallic light bouncing off the pole. "I've talked to some of the techs around the base, I've tried to figure out how to put the different components together for a new lightsaber, but it just isn't working."
      "It's not like you would've much use for it anyway," Han said off-handedly.
      "You don't understand."
      "What, that you wanna be a Jedi at all costs? Yeah, I got that just fine. But what if it's pointless? Don't you ever wonder why they no longer exist?"
      Surprise washed over Luke's face. "Because the Emperor hunted and destroyed them," he said, repeating a lesson never questioned.
      "Yeah, but why don't you ask yourself how he could do that?" Han challenged. "Why nobody protested. Why they went the way of the old bureaucracy and the noble houses and nobody gave a damn."
      Confusion shaded into dismay as Luke shook his head. "Are we talking survival of the fittest here?"
      "Maybe they got complacent and dogmatic." Han shrugged. "Maybe they couldn't handle change 'cause it threatened their position."
      "I don't see how that could've happened," Luke said sharply. "A Jedi shares his essence with the Force, and the Force is never static -- just like life isn't." His fingers closed hard around the pole. "No. I need to construct a new lightsaber for myself. My only hope is that Ben kept the schematics at his place on Tatooine. Or some notes at least."
      "And I say, stay away from it!" Han snapped. "You shouldn't've messed with all that in the first place, and maybe that you lost your saber's a sign to let it go."
      A fraught silence hung between them as their gazes locked.
      There was fire in the blue eyes all right, subsiding into smoke-clouded sparks as Luke's expression softened. "It's because Yoda wouldn't let me leave, right?" he asked quietly. "That's why you say all these things."
      From one moment to the next, Han didn't really know any more. The rough breath he drew ached in his chest, he could almost feel Luke reaching out with all that gentleness and wanted to release himself into it. Rest. Go under.
      "Come here," Luke said on a lighter note. "If we're gonna work out together, we'd better get you loosened up first. You're gonna sprain something with your muscles cramped like that."
      "Who said anything about working out together?" Han muttered grouchily, but that reluctant part of himself wasn't pulling the strings anymore. A sleepwalker version of him took over and made him get up to sit in front of Luke.
      Strong fingers searched and located the tension knots in his shoulders, smoothing them out carefully, circled his shoulder blades to work down his back. Warmth fanned into his nervous system until it became a silky current of desire, weaving sinuously through his senses.
      Hell, I've tried to warn you, Han thought, but perhaps the warnings he'd given himself had been too vague, too ambiguous.
      "All right, here we go." Luke gave his shoulder a pat and held on for a moment before his hand slid away. "Let's see if you can still throw me."
      Han jumped up and grinned. "You think a few weeks in hospital make any difference? Get real, kid."
      Eager energy lashed through his body, and if that could stop him from thinking, it sure outrivaled every legal and outlawed drug. He launched himself, like something had just pushed the trigger that delivered him from half a lifetime of frozen anticipation.
      Luke sidestepped his lunge with a breathless laugh and caught his arm. "Whoa, take it easy!"
      "I'll show you easy." Gripping his shoulder, Han twisted and had him sprawling on the mat for a moment -- until Luke just slid out from under his hold and swept at Han's ankles, bringing him down.
      They gained their feet again, grappled, broke apart, building a pattern of charge and comeback that was almost musical. Han felt it flow in his veins, heady and powerful like the dark rhythm of a drum. The collision of tense muscles, rush of breaths, pounding heartbeat like a race to freedom.
      The training on Dagobah showed in Luke's speed and timing. He was good, but he didn't take this serious enough.
      Feigning retreat, Han leaped, throwing them both off balance. A hard fall slammed the breath from Luke's lungs, and that moment was all it took for Han to secure a hold on the slighter frame. Something within him was flung open wide and quivered in triumph at the feel of Luke pressed against the length of his body, trapped under him with little option to resist. He shoved down hard, getting his knee between Luke's thighs, and the struggle led where he'd always known it would when he pinned Luke's shoulders with more force than needed.
      Heat flowed inward and swept his groin, cresting in fury. Luke wasn't fighting him, his fingers dug reflexively into Han's shoulders as he arched his back. A second wave rushed Han's spine and presaged deliverance. He ground his hips into Luke, felt a sharp jolt that tightened him further, to the pulse and the rhythm beaten out in his blood.
      Both hands buried in the tangled blond hair, Han swept in for a kiss that turned out scaldingly sweet. Luke's mouth moved against his own, yielding to the rough pressure of his lips and tongue, and then he was plunging for full depth, their teeth colliding briefly until he yanked Luke's head back. All he wanted was get it over with, ride this wave and rid himself of the pointless struggle, the fever, set himself free --
      Anger curled in Han's stomach and rose bitter to the back of his throat. When he broke away abruptly, Luke gasped in surprise, the heat in his face and eyes laying him bare with no defenses.
      Han felt a wild pulse saunter against his fingers. Conscious surrender, unconcerned joy.
      This is what you're gonna break, he told himself. A friendship already marred beyond recognition, bound to be crushed along with the intensity of feeling that burned in Luke's eyes. He'd seen that kind of light dim and falter before, and something in him sneered, 'cause it's the way of things.
      Trust shriveled, love corroded to greed, desire rotted away into unfeeling appetite. What madness to ever trust anyone -- another inbred failing of the whole goddamn species.
      Something fragile surfaced in Luke's gaze, building towards a new edge of confidence, and that too would be broken.
      Han levered himself away, shoving Luke back against the mat, and ignored the bruised look in his eyes.
      "See? Better think again before you take on more than you can handle," he said brusquely and stalked away from victory or defeat, it didn't matter which.
      Weakness spread out slowly from his stomach. He felt hollow as if he inhabited only some cramped part of himself and the rest had been turned into a ghost town. Outside, Han headed straight for the short landing strip above the Rebel base. The vehicles parked along its side were short-range shuttles that would take him no farther than the major planet, but they all screamed escape at him like a guarantee for salvation.
      Han disabled the alarms before he started on the hatch's codelock. It was an old model, the very type he could finagle half asleep, and he wasn't in a much more lucid state right now. Damn this place where he was locked up inside his own head all the time, chasing impossibilities around in circles until need twisted into violence that drilled through his skull.
      As the shuttle took off and zoned towards Sullust's aquamarine stratosphere, his pulse sang in tune with the sublight engines, and his heart hammered in a fever. Maybe he couldn't stop it or control it, but he knew where to take this. The memory of Luke pressing up against him, of silky hair falling over his fingers, sat in his flesh like an ache, and if he couldn't relieve that soon, he was in for a lifetime of regrets. Or worse.
      Han swung the vehicle off the course to the planetary capital with its polished, sterile elegance. He'd been to Sullust before and knew all about the back country where illegal trade thrived along with gambling operations and the full spectrum of entertainment, catering to all tastes. The whole flight was a rush of darkness ruptured by brutal flashes of light, and when he'd finally set the shuttle down, Han felt almost drunk with the speed of his plunge into night. He moved fast and in silence, turning off a deserted avenue as if he'd picked up a scent.
      In one of the backstreets, hookers paced like sentinels, sliding past the spills of colored light from pleasure parlors and bars.
      The light caught on blond hair, edged a slim silhouette that set off a jab in Han's gut. Both fists pushed into his pockets, he followed the young cruiser into a shaded doorway. A general resemblence was enough to serve his purpose in the dark, and perhaps burn out all those frantic fantasies that clawed through his brain.
      The youth tilted his head provocatively as he made an offer in a soft, husky voice, baring a long throat. For a second, Han could see his own hands closing around it.
      He accepted the boy's price without argument and grabbed a fistful of blond hair. "Just hope to hell you like it rough." The words tasted like wet ashes in his mouth.
      The youth turned foggy brown eyes on him. "I can handle rough, man, it's crazy that gives me the creeps."

***
The sun ducked behind the moon's craggy horizon as if lurching for cover. Turning from the landing strip, Luke hugged both arms around himself against the chill breeze. There was no point in expecting Han back anytime soon.
      And when he returned, Han would be in trouble for hijacking that shuttle -- but the notion danced inconsequentially across the surface of Luke's mind. A nervous tension had taken hold inside him, steadily inclining since Han's abrupt departure, and he couldn't think through it.
      He needed to talk to someone, but there was only a single person he could turn to now, even if time and place argued against it.
      The base was quiet when Luke approached the communications center. Having filed his request, he seated himself in one of the com booths.
      It was nearing midnight in Sullust's capital, and his call reached Leia in her private quarters. When the holo transmission flickered into focus, Luke could see that she wore a loose gown. Unraveling braids fell around her shoulders.
      "Luke? Is something wrong?" Leia's voice filled with concern at once, and he felt a small sting of regret.
      "No," he said quickly, "there's just -- a few things I need to talk over with you, and it can't wait. I'm sorry." He paused. He'd never called on the friendship between them quite like this, and it brought back some of the awkward diffidence he'd felt around Leia for the longest time.
      "It's Han, right?" she guessed with the usual accuracy, her chin lifting. "I thought he was getting better."
      "Well, physically, he is. But the whole situation isn't really helping, otherwise."
      "He doesn't handle inactivity too well, does he?" Leia suggested with a tight smile.
      Luke shook his head. "Remember what the psychological file said about it? The part about torture affecting a person's... self-esteem? I'm thinking that Han needs more control over his own life than they're giving him right now."
      "He certainly isn't the type to cope with it through introspection," Leia agreed with a fleeting touch of irony. "I just don't think that... well, letting him loose is such a good idea at this point. What do you suggest?"
      "He should move over to the base for a start," Luke returned, unthinking. Practical matters offered a handle on the situation, and he felt himself relax a little. "Maybe Han could be included in the training program."
      "If the doctors pronounce him fit for active duty, I don't see why not." Leia paused, considering for a moment. "In fact, a commando will transfer from Intel headquarters the day after tomorrow. It's up to the commanding officer, of course, but maybe Han could be assigned to their group for the time being." Her tone softened. "But there's more, isn't there? You look so... worried."
      Upset and shaken would have been more to the point, and Luke forced a self-conscious smile. "I don't know how to tell you," he admitted. "It's kind of personal, and I... well, I can't seem to figure out what to do." A revealing warmth rose into his cheeks.
      "It concerns Han again," Leia suggested in a very dry tone.
      "Yeah." His reply came out hoarsely, and he stumbled into silence. Months of expecting to see romance evolve between Han and Leia returned in a rush, and he couldn't discard the thought now. What if that explained Han's erratic behavior? Luke lifted his gaze to meet Leia's eyes. "How do you feel about him?"
      "I've learned to appreciate some of his indisputable talents," Leia answered with a small frown. "He has been a great help for us--"
      "But you're not in love with him? Do you find him attractive? Is he in love with you?" The questions rushed out before he could think twice.
      Leia gave a sharp, startled laugh. "What kind of question is this?" Her cheeks turned a shade of pink as she shook her head. "I'm sorry, Luke. If this means what I think it does, maybe I should tell you what happened during our trip to Bespin." She sighed. "Han is the type of man who'll seize your whole arm if you offer so much as a little finger. Maybe I'm old-fashioned, but I feel that intimate relationships should be given time to develop and require a sound basis, beyond mutual attraction. Han doesn't share that attitude."
      Her words kindled volatile memories that tightened Luke's stomach. Slightly breathless, he waited for Leia to continue.
      "Yes, I was attracted to him," she said soberly, "but I'm not interested in... that type of casual affair. He tried several times and eventually lost interest, I suppose."
      Luke let out a long breath. "Thanks for telling me."
      "I don't want you to get hurt," she said quietly. "I know Han cares about you, but..."
      "I understand what you mean," Luke cut in. Perhaps he'd only imagined the condescending tone, but there was no way he could tell Leia that he'd already been hurt, that he was hurting for Han's touch and couldn't pretend that nothing had happened.
      As soon as the channel deactivated, memory returned to tease his nerves with wanton shimmers of heat until it flooded his throat and cheeks.
      He wanted to close himself around it, inflict that sting of excruciating pleasure on himself again and again before another day could wash him back into the listless flow of normality.
      Back in his quarters, Luke threw himself headlong across the bunk. Face buried in the crook of his arm, he pushed his hips into the mattress and almost groaned in frustration. His whole body felt torrid, parched.
      Han wanted him. And the thought filled his mind and senses until nothing else existed but that unbelievable, overwhelming truth.

***
Han didn't return to the base until the following afternoon. A swollen bruise slanted across his cheekbone, announcing involvement in a fist-fight. A faint scent of alcohol mixed with sweat when he approached the base's main entrance where Luke stood rooted to the spot. Alerted by the hum of engines and the stutter of repulsors, he'd rushed out blindly. As if he needed to see the look on Han's face before it could be covered up.
      Han slowed his pace. "Hey Luke," he said with a grimace, faltering midway between regret and pained amusement. "Shouldn't've run out on you like I did last night. It's just this whole situation, rattling my cage, y'know."
      But the shadowed look in his eyes remained.
      "No problem," Luke said, and it came out almost right.
      There's more, was all he could think.
      Han gave a short nod and brushed past him to stalk straight towards the base commander's office.
      Without looking back, Luke headed away from the complex. Jacket tied around his hips, he broke into a run and felt the cool air sweep his bare arms in the rhythm of their pumping motions. He'd learned on Dagobah how running could clear the mind, how to let the flow of synchronized movements take over, feel the blood circulate and flood every capillary until that lightheaded cadence opened all his senses. Until it made him one with rock and air, with the sound of wind and the slow rotation of the moon in its orbit.
      He ran until he felt exhaustion descend and curbed his tempo to a jog, then a slow trot. Sweat had painted a broad streak down the center of his undershirt, cooling in the breeze. Now he could let himself think again.
      Meanwhile, Han would have received the due dressing-down from the base commander, but in all likelihood, little else would follow. Making off for a one-night bash was the most common regulation breach among Alliance pilots. Bred on fast-paced action and thriving on pressure, they generally had a hard time tolerating forced inertia, and the commander had to be familiar with the symptoms. Just like Leia, he'd recognize the necessity to channel Han's excess energies into some productive chore. And everything would revert back to normal. Luke drew in a deep breath. If he let it.
      He started running again, working his muscles past the point of exhaustion. The mock-night of the planetary shadow crawled across Varoo and faded again. By the time he approached the base, dusk had torn shadow-gulfs of deep blue into the jagged landscape.
      A quick chat with the guard on duty informed Luke that Han had been assigned quarters in the base and spent the rest of the shift repairing the alarms he'd taken out the night before.
      "Corellians." The man grinned.
      Luke retired to his quarters and showered extensively, soaking up a measure of tranquility from the steady rush of water over his skin. Before him extended the long emptiness of night, demanding a decision. He thought of Leia's cool analysis and felt sobriety twist through his vague dreams like a dry wind from the desert. But the decision made itself on a visceral level.
      Behind closed lids, Luke could see Han's fingers slide over his skin, and a shiver fled down his back. His skin was starved for touch. He couldn't even remember the last time someone had just held him, excepting a fever-blurred memory of that night out in Hoth's blighting frost when Han had urged his own body's warmth into him. And he'd never missed it so much. Sometime between last night and the present moment, the loneliness of being enclosed in his own skin had passed the limits of endurance.
      Dressed in his pants and undershirt, Luke slipped out into the corridor. It was late enough for Han to be asleep, especially after his nocturnal excursion. The door to his new quarters swung slowly inward, opening on a warm and heavy darkness.
      Luke stepped in cautiously, listening for a reaction, but Han's breathing came in a deep, regular cadence, almost imperceptible through the staccato beats of his own heart. Not pausing to think, Luke stripped to his briefs and found the bunk blind as if homing in on the infrared signature of Han's body. He lifted the covers and eased down quickly.
      Han was awake almost before he'd completed the move, one hand shooting out to trace his bare shoulder and arm, then flinching back.
      "What? Luke -- hell, what're you doin' here?" His voice was rough with sleep and surprise.
      "Something I want very much," Luke answered, the tight pulse in his throat a throbbing echo to every word. "Look, before you say anything... I know what you're thinking. You don't have to explain anything. Han, I'm just... tired of waiting."
      The words stumbled out, but no matter how convincing he made them sound, it wouldn't be enough to break through Han's defenses. Shifting closer, Luke wound his arm around Han's waist and molded himself against the taller frame. He felt the heave of a fast breath and ran his hand down Han's stomach. There, Han caught his wrist with a curse. "Hold it, kid," he snapped.
      "You want this," Luke said, calm with a strange sort of terror. The possibility of rejection simply didn't exist. "Call me kid all you like, it's not going to change anything."
      "So what? You can't always get what you want, didn't they tell you that?"
      Luke virtually heard the defenses crumble in that reluctant growl and smiled in the dark.
      "Not always," he agreed. Following his best guess, he leaned closer until his mouth brushed Han's throat. "But we can have this, and I don't see any reason why not." Quickened pulse jumped against his lips, a genuine sign after all that agonizing speculation.
      "Stop it!" Han's voice rasped from the dark, and one hand captured Luke's jaw.
      "Stop it yourself," he murmured back. Vagrant warmth eased from his stomach into his groin. He pushed against Han's thigh and felt himself harden rapidly with the friction.
      An instant later, Han was over him, and the rush of forcefully expelled breath warmed his face. "Damnit, Luke--"
      It was the strangest prelude to an impulsive, urgent kiss that brought every inch of them into close contact, focusing scent and taste into the expansive radius of desire. When Han released his lips, a small sound of longing spilled from Luke's throat.
      Han's breath caught sharply. "You have. No. Idea."
      Maybe not, Luke thought, but it was beginning to take shape now, like an imprint of Han's body heat on his senses, defining depth and limit. He wanted some light to read the look in Han's eyes but couldn't make himself ask.
      Drawing Han's mouth down against his own, his fingers moved softly across the clenching jaw, traced movement and tension up to the furrowed brow. Han shifted his weight, driving the breath from Luke's lungs in a gasp as he settled down with the full pressure of his lean body, every angle of bone and plane of taut muscle an unyielding demand. Heat lurched in his nerves. Luke heard his own heart pound as he fought for some measure of control.
      "Luke--" his name drifted on a ragged breath, still full of ambivalence -- savage and tender and strangely desperate -- but Han gave him no chance to answer.
      Luke's fingers caught and tangled in thick, dark hair as their mouths clung together. Blackness spread around them with smothering velvet that whispered on bare skin and focused all the heat inward. Sharp reflections bounced back and forth in Luke's stomach until they became almost painful in their intensity.
      Held down by Han's weight, Luke felt the muscles shift along the front of his thighs where they pressed against his own. In wordless invitation, he arched his back and opened his legs, almost dizzy with the feel of Han's hard shaft shoved against his groin in a quickening rhythm.
      Teeth raked his throat, blazed a trail of impatience up towards his ear, and a flush of heat blossomed all over his skin. Warm lips moved across his face and stifled the breathless sounds of need. Against his inner thighs, Luke felt the rhythm of lean muscles tensing and straining as Han worked his hips faster.
      Like a blaze of summer unfolding beneath his skin, pleasure made a conquest of him in a scalding sweep of sensation. Raising himself, Han grabbed the waistband of his briefs, yanking them down to surge forward again -- and the raw contact shattered a last line of defense. Luke shuddered as hard flesh frictioned against his own, closing a circuit that neared overload with solar flares spreading from his stomach. He pushed up frantically as the tremors seized him, urging outward in waves, blinding the rest of his senses.
      Darkness reeled around him, devouring all the wanton energy, and it took his heart as much as his breath.
      Don't let go now, Han, please don't let go, don't let me fall -- and he tried so hard not to think of the future or the next day, burying all thought.
      Through an electric haze, he felt Han shorten his thrusts, his whole body caught up in reflexive struggle, then flung back against him, freezing. With a loud, wracking breath, Han slumped forward and buried his face at Luke's shoulder, the muscles in his throat moving sharply as if holding back words, breath, sound. The dark shivered around them.
      Luke stroked both hands down the tense back, lost in the closeness that joined skin alone and locked them in silence. He'd never expected it to hurt so much. Emptiness threatened on the edges of his overstrung nerves, and all that saved him from it was the warmth of Han's body, pressed close against him.
      He tensed automatically when Han rolled off him, exposing damp skin to the sober touch of recycled air. But then an arm wrapped around his middle and tugged him into a loose hold.
      While his body slowly released all residual tension and drifted towards sleep, Luke lay waiting for a long time, but Han said nothing.
      Maybe there was nothing left to be said.

***
Unexpectedly, Leia arrived aboard one of Intel's shuttles the following afternoon. Notified at the last instant, Luke jogged towards the landing field to meet her. When the ramp extended, his spine stiffened as if he'd been caught at another trespass. Surely Leia would read it all in his eyes, and his reaction was a turbulent mixture of apprehension, pride and confusion.
      "Luke!" Her smile was genuine, if a little distracted as she joined him, detaching from the group. "I wanted to be here to discuss the details of this particular mission," she explained, taking his arm. "But to be honest, I was a little worried after your call..."
      "I needed to talk to someone," he returned evasively. "Clear my thoughts. So much has changed since we all left Hoth... my own perspective is changing."
      "Yes, we'll have to talk about that, too," Leia agreed, as if reminding herself of another problematic issue on the day's agenda.
      "And what else?" Luke asked softly.
      But something else had caught Leia's attention, and her eyes narrowed against slanting sunlight.
      A tall shadow between the bronze-edged shuttles, Han straightened out slowly at their approach. He'd been working on recalibrating the older crafts' locking systems for hours.
      Luke kept his glance fixed on some neutral spot in the middle distance. Change burned on his skin, with the physical sensation of an electric field moving between Han and himself. All day long, they'd managed to negotiate the razor line between acknowledgment and denial. No matter how long it took, he was going to wait for a sign.
      "Han," Leia said in a noncommittal tone.
      "How's things going on Sullust?" he returned flippantly, wiping his hands on a rag. "I'm still waitin' to hear from Chewie."
      "I'm afraid he'll be out of touch for another while. We don't expect him back before next month."
      Han tossed the rag down irately. "What d'you mean, next month?"
      "Please try to understand." Leia raised both hands, distraught, concerned. "We owe it to Lando."
      "Oh yeah? And who said you could use my ship to bail him out, sister?"
      "Chewbacca volunteered."
      The words fell into heavy silence. When he glanced at Han again, Luke saw his jaw lock hard, a muscle jumping in his bruised cheek.
      "Without Lando, you'd be frozen in carbonite," Leia said gently. "Or worse. But if that isn't reason enough, Boba Fett must have been tracking us for some time. We can't tell how much he knows about our bases and plans, but he collaborates with the Empire. He could be dangerous."
      "It had nothing to do with Lando," Han countered roughly, "and everything with Luke."
      Watching from the side, Luke held his breath a moment. Something burst through him, bright and hard like a meteorite, too violent for joy, too gentle for terror. The truth, he thought. You belong with me.
      Stone-faced, Han turned away from Leia, aggression radiating from every movement as he stalked towards the base.
      "I wonder why he has to make it so difficult for himself," Leia said softly.

Luke was distantly surprised that she stayed with him when they entered the conference room for the briefing. While Han had taken a seat among the officers, Leia paused on the steps that led down into the circular chamber, fingers interlaced inside her robe's wide sleeves.
      "Listen," she said intensely.
      Operation Commander Rittin was a wiry man who paced as he talked, exuding the strict, military brand of enthusiasm. "Something is going on within the Empire," he said, hands clasped behind his back. "We have heard wild rumors over the past weeks, and they all suggest that the confederates of the late Governor Tarkin have the Emperor's ear. They are urging him to channel all resources into the development of improved weapons technologies... for a final strike against the Alliance."
      "Maybe they even want another Death Star," someone muttered, and there were nervous chuckles from the back.
      Almost automatically, Luke's eyes strayed towards Han and found him shifting in his seat.
      "We can't rule out such a possibility," the commander said sharply, "until the situation has been clarified. And that, as you're all well aware, is our job." Rittin tapped the desk console, and a star chart formed. "A courier has been dispatched from the Core worlds," he continued. "Officially, to transport the newly appointed Imperial consul to Sullust. However, our Bothan sources report that the same ship carries plans and personnel connected to the Emperor's latest project. We will intercept the courier during scheduled stopover on this outpost." The commander indicated a yellow blip on the fringes of the Sullust system and held up a hand. "Open battle is not an option, since we cannot afford drawing attention to our presence here. Furthermore, if our operation prompts heightened security measures on the Imperial side or even a change of plan, all the data will be rendered worthless." He paused, bracing both hands on the desk. "We will therefore contrive an incident that can be passed off as a local squabble."
      "Does that mean we get to pose as pirates?" someone in the front row asked.
      The commander smiled thinly. "That is a possibility."
      From his place by the door, Luke saw Han lean forward, chin propped on his fist.
      No, he thought, as if he could be heard.
      Han raised a hand. "I volunteer. I've been to that station a dozen times at least. Figure you could use a guide."
      The commander's eyes sought him out instantly. "Captain Solo, is it? We could also use your piloting skills, I imagine."
      Luke felt his gut tighten, but before he could open his mouth, he realized why Leia had kept an eye on him throughout. Laying a hand on his forearm, she motioned him out into the corridor.
      "You want to go, too, don't you?" she asked quietly.
      "What if I do? And if you disagree, why make me attend the briefing?" Luke broke off at the angry sound of his voice. He'd never talked to Leia like that before.
      "Because our decisive battle against the Empire is drawing closer," she returned evenly. "You must be prepared. And you must understand your role in this. The Jedi have been the guardians of the Old Republic..." Leia walked to the window, sending a glance out into the lowering sky before turning back to him. "You're more important as a symbol for the Rebellion, Luke."
      "What if I don't want to be a symbol?" he shot back.
      "We don't always have a choice." A frail calm surrounded her in the chill evening light, and her eyes were full of compassion. Another impulsive response stopped in Luke's throat.
      "I'm not a Jedi yet," he said helplessly. "Sooner or later, I'll have to finish my training, or I won't be useful to anybody."
      Suddenly, Leia looked very tired. "Yes," she said, "but stay safe a litte while longer."
      When Luke wrapped an arm around her shoulders, she accepted the gesture, but there was no comfort in it. From the stone floor, Luke felt a deeper cold creep up his legs and settle in his stomach.
      The base on Varoo had been a sanctuary for Han and himself, but now that time was over. War had found them again. War would claim them.

***
The starfield shimmered into an ecstatic rush of color that faded slowly, each shade leaching into black. Hard vacuum made way for a different kind of void closing around the light explorer. Briefly, Han checked the nav display and the coordinates for the next jump point. Not the slightest deviation there. His eyes returned to the viewport, absorbing the dark, mesmerized.
      Exhaustion lingered around the small bridge, almost a stupor after all the split-second action. And these were the Alliance's finest. Experienced Intel officers with the proper training that sharpened every sense for participation in swift, silent kills. Men who'd learned to delegate ethical qualms to their superiors -- now slumped into the seats at their stations like unstrung puppets. Han stared at the dark with an ironic smile. He felt energized, despite the shortened sleep cycles of the past week. They were going somewhere, rehearsing maneuvers, hashing over tactics. They'd given him a ship to fly.
      His fingers drummed out a staccato rhythm against the console's edge. Would they even notice if he changed their course? Mission completed, he'd earned his liberty. And if he had the Falcon now, he could just swing her around, and there'd be no obligation they could cite to stop him. For all the stupid things he'd done in the past few years, he'd kept enough of his wits about to avoid rank and formal promises.
      Han leaned back in his seat, forcing strung muscles to relax. No point in getting himself in trouble now. He could bide his time, then make his move. And take Luke with him.
      Where would you go? reason whispered mockingly.
      Where we belong, he snarled back. Out there.
      Take him and bring him in and bring him to me, sang the blackness outside.
      All the veils of color and form had been swept aside by its cold force. At the core of things, nothing existed except the clean and brutal dance of lightless atoms, waiting for the hand that seized them, shaped them into something that made sense. Strange that in all his years of space-hopping, he'd never really thought of it this way.
      A living, breathing blackness sheltered the galaxy until it chose to collapse back on itself one fine day. The quantum mechanics' equivalent to madness, Han supposed. And he could almost feel its chill breath against his face, seeping through the canopy's clearsteel.
      Something in him recoiled. Sitting up straight, Han found his hands clenched around the flight chair's arm rests, cold to the bone, although sweat plastered his shirt to his back. For a moment, he felt the sickening pull of vertigo. All those nights of fighting the madness, dreams he suspected to be memories edging their way through the mire of thought and feeling. He couldn't dare to sleep. But the danger was to Luke, not himself. Gods be damned, he'd worn himself out until there was nothing left but the raw ache of wanting and a great, blanketing weariness. Han rubbed a hand over his eyes and checked the chrono. Two more hours to the next jump point. They would reach Sullust's moon with nightfall, and Luke would be waiting for him.
      Whatever you do, come back, Han, you hear me? he remembered. Like he had any real choice.
      He wondered if Leia had stayed on as well to await the commando's return. He could see her now, poised by the landing field, quiet worry in her eyes and steel in her spine. She'd never really liked him, but she'd cared for him, at least for a while. Sure enough, things had turned out different lately. Whenever he'd caught Leia's eyes, they held speculation and concern. Suspicion, when she watched him together with Luke. How much did she know?
      A lot, Han guessed by the way she'd kept Luke close whenever possible, marking her claim. And Luke, in all his trusting gentleness, let himself be manipulated. Maybe he didn't want to consider how much the Alliance used them all. But, damnit, there was so much more in him than any of those gutless idiots could see.
      Han rubbed at a dried blood stain on his wrist. There were more spattered across his sleeves and the front of his shirt. Maybe he'd better toss all his clothes straight into the recycler, the stale smells of sweat and fear would never wash out anyway. The last few days were a blur in his mind. Between agonized waiting and adrenaline highs, they'd reeled past almost without a trace. What he recalled with unforgiving detail was the night before they'd set out from Varoo.
      Luke had come to him again that night. And the dark filled with sensation, joined breaths, fevered touches. Heart clenching in his chest, he'd held on like he'd never let go, but there was a terrible horizon in him that he couldn't cross. Words he could never make himself say. On the edge of sleep, Han had felt himself slide towards nothingness and longed only to go under.
      The flight console chimed, and his head jerked up. Somewhere behind him, hushed voices talked rapidly. He'd slipped out of time. How many hours had passed? They'd almost missed the jump point.
      Determined steps approached across the flight deck. "Captain Solo, your relief has arrived."
      They'd grown suspicious of him because he hadn't folded under the strain. Han shrugged. When he brushed matted hair from his forehead, his fingers came away bloody. It was only a scratch, but something had torn it open again.
      "Captain Solo, if you'd please follow me to sickbay."
      Maybe it was all for the better. When he pushed from his chair, the bridge spun around him. Instead of finding a clear hold, his stare painted out darkness. He took another step and fell straight into its cavernous depth.

***