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"Garn"
The first Tale of Miklinar

NC-17

The Star Wars movies, their universe, concepts, and characters are the property of George Lucas and whomever else he has licensed. My characters and concepts, unless otherwise noted, are my property. In case of dispute, Lucas wins, no argument. There is no money being made on this story.

Miklinar settles in with a pitcher of something liquid, green, and smoking evilly in front of him. He pours himself about two fingers of liquid into a squat tumbler. The young man starts, "This is how it began. I have tales that happened before this one, but they were written later, as I researched my beginnings. As I recall, these events took place about fifteen years before my birth..."

Miklinar sips the green stuff. From where you sit, you can feel the acrid fumes in your nose and throat and eyes. "How can he bear to drink that?" you ask yourself.

A drop of liquor fell on the tabletop and sat sizzling. Miklinar begins, "I call this one 'Garn.' I've changed little from the first time I told it. Listen well." You settle back with your own drink, eager to hear the story.

Garn
told by Miklinar

     The hangar deck of a Star Destroyer. An Imperial officer in green, gusrds in black,and a prisoner...

     "Lord Vader! Senator Calydon was questioned thoroughly. He had no knowledge of the Rebellion, yet proved most reluctant to talk."

     "Perhaps there will still be some use for him," Darth Vader said thoughtfully.

     The officer stiffened. "No, my lord. He was ... used up."

     "I see." Vader turned to the guards holding the Senator's daughter Ettare. "This one is the right age to have Rebel friends. Take her to my shuttle. I'll question her myself."

     She looked up at that, up and up... She was tall enough for a woman, a trifle over 1.7 meters, but he reached at least 2... In a normal uniform he would have been large enough, menacing enough, but this figure wore armor that was part life-support, the face mask of a demon prince that doubled as a pressure suit helmet, and flowing robes. "My father is dead?"

     A touch on her mind, restraining her, calming her. "Yes,sera Calydon, said the officer, looking quickly up to Vader then back to her. "We had finished questioning him, and his heart gave out."

     "Take her to my shuttle," Vader repeated.

     Vader was astonished to find his grip on her mind broken. She screamed with rage and sprang at the interrogation officer. By the time the startled guards stunned her, the interrogation officer's neck was broken and his face a bloody ruin from being slammed repeatedly into the floor.

     Even stunned, she sobbed, "No, no," over and over.

     "Lord Vader, a stronger dose of stun?"

     "No. My shuttle. But strap her down in medical."

     Vader watched as the young woman was carried off, and stood silent while medical cleanup from the Star Destroyer took care of the late interrogation officer.

     "Lord Vader, your shuttle pilot requests an Estimated Time of Departure."

     "Soon. Tell him he's to stay here, and follow on the next regular troop transfer."

     "Yes, my lord."

     Some hours after the shuttle launch, a transmission was received that Ettare Calydon had had an idiosynchristic reaction to stunner fire, had gone into convulsions, and died. The body had been jettisoned.

     An officer whose duties included keeping track of Vader for the Emperor noted that Vader had used up another prisoner. "His taste is improving. A waste, though -- what good would a looker like that do him?"

     The shuttle. Vader piloted the craft away from the Star Destroyer, and into jump. Then he went to tend his prisoner.

     He re-established a hold on her mind, more carefully and thoroughly this time. A semi-permanent block went onto her grief, releasable when he saw fit. He stood and studied her face, knowing her without placing her.

     The stun wore off while he was studying her. The mental restraints weren't working as well as he expected, but she only lightly tested the physical restraints -- no violent struggling. Finally, she opened her eyes and looked up. "My turn for questions, Lord Vader? And handling this prisoner personally, I see . I trust you're not as heavy-handed as the fool I killed."

     Vader said mildly, "On the contrary -- Ettare Calydon is already dead, at my hands."

     "Oh? Than who am I? Or what? Do the dead walk?" She looked down at her restrained body, "In a manner of speaking. Unless you intend to rape me, you could as usefully restrain me sitting up."

     Vader came to a decision. "Do I have your parole?"

     "Beg pardon?"

     "A prisoner may give her parole for good behavior in order to gain certain freedom of movement."

     "That usually applies to prisoners of war who hope to be traded back to their own side in exchange for other prisoners."

     "It also applies to captured mercenaries, who are not expected to fight to the last trooper. And other prisoners as well."

     Ettare nodded, "Very well. You have my parole, at least until we leave jump. Ask me again, then. I may have reconsidered."

     Vader released the restraints. She did some stretching exercise, then sat abruptly on the floor. "Blood pressure drop. I'm alright." She stayed on the floor, looking up at him. "Impressive. How much of that is you? How much augmentation?"

     Vader inclined his head. "The armor and mask are life-support."

     "I see. Now, tell me about my being dead."

     "The legal identity of Ettare Calydon is dead. Anyone could destroy this body, " Vader gestured at her, "with no legal reprisals."

     "My being legally dead must be of some use to you. Staying alive, even if not legally, certainly interests me."

     "Good" Ettare could sense a scowl behind that mask. "Stand up."

     "So big, so tall. Lord Vader, if the armor and mask are merely life support, you need not have made them so impressive. Can you feel them having any effect on me? Do they overawe me?" She stared up at him. Unseen, unseeable, he returned her gaze.

     Perhaps blocking off her grief also blocked her terror. Perhaps, knowing herself dead, she no longer needed fear. "Fear does not serve my purpose at this time. Stand up."

     She stood, took two steps, stumbled and ended up kneeling at his feet. "You command, I obey...Perhaps a body that isn't dead would be more obedient."

     He helped her up into a chair, handed her a mug of restorative. She sipped, grimaced, then gulped the rest. "If your food service is no better than that, forget the parole."

     This both amused and exasperated Vader. "It's medicine, not food. Now... for you to be useful, you must have a new identity." The breath-screen moved as Vader looked her over. "Some centimeters of height, some kilos of mass, a change of hair color, some few other details."

     Ettare suppressed a giggle. "I see. A clone of Leia Organa. I know she opposes your policies -- do you propose that I substitute for her?"

     "Quite the opposite." A computer console, a few keyboard commands, and an image appeared -- two, in fact. One was of Vader-at-present, for scale, Ettare presumed. The other was only slightly shorter than Vader, much more slender, and resembled Ettare a little. The new one looked older than Ettare, wore a Sith uniform, and bore a lightsaber at ...his? waist."This is the person I intend to create."

     She studied the image for a while. "The lightsaber. I know that you are one of the last of the Jedi. Do you think it's wise to..."

     "Let you have such a weapon?"

     "The weapon is powered by the Force of the owner. Are you going to tap your own sources of power to fuel the masquerade?"

     "I think not." From a cabinet he drew a bright cylinder and a power pack. "Here. Assemble and test."

     Assembly was a simple matter of fastening power pack into lightsaber. Ignition. "Ah. I can feel it. It's not tapping me, it's just using me for a conductor." Reluctantly, she switched it off and handed it back to him. "I don't trust my parole that far."

     "I do. Keep it."

     "No." She placed it on the table. "It is interesting, though. How did you know that I would be able to use it? My grandfather was only by courtesy a Jedi -- no powers to speak of. And my father ... no."

     "A few tests, the first inadvertent. I tried to control you on the Star Destroyer. You threw off those controls."

     "Hm. Am I being controlled now?"

     "Yes."

     "Even after my parole?"

     "I thought it needful."

     "You expect me to hate you that much. Tell me, did you also lock away my grief over my father? Lest I kill you for that?"

     A raised hand."That fool of a governor had him questioned. My methods, although more thorough, are not so physically debilitating. I think the governor feared your father politically, allied with the Rebellion or no. I saved you from him."

     "For your own reasons. And now Ettare Calydon is dead as well." A sigh, not quite a sob. "Let me mourn, Lord Vader. Surely my father deserves my grief."

     "Not yet. Not until I know it won't break you." A gloved hand touched her cheek. "When you're stronger."

     Anger. "When I'm more under your control? Maybe that won't happen, Lord Vader. Maybe you can't control me."

     Almost a hiss, "Yes. Use your anger to fuel your power, to focus yourself."

     He sounded too eager, and it brought her up short. "No. Not that way." She explored in her mind, found where he had hold, envisioned prying up each claw of a huge bird of prey. When the last claw came away, the bird was gone. "So. Do I pass? If you're a trained Jedi, I'm not impressed. Surely you can do better than that."

     "Look again."

     She looked, saw nothing... found herself on her knees before him, seeing herself at the foot of a mountain on which lived her god. Vader released her after a moment, helped her up. "You handled what you could find. Your perceptions were incomplete."

     "Hm." She probed, could find no more controls. "Are they gone?"

     "No."

     "Then you are right. Do you think to make me a Jedi, Lord Vader? Is that where I can be of major use to you?"

     "For now, yes. Later, it may be different. Here are the conditions: if I am to teach you, I need more than your parole. I need your willing alliance with me."

     "And that governor who ordered my father's death?"

     "He's a detriment to the Empire."

     Consideration. "Release my grief."

     "I dare not."

     Careful breathing, while probing herself. What was that, a tiny glimmer? She used it to find a new blockage and break it. Grief, allied with rage, created a channel for the Force, and shaped an attack. Once the attack was launched, she walled up the grief again, but not so thoroughly. "You no longer control my mourning."

     Vader had felt most of the Force bolt as it had flown past him. "What was that?"

     "The death of a governor, much quicker than my father's death. I was too angry to arrange a lingering one."

     "Anger and grief... useful emotions at times."

     "No. They limit you. My grandfather told me tales ... the strongest Jedi were nearly pure mind, without emotions at all. That sounds safer, if boring."

     "Boring!" Vader considered Ettare. Proof would come soon enough. In the meantime... "I propose to make you Garn Anthru, one of the Sith, my aide. In return for letting you live, and for teaching you the ways of the Force, I require an oath of fealty binding you for five years. At that point, you may decide to leave. If you so choose, I will provide you with a still different identity and set you free."

     "On a hospitable planet with interstellar travel?" A nod. "And enough money to get off it?"

     "Perhaps. You might need to get a ship job to fully escape?"

     "That would amuse you, that I had to work as ship's doxy to get back to civilization."

     "I think you would sooner hire on as a mercenary or master-at-arms."

     "I think you're right. Or a doc instead of a doxy -- I have my medic-two ticket."

     "Not any more. She's dead."

     "If you can provide the other ident documents, you can add that one, too."

     Silence, then, "It can be done. Will you swear?"

     Ettare was still thinking. "If I decide to stay, is it for another five years?"

     "No. The second oath is for life. I risk much letting you depart after the first five years. At the end of a second, you would know too much to be let live."

     "No doubt." Further consideration. Then, "And if I won't swear at all? Does this body die, to match the name's death? Is the memory burned out, to hide that you falsely reported my death?"

     "I don't know . I would prefer not to kill you -- you may in the future join me."

     "'Prefer.'"

     "What will you force me to do? You can already betray how free a hand I have with my office. Can I trust you to be silent?"

     A solution came to Ettare's mind. "You could take my oath on it. After all, you would have accepted my service on the same word. Mind you, if I go free, I'd like a new identity to replace the one you've already shredded and dumped out the airlock. I'll even waive passage money, as long as it's a civilian port with interstellar flights."

     Vader relaxed -- he really didn't want to kill the woman. He found himself amused by her bargaining. "Very well. Swear." He tapped just enough of her thoughts to verify her truthfulness.

     She knelt before him, her hands inside his, and started, "I, who was born Ettare Calydon, do this swear." She continued with a full oath of fealty, no time limit, in the Elder Tongue of the Sith people. Vader was too surprised to react at first, as she remained kneeling before him.

     Finally, "Do you know what you swore?"

     She nodded. "That I and my heirs would serve you and House Vader as long as the stars shone in the sky." An accurate enough translation, if a bit spare.

     It finally occurred to him that if she were bait in a trap, she had been aimed with micrometer precision. "Who taught you that?" he asked sharply. "How much more do you know? Were you taught the Elder Tongue entire, or only that oath?"

     "Mostly the oath. Vocabulary is trivially easy, compared to learning medical terminology, but the grammar eluded me."

     Vader was almost distracted. He murmured, half-unheard, "There are instructors..." when he realized how deftly the first question had been dodged. "Were you taught by someone, or did you try to learn from a text?"

     "I was taught."

     Vader shook his head. "Woman, if your father answered questions like you do, no wonder someone grew impatient. Who taught you?"

     Ettare's form stiffened for an instant at mention of her father,then relaxed again. "My mother. Elia Sethon Calydon." Ettare looked up at him, and it was Elia's face, some ten years younger than Vader had known her. "She told me that I was her gift to you. She Saw that I would belong to you. She called in 'being under his hand.'"

     Truth! Ettare was speaking the truth as she knew it. "What else did she tell you?"

     "That one day, I would find myself at a man's feet. And if I wanted with all of my heart to serve him, I should say those words. And she emphasized the word 'serve.' She said the man would be a Jedi."

     "And she Saw you take the oath?"

     "No. She said that if I didn't want to stay, then you'd let me go. But then she smiled. I think she knew the outcome."

     "But she didn't tell you. You chose to stay with me."

     "Yes."

     "But she told you you were my gift. You can't see a contradiction?"

     "I was only a gift if I decided to stay. The conversation was a long time ago," Ettare said, apologetically.

     "Very well." Any oath of fealty is in two parts: the offer and the acceptance. In the same language as her oath, but a lengthier utterance.

     She listened, carefully filing the words away for later. Many of his phrases paralleled here. The final words were in the human language in common use in the Empire, "Arise, Garn Anthru."

     She ducked her head in acknowledgement, "My lord." She rose, stood at an easy parade rest. "Your orders?"

     "There is much that you must learn. And there are physical alterations as well." He looked her over. "We'll start with a haircut."

(Days later)

     "Are you a pilot?" Vader asked.

     "Civilian skyhoppers, yes. I was studying jump piloting, but I was only halfway through the course," Garn answered promptly.

     He nodded. "Excellent. Weapons training?"

     "Small arms. Some unarmed combat." She grinned, "Sword dance."

     "No ship's weapon systems?" Vader asked.

     Garn snorted. "My father didn't buy me any simulator time on a fighter craft, no."

     Vader looked his new apprentice over. "You've gained a fair amount of height and mass."

     Garn acknowledged it. "I haven't matched you."

     "You won't. Height, perhaps, but don't try for mass. How's your perception coming along?"

     "Well enough. I practice."

     "Good. Sith customs and their military?"

     "I read through it twice, and I have it on the sleep-set. With your people is where I dare make no mistakes."

     Vader shook his head. "No, don't use the sleep-set for that. You must be Sith eventually, but you don't have to fool our people. I intend to present you to them as off-world born, but of our kin. They'll help you learn."

     A stores droid with a tailoring program had been able to produce an assortment of uniforms, but no boots. "Footgear from the flight suit, my lord?"

     "Not precisely regulation, but a common affectation among pilots, and tolerated." Pause. "I expect you to be in proper uniform as soon as possible."

     "Certainly, sir, as soon as we reach a base or capital ship." She grinned, "Where do I have the bill sent?"

     Curtly, "Uniform. Now."

     Garn claimed a pair of pilot's boots from a locker, donned the rest of the uniform. She called up the illustration Vader had created of the final Garn Anthru and compared herself. A word to the stores droid brought up its hair cutting program. "Pilot cut, if you please."

     "Shaggy but legal," was Vader's comment. "With that hair, stay with the pilot boots." His gloved hands placed and adjusted rank insignia. "You're a lieutenant. You might be addressed as "Lieutenant', 'Lord', or 'Pilot'. You've learned rank markings, so you know who to salute. You're assigned personally to me." A packet: ID, credit chip, orders. Vader gave her a quick precis of Garn's career, including when to pull a blank.

     "These time periods, you are not responsible for. Your answer is either, 'Special training under Lord Vader,' 'I'm not at liberty to discuss that, ' or, at a last resort, 'I'm certain that Lord Vader will be happy to give you that information.' The last is rather conspicuous, so try not to use it."

     "I understand, sir."

     The base had received news of a certain regional governor's passing. "Heart attack, they thought at first. The autopsy showed his entire heart had been fried to a crisp. The Emperor sent his own medic to review the case -- afraid it's a new weapon."

     Garn felt Vader's gaze shift to her, then back to the messenger. "No, a very old one. An old Jedi trick. Other news?"

     "Only routine, my lord."

     "The Rebellion?"

     "Has gained two systems, lost one and a mining colony."

     "I see." Consideration. "Lord Anthru has just returned from a mission for me. Assign him temporary quarters, equip him properly. Staff meeting in one hour."

     A curt nod, "I'll see to it, my lord. Lord Anthru, with me please?" The messenger left, Garn following close behind. The man looked curiously at Garn but asked no questions. First stop was a message enter, where the order for the staff meeting was relayed. "There are quarters available next to those assigned to Lord Vader, over in the medical wing. Will those be satisfactory, my lord?"

     "Excellent."

     A stop by Stores, where it was discovered that one of the standard sizes of uniform (commonly referred to as "too tall" in the usual military selection of "too tall", "Too short", "too tight", and "too loose") fit Garn as if tailored to him. "How many sets?" The quartermaster noted in his records that the uniforms were to be in Sith black rather than imperial green/grey.

     "A basic kit until I'm told where I'm going."

     "Very reasonable, my lord. No point in carrying around ultra-dress if you're going to be crawling around in a jungle. This way, please."

     The quarters were large but sparse. The Stores droid had already stowed Garn's new gear. "I'll leave you here to freshen up, then I'll be back to conduct you to the staff meeting, since you're unfamiliar with the base."

     "Thank you."

     He paused at the door. "My lord?"

     "Yes?"

     "Are you Lord Vader's ... son?"

     What an odd pause, Garn thought. "No, I'm not." The tiniest touch of an encouraging push to his mind, for more information... there.

     "Your orders are a complete secret -- all we know is that you're not stationed here. Best bets are that you're to be his aide -- something he's always refused before. Rumor has it that you're either his son or his lover." another poke at the messenger's mind, with a "What of it?" implied. "The whole base heaved a sigh of relief. Having a companion makes him seem less inhuman."

     Garn nodded. A reach, and the messenger forgot he had been asked any questions. "I will expect you back in forty-five minutes." The "Dismissed" at the end was strong, even if unvoiced. The other nodded and left.

     A touch to Vader's mind. "They think I'm your son."

     His mind was warm against hers. "They think you're my catamite. Imperial mindset -- they confuse sex and power too easily."

     "I see." Garn stood looking at what the droid had brought in. "This is quite an assortment of uniforms. For your meeting, what's reasonable?"

     "What you were already wearing." Vader detailed which uniforms were appropriate to which occasion. "Ninety percent of the time at base or on a ship, what you wear now is reasonable. That will change as you move into your power."

     "Ah. The robes. Yes. Thank you for the information, my lord." The contact ended.

     Staff meeting. Garn was a distraction, a silent presence behind Lord Vader. The staff kept glancing at "him", hoping that they weren't noticed. "Are they usually this nervous," Garn asked Vader, silently.

     "Your presence exaggerates the effect. No one is comfortable around me."

     "Deliberately induced." An acknowledgement. "Is any of this gabble significant?"

     "The next speaker."

     "Ah." When the next speaker rose, Garn went from mildly attentive to sharply so. Someone else dropped a penboard in startlement.

     A report on the Rebellion, Vader's pet project. Or was it the Emperor's? The report seemed routine until a name appeared: Luke Skywalker.

     Vader's head jerked up sharply. "This ... Skywalker. Any information you can gather on him interests me greatly."

     The meeting broke up shortly thereafter. One of the staff invited Garn to share dinner with the other junior officers. "Thank you, but no. I attend Lord Vader."

     Words between the other officers at this, but Garn chose not to listen. She waited until Vader was ready and left with him.

     "Well?"

     "Why did I disrupt them so much?"

     "You are an unknown factor inserted into their neat hierarchy. Are you watching them? Are you watching me? Whose ear do you have, whose hand are you? If you're Sith, as your uniform proclaims you, you're mine -- unless I have an unseen master on the Sith world who is not the Emperor. You could be easy advancement -- hence the dinner invitation -- or an easy plunge to destruction."

     "While I shook them up, you observed them."

     "Indeed I did. Thank you. You behaved ... appropriately." The dry word was high praise in context. "We'll do ... well ... together."

     "Bone and blood, my lord, in service forever."

     "I know. Do you understand that it might chance that your use to me is not at my side, at some time in the future?"

     "I know."

     Vader's quarters. "Try the lock." Garn saw a plain box on the door, the like of which wasn't on any of the nearby doors. A light touch with the Force, and the door opened. Garn entered.

     Vader pointed to a door on the left wall. "You have the quarters there?"

     "Yes, my lord."

     "Good. The same style of lock is installed between the two suites."

     Garn nodded acknowledgement. She opened the door to verify the lock.

     A meal was waiting, set out in Garn's rooms. She brought the tray into Vader's quarters. "Is this safe?"

     "Ask your own perceptions."

     A quick check: nothing wrong. The drink provided was a higher grade of stimulant than Garn was used to. "Pilot juice. They use it on long alerts."

          Garn ate about half the meal, set aside the bread and dessert. Something clicked over finally..."You don't eat."

     "Not precisely, no."

     "I've accepted you so completely that the differences don't matter? Or have you finally released some small part of my mind that would notice?"

     Garn could actually sense a smile. Vader was well-pleased with her. "The differences don't matter. Obi-Wan used to quote one of his teachers: 'Luminous beings are we, not this crude matter.'"

     Garn nodded,"Yes, that sounds like a Jedi." Garn, seated, had to look up a steep angle to see Vader. "It's no coincidence that we're in the medical wing."

     "No coincidence."

     "Is curiosity permitted?"

     "From you, yes." A data cube from a pouch on Vader's belt, handed to Garn. "The information goes no farther."

     "I understand." A moment's distraction, as Garn had a memory from somewhere else forced on her -- but not from Vader. "I see massive burns, and some of the treatments you underwent."

     "Your perceptions widen. Excellent. Now -- Go. Sleep. Tomorrow, I will give you a list of texts to bring with us, for your study." Garn rose, inclined her head in a minimal bow. "My lord."

     Middle of the night. Garn awoke, rose, gathered a robe around herself. Was that distress she felt, this unease, or was it only the unfamiliar quarters? She crossed to Vader's quarters, opening the door with only a thought. The other apartment was dark -- no surprise, and she didn't need light to make her way. She could feel the location of furnitures, doors...

     There the unease was strongest, behind that door. Wary of assassins, fearful of a medical emergency, she moved into the room.

     No red lights on the medical arrays, no other person in the room. Vader was the source of the unease. A touch on his mind brought him away from the nightmare... he slept peacefully, as Garn watched.

     Some hours later, Garn heard the one on the bed stir. "Garn?" The voice came from somewhere other than the head of the bed -- his voder.

     "Yes, my lord."

     "Thank you. It was a bad one."

     "One of what?"

     "The worst combination of memory, imagination, and prescience. Each of the episodes have truth in them, but it often takes years to disentangle one." A deep breath, but nothing she had heard from him before. "I didn't wake when you came in. The sentry part of my mind considers you harmless to me."

     "I am. I serve."

     A silence. "You said you saw my burns. Was that your perception or someone else's memory?"

     "A little of both, I think... Whose else would they be?" Then she answered her own question."My mother's. She saw you?"

     "She was one of the medics who treated me -- the one who did the most good."

     Garn examined the medical readouts. "I should have read the files you gave me right away." She still hadn't looked directly at the man on the bed, behind and beneath all the medical plumbing. "How often do you change your life support, as you heal?"

     "It's been ten years since there was significant healing."

     "You are mistaken." She read off the names of three dials, two small screens. "These are no longer needed. You need a full physical. And probably radical rework of your mobile unit."

     The voice from the bed sounded pleased. "I see that I've recruited a medic as well as an aide. Perhaps you'd best inspect the patient himself before you assume the assistance's unneeded."

     "If a machine designed to function as a kidney, for example, my lord, shows the exact same blood going in as coming out, it serves no routine purpose. Or is your disability episodic instead of chronic?"

     "Chronic -- or so I believed."

     "Where's your diagn-- there it is." She ran the probe up and down the horizontal figure, reading the analysis. "My lord, do you trust me?"

     "Completely."

     She turned to the console, pushed buttons and flipped switches. She hesitated over one. "Your voder. I don't think your voice healed... Oh, it healed. But your actual voice is weak and high compared to your public voice. I think I can help, if I may."

     "Lord Anthru." She drew up almost to attention. "You have my full authorization for any medical procedure you deem necessary. I tire of this constant permission-asking."

     "Thank you, my lord." Her hands around his throat, with pulses of power reaching inside. The breathing changed. "That's done." She turned off the voder.

     He spoke then, with his own voice. "How much difference?"

     "Your new voice is a trifle lower, a trifle less raspy. A pleasant enough voice, still usable in a menacing manner, if needed."

     "Excellent. What remains?"

     "Let me inspect."

     Her hands, gentle, first from each foot up to mid-thigh, then each arm from the fingertips to the shoulder, then the head, probing with the Force much more than with touch. Eyes, ears, tousle the hair, barely brush the lips. "Your skin shows no scar tissue -- permanent depiliatory for the head?"

     "Yes. It seemed wise, then."

     Hands down the throat, across the chest. Now it was more of a tease, stroking his nipples. They came erect. "Interesting. My lord, your hand please."

     Vader lifted his hand, puzzled. She brought it up to cup her neck. "Needs a return channel. See if you can trace what I'm doing."

     He was looking for use of the Force, and didn't consciously note what she was asking his body to do. "Both hands on my throat. Good. Now, bring the hands down to my waist."

     The robe was open in front and his hands brushed the soft curve of her breasts as they moved. "Excellent. One moment more -- support me." She used his hands to support her as she arranged herself atop him, impaling herself. "Now." Gentle movement, in which he cooperated. His hands moved, learning her as she had learned him.

     "Your medical ethics are questionable, Lord Anthru."

     "The patient would not permit me to explain the entire proposed procedure." She leaned over and kissed him. "You've certainly healed on the gross physical level."

     She was silenced by a kiss of such passion and concentration that her thoughts were disrupted. When the kiss was over, the other sensations were much too interesting.

     "I realize that the gentleman should try to exhaust the lady before permitting himself release, but I need to observe the organ functioning while I'm still capable of rational thought." She disengaged.

     "Very well." With that, he permitted himself to let go. The dispassionate observer in Garn watched and measured, while the rest of her coaxed and teased. His hands stayed busy, bringing her to orgasm twice before she could impale herself again. "A well-trained body. You've had other lovers."

     "Of course. Twenty years old and daughter of an Imperial Senator, plus medical training and pilot school? All those bright young men?"

     A very light probe. "Two. One, your first, your pilot instructor, about twenty years older than you. The second, your age."

     "Yes. And he died." First sorrow, then rage. "I saw him crash. The inquiry determined that the maintenance logs had been falsified -- I tracked down the tech responsible and killed him myself. And I always check my fliers myself, now."

     Her ferocity was bleeding away her lust. Vader pushed those memories to the background for her. "Now, physician, observe."

     "Full recovery of use" was not an adequate description. She rode him until they were both exhausted, then she collapsed atop him, spreading her robe to cover them both. He stroked her gently until she fell asleep, and he followed.

     The comm panel woke them both. "Lord Vader, message from sector eight alpha. It's coded priority."

     "Channel it here."

     A rebel base had been found! "Message back. 'Excellent. Will investigate personally.' Add my signature. Comm off. Computer. Any comm messages, chime instead of patching them straight through, even the priority. Acknowledged?"

     Computer voice, "Acknowledged."

     "Light on,half, gradually." Vader looked down at the bundle of unaccustomed warmth wrapped around him. "So, medic, am I healed?"

     "Not exactly," Garn said. Vader was concerned for a moment, until she continued, "Abnormal enlargement and calcification of a certain organ."

     He laughed. "Too large and too hard, is it? You'll get used to it -- unless you intend to neglect your maintenance duties."

     This remark stung her, and he apologized, silently, then physically, both soothing and exciting her. "Do we have time?"

     "Yes."

     "Most urgently, your armor needs modification." Garn spoke as she hand fed tidbits of a lunch buffet to Vader, who was stretched out on the floor, arms behind his head. The stores droid had already come and gone, leaving a stack of casual clothing in Vader's size.

     "Computer, call the base armorer, I'd like to see him at his earliest convenience, but not within the next hour and a half -- make that two hours. Let me know when he's available."

     "Acknowledged. Admiral Roebeck wishes to speak with you."

     "Connect him. No visual."

     Vader reached for Garn and drew her on top of him as the computer searched for the Admiral. His hands were coaxing small sighs and murmurs from her as the comm-console chimed. One of Vader's hands gently covered her mouth, while the other still teased. "Yes, Admiral?

     "More information on the rebellion has come in. I'll bring it to you immediately."

     Garn cringed, Vader grinned. "I was about to enter meditation, Admiral. I will be eager to see you, two hours hence."

     "I see. Forgive me. My lord, should I leave the data with your aide, for a preliminary assessment?"

     Vader looked down at Garn, who was coaxing him into an erection equal to the one she had "complained" of during the dark watch. "He is also meditating, under my instruction. Two hours, Admiral. Comm off. Computer, tell any callers below priority double A that I'm meditating, not to be disturbed, next hour and a half."

     "Acknowledged."

     Garn smiled, "Meditating, my lord?"

     "Yes. Focusing yourself on one of your centers. The focus is achieved thusly..." A few strokes of his hands and she was focused on a point behind and slightly below her umbilicus... "Now, hold your identity there. Concentrate." He waited a moment, then lifted her and impaled her. "Continue to concentrate. Now, I'm centered, just below you. Can you feel it?"

     Not only feel it, but See it. "Yes."

     A slow ride, building. She felt light, open... the orgasm came as a complete surprise -- it was all release, no tension. The release left her floating above him.

     A soft chime. "The armorer will be available in ten minutes."

     "Very well. Garn, are you back?"

     "Back?"

     "Yes. You went out for a while -- apparently conscious, but absent."

     "What? My mind fled from the sex? Foolish of it. I wonder what I missed?"

     "We'll discuss that later." He rose, helped her to her feet, kissed her. "Go shower, get your uniform on. I'm going to need your medical advice, Lord Anthru."

     "I see. In a moment or two, then, Lord Vader."

     Retreat, shower, dress. She looked herself over. "Now the masquerade becomes difficult."

     Vader in full robes and helmet/mask. The specifications for the old armor were thrown up onto the viewer, as Vader eliminated systems with a light pen. "My physician has agreed to these changes. Maintain these other systems as is. How soon can a prototype be ready?"

     The armorer looked them over. "Any changes in the helmet?"

     "This, and this."

     "I see. Four hours, my lord, for a prototype, for testing. Production run of four, six hours after the test, if there are no major changes."

     "The production run is eight. The second four will have these minor differences." Mostly cosmetic, to make the wearer "not Vader" but close.

     "For the heir, my lord?" the armorer nodded toward Garn.

     "Yes."

     The armorer was still bundling up his datapacks when the Admiral arrived. "Your pardon for my delay, my lord. I realized the time when I was clear across the base from here. Were your meditations satisfactory?"

     Garn wondered which way Roebeck saw her -- Vader's son or his lover, or only an aide-and-student, Vader's military apprentice.

     "Yes," was Vader's short answer. "Now, what do you have?" he rumbled.

     Garn, a mere lieutenant, was trying to avail "himself" of the luncheon buffet without the notice of "his" superiors. Vader noticed. "Forgive me, Admiral. Lord Anthru, offer the Admiral a plate."

     "Yes,my lord. Admiral, would you care for a drink?"

     "The Admiral accepted a drink, declined food. "Your aide ... not quite broken in, eh?"

     "Customs differ, Admiral. He attended me at lunch, expecting his own meal to be immediately thereafter. I had not permitted him breakfast." Just enough of a shift of the mask to regard Garn. "Nor was he permitted much sleep. He'll learn."

     To the Admiral, "not much sleep" translated to at the most three hours in twenty five. "I see. Lord Anthru, if your master permits, please, eat."

     "Thank you, sir." Garn piled food on a plate, took a seat within Vader's line of sight, out of the Admiral's. She ate slowly, deliberately ... as visually sensuously as she could. There was no sign that Vader noticed, not even by being distracted from the Admiral's words.

     Information assessment. "Yes, I'll go myself. Lord Anthru, twelve hours. Prepare the shuttle. We'll rendezvous with Admiral" he consulted the documents, "... Girolf as soon as possible."

     Roebeck protested, "Twelve hours, Lord Vader? This information is most useful fresh...."

     "Twelve hours will make very little difference. Good day, Admiral."

     When the door was locked behind the Admiral, Vader chuckled. "He's had his share of young orderlies -- may have been one himself. Are you finished eating? You were rather distracting, you know."

     She grinned, shrugged. "You hid it well, of course."

     An inclination of the helmeted head. "We have preparations to make."

     Supplies ordered through Stores, and Garn went down to personally check out the shuttle. With the longer-than-regulation hair of a pilot, no one thought it odd to see the tall, lanky figure in a coverall, poking around the inspection ports.

     "Aren't you a little tall to be a regular pilot?" drawled one of the mechanics, used to taking social liberties with the flyboys.

     "I fly for House Vader," came the answer, calmly, and without a hint of snap in the voice. But the mechanic snapped to a more professional attitude, and even occasionally called Garn "my lord." "Now, who has been actually doing the maintenance?"

     "I have, my lord. Once, a month ago, it was on a Star Destroyer in another system, but I inspected it before,and thoroughly after."

     Casual brush of Garn's hand against the mechanic's verified the information. This one was dedicated, and he was good at his work.

     "I find your work satisfactory, and I will so report it to Lord Vader." A large cargo pod approached the shuttle. "What's this?"

     The mechanic scanned the shipping tag. "From the armorer, to the shuttle, by order of Lord Vader. I'll open it to verify..."

     Garn's hand touched the crate. She felt the new armor -- both styles. "It's legitimate. But scan it anyway."

     The mechanic nodded curtly. He liked a pilot who would let him do his job right.

      Miklinar sat back, his voice no longer keeping your attention. The pitcher in front of him was empty. "That's how they met -- or close enough. I have to keep some details to myself. Certain Admirals, for example, would not appreciate my bandying their names around.

     "But my tale's as true as any official history ever is -- and a good deal more interesting, I'm sure you'll agree.

     "My next story details a sordid little incident I've named after its victim -- a petty bureaucrat called 'Nasive.' But that will be told at another time."

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