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anghraineMy next update will be more timely, I swear!
title: The Jedi and the Sith Lord (3/?)
verse: Lucy Skywalker: my f!Luke AU, following from The Adventures of Lucy Skywalker and The Imperial Menace
characters: Luke/Lucy Skywalker, Tuvié (F-2VA); also, Ellex (LX-3) and Arren (RN-7)
stuff that happens: Lucy and Tuvié explore Bast Castle.
previous sections: one, two
CHAPTER THREE
Lucy tried to meditate. She really did.
Everyone had told her that the Force would always be with her—Ben, Yoda, even Vader. But she couldn’t feel it. She couldn’t feel anything beyond a heavy miasma that pulsed in erratic, intense surges.
The Dark Side. She knew it. And she refused to touch that, no matter what Darth Vader said or did. She still remembered her failure in the cave, the future that awaited her on that path. She couldn’t ever allow herself to follow Vader’s footsteps.
Here, though, the Dark Side blotted out everything but its own power. No matter how much Lucy tried to clear her mind, and settle her racing thoughts into peace and passivity, the Force that she knew remained out of reach. It might as well have not existed, for all she felt of it.
She had no connection to the Force. She had no weapon. She couldn’t see.
She was afraid.
Her rational mind knew that for the danger it was. Fear must be suppressed, sealed away into some deep pocket of her mind where it could do no harm. Otherwise, it would consume her thoughts and decisions, drawing her inexorably towards the Dark Side, whatever her intentions. Fear existed only to be conquered. She knew that.
Yet when she woke the next day, a blinded, disarmed, cut-off prisoner in Darth Vader’s fortress, she lay frozen in place under the blankets. Every instinct urged her to scramble for a place to hide, like some hunted animal.
Her own voice haunted her. I’m not afraid!
You will be, Yoda had told her. Had he known this was coming? Surely not. Surely—
There was no place to hide, she reminded herself. And whatever she might have lost, she hadn’t died. She had to keep going, just like yesterday.
Lucy breathed deeply, as Yoda had taught her, letting that first burst of terror subside. She still felt frightened, her hands shaking until she forced them into stillness, but she could think. That was her only chance.
Sitting up, she strained to sense anything, even without the Force. The air felt cool on her skin, and a little stale. That made sense; it seemed doubtful that anyone had stayed here—been trapped here—at all recently. Unless Vader habitually kept prisoners in comfortable bedrooms, anyway. But she thought she caught a quiet sound now, something metallic, like a very low whirr.
“Tisix? Tuvié?” said Lucy, tossing the blankets aside. “Is that you?”
The whirr intensified. “Good morning, Miss Lucy! Are you prepared for activity?”
Lucy, immediately wary, said, “It depends on the activity.”
“Why, that is exactly what I think!” said Tuvié, moving a little further away. Something slid open on the opposite side of the room. “Hmm. Let’s not damage anything.”
Lucy wasn’t about to make promises on that front.
“Yes,” Tuvié went on, “I think this one will do nicely! If you’re careful, of course, but I’m sure you will be.”
What was she even going on about? Had Vader sent her to prepare Lucy for combat? Doomed combat, without a weapon or the Force—
Tuvié clattered back over.
“Miss Lucy, raise your arms.”
Lucy hesitated, then obeyed, bracing herself for whatever might follow. With no further warning, Tuvié pulled Lucy’s nightdress up over her head and tossed it aside.
Lucy jerked away. “What the—”
“Please keep your arms up,” said Tuvié. “It’s the best way.”
For a second, Lucy stayed still, arms wrapped about herself and every nerve on alert. But her flesh shivered in the air, and she couldn’t see—ha!—a way out.
“Miss Lucy—”
“All right,” Lucy said, and lifted her arms again.
Soft material fluttered over her skin as Tuvié lowered something over Lucy’s arms and let it drop down to her waist, then shook it out until the bottom rustled against the floor. Another dress?
Irrepressibly, Lucy thought of Leia helping her dress after she’d blown up the Death Star. They’d gone through Leia’s finery together, looked at their reflections together, talked at times and fallen into comfortable silence at others. She’d never known anyone who understood her the way that Leia did. Anyone who cared the way Leia did, for all her sharp edges. Even Han—that was different, and all tangled up with Leia, anyway. Or it had been, before Lucy left them—but she’d had to! And now Han was all but dead, and Leia might be anywhere at all, assuming that Vader hadn’t lied about her escape. If he really hadn’t, then … then Lucy was glad, more than glad, to be separated from her. Glad Leia was somewhere safe.
She just missed her.
“Here we go,” said Tuvié brightly, pulling one of Lucy’s arms down into a satiny sleeve, then following with the other.
“Umph—”
More material brushed the underside of Lucy’s chin. A high collar, tightening about her throat as Tuvié buttoned up the back of the dress. She took two gulping breaths of air that felt like they might be her last—but nothing happened, except that Tuvié made a satisfied click before pulling another article of clothing around Lucy’s shoulders and over her arms. A sort of pointed short robe. Lucy brushed a finger over the material of the robe, little beads jangling against her wrist with the motion of her hand.
“Very nice, if I do say so myself,” said Tuvié. She sounded immensely pleased with herself.
“I guess this was Senator Amidala’s, too?” Lucy asked. She felt less like the Jedi prisoner of a Sith Lord and more like some sort of doll for Vader’s droid.
She’d often seen droids treated as glorified dolls; now it seemed the tables had turned.
“Oh, yes,” Tuvié said happily. “It all is. We couldn’t find anything else here—not anything appropriate for your size and, hm, situation. The colours used to be more vibrant, I think, but they’re still quite pleasing. It does show when one uses quality materials, doesn’t it?”
“I suppose so,” said Lucy, laying her palms against the thick skirts. They were stiff and slightly pleated. What would Aunt Beru think?
She had no idea. She didn’t know what Beru would think of almost anything she’d done, or Owen either. There was so much she hadn’t known about them, that she’d never know, thanks to the Empire. Vader might not have personally killed them, as he had her father, but—
“—I was constructed too recently to have ever seen her with my own optics,” Tuvié was saying, “but it seems quite typical for the senator. From all I have observed, she had very refined tastes. And she was small, like you, so you’re quite lucky!”
“Lucky,” said Lucy blankly.
She thought of her uncle and aunt’s bones, and Obi-Wan, and her visions of Han’s and Leia’s suffering, and that terrible moment of choice when she’d turned over her father’s lightsaber. But she also thought of Biggs, and how little this imprisonment resembled Leia’s on the Death Star, and of Alderaan and the dead she’d left behind on her way to Dagobah.
“Imagine if you were tall for your species,” said Tuvié. “It would be a disaster! I’d wager my right arm that the Maker never thought of that.”
“I’m not going to take you up on that one,” Lucy told her. “What activity were you thinking about?”
“Oh! Well, you’re still recovering, of course, but I thought I might escort you around the castle. Even if you can’t see anything, I can describe it to you. Surely that would be more interesting than sitting here until Lord Vader returns?”
“He’s not here?” Lucy said, hardly daring to clutch at relief. “Really?”
“There was trouble with some foolish admirals,” said Tuvié. “He told us that he had to manage it personally. He was most displeased, if you ask me.”
“I bet he was,” said Lucy. “But wouldn’t he be even angrier if he found out you let me roam around his castle?”
Tuvié patted her shoulder with that oddly fleshy hand. “No indeed! I asked him myself, and he said you could go anywhere in the castle you liked, as long as I watch over you.”
This seemed extremely suspicious. “You’re sure?”
“Quite sure,” Tuvié said. “Most organics can be terribly duplicitous—no offense to you, Miss Lucy. But Lord Vader always means what he says. And there’s no danger here, I assure you.”
Lucy gave a strangled laugh.
“But if there were,” added Tuvié, “I am more than capable of handling it. So you’ll be quite safe! Unless you’d rather stay here?”
Lucy hesitated another moment, then shook her head. “No. Let’s go, Tuvié.”
-
Tuvié had somehow dredged up a pair of soft shoes that fit Lucy exactly. She helped Lucy put them on, and with that, they headed out of Lucy’s personal prison, into the wider one.
As Tuvié guided her about the castle, she described everything in a detail that Lucy might have appreciated, had she been able to listen more closely. But she was busy counting and memorizing steps from one room to another, trying to create a map in her mind. Tuvié didn’t seem to notice her distraction, even though Lucy’s preoccupation had her stumbling over her own feet more than once.
At one point, she even fell down, scraping her palms on the stone floor and blushing with a mixture of embarrassment and frustration. Tuvié had released her arm to turn towards a training room of some kind, explaining its many features while Lucy tried to remember if she’d gone forty-three or forty-seven steps from the last room, and without the Force to guide her steps, some unevenness in the floor tripped her up.
“Am dkadha!” she said.
“Oh! Miss Lucy, I’m so sorry!” cried Tuvié, helping her to her feet.
“It’s not your fault,” Lucy told her wearily. “Let’s keep going.”
“Well—if you’re sure—”
Tuvié’s hand returned to Lucy’s arm and she gently led her into the practice room, pointing out various raised platforms that could be remotely moved about the room, and a sealed equipment cabinet. Lucy paused in front of it, once again trying to reach out for the Force, sense anything that might be of use. But she felt not even the tiniest glimmer, and could nearly have screamed in fury.
Anger is a path to the Dark Side. Anger is a path to the Dark Side. Anger is a path to the Dark Side.
“That word,” said Tuvié.
Lucy gave up. “What?”
“The one you said a few minutes ago, when you fell down.”
She wasn’t going to be embarrassed about swearing in front of Vader’s droid. Really, she shouldn’t even have been embarrassed about falling down in front of her. Tuvié just made it easy to forget that she was Vader’s droid. Still, Lucy felt her cheeks flush again.
“What about it?” Lucy said.
For several seconds, Tuvié fell uncharacteristically silent. Then she said,
“I’m not familiar with it.”
“You wouldn’t be,” said Lucy.
“I am familiar with over one hundred million forms of communication,” said Tuvié stiffly.
“I didn’t mean … of course you are,” Lucy hurried to say. “But I’ve never met a droid who knew my family’s language—”
It had struck her after the award ceremony at Massassi, when she wandered alone in the hills for a little while, that except out of her own mouth, she would never hear her ancestors’ language again. Shmi’s people had been slaughtered, and Shmi herself enslaved and tortured to death. She’d taught Alsaraic to Beru before she died, and Owen picked up some along the way, but the Empire had burned them both down to their bones. Beru faithfully taught it to Lucy in turn and Anakin knew it from the cradle he never had, but Darth Vader murdered him long ago.
Alsaraic was gone, and the Alsarai with it. At least, she thought so, until months later, when she muttered to herself in Alsaraic and Threepio responded in it, his accent better than hers. She’d nearly burst into tears. And now, Threepio was—he’d be all right. He had to be. Even Vader said he was.
“—except one,” she finished.
“They must have exceptional programming,” said Tuvié.
Lucy actually found herself smiling, and didn’t know whether she should regret it. “Yes, rather.”
“Still, no one could be better than the Maker,” Tuvié said. “I don’t see why he didn’t program me with it.”
Lucy replied, “Threepio—my droid friend—is pretty old, I think. He must have been programmed by someone who knew Alsaraic back then, or had records, but Vader wouldn’t.”
“Why not?” said Tuvié.
“My people are dead,” Lucy said shortly. “It’s just me. Vader wouldn’t have access to it.”
“Hmm,” Tuvié said, sounding doubtful. “Perhaps not. But that means my knowledge banks are incomplete.”
Lucy squinted around the room. Was some of the darkness a shade lighter than the rest? She couldn’t be sure.
“You will be here for some time, though!” Tuvié said more brightly. “Won’t you?”
Everything looked black again.
“I suppose so,” said Lucy.
“Then you could expand my knowledge!”
Lucy turned to stare in the direction of Tuvié’s voice. “Do you mean—you want me to teach you my family’s language?”
Absolutely not.
“It would be a great favour, I know,” said Tuvié. “But I would very much appreciate the addition to my banks.”
Lucy opened her mouth to say no. However much she feared the total eradication of Alsaraic, however much she’d miss being able to speak and hear it, it was not something to be shared with just anyone. Certainly not someone she could trust as little as a droid programmed by Darth Vader and loyal to him. Yet something kept her from absolute refusal.
“I’m not much of a teacher,” she said at last. “Well, which room is next?”
-
Normally, it would take more than a walk around a castle to tire Lucy out. Certainly, it would have on Dagobah. But her legs felt weak and rubbery by the time her stomach started growling.
“Are you ill?” Tuvié cried.
“Yes,” said Lucy, “but mostly, I’m hungry.”
“Oh! Of course! Organics require refuelling as well,” she said. “I don’t know how I always forget these things. But the kitchen droids will be so pleased.”
Without further explanation, she tugged Lucy into a new room, one that felt vaguely more spacious than most of those they’d explored so far. The air, too, seemed different—fresher, though even colder. She could hear a low murmur of machinery.
“There you are!” said Tuvié.
Something made a metallic scraping sound.
“I am,” Ellex replied. “What do you want? Is the girl causing problems?”
Lucy stiffened.
“Oh, no, no,” Tuvié rushed to say, “it’s only that she requires sustenance. Would you mind guarding her while I speak to the kitchen droids? I’m sure they’ll enjoy the chance to—”
“I have more important tasks than observing a small organic,” Ellex told her.
“I am quite sure that the Maker would disagree,” said Tuvié, as cheerfully as ever.
Apart from the quiet sounds of Ellex’s and Tuvié’s machinery, the room fell into total silence. Then Ellex said,
“Fine. Just be quick about it.”
Tuvié’s presence made Lucy feel absurdly weak and useless. Her absence was still worse. When her steps receded and a door slammed closed, Lucy felt her heart pound, her will alone keeping her legs and hands from trembling. Alone with a disgruntled super battle droid, she dared not move, just held herself as ready as she could for whatever might come.
For several minutes, Ellex neither did nor said anything. Lucy briefly considered trying to say something to her, but after a moment’s thought, gave up on it. Then the droid remarked,
“For some reason, Lord Vader values your life.”
Lucy scowled. “I know.”
“Therefore,” Ellex went on, “you needn’t concern yourself with my ending it. I will only kill you if Lord Vader changes his mind.”
“That’s very reassuring,” said Lucy.
“Yes, I thought it would be,” Ellex replied.
Despite herself, Lucy did relax a little. She knew she couldn’t take Ellex on in her current state, so she thought she might as well accept the droid’s word that she intended no harm (yet). It was hard not to wonder, though, if she stood next to her eventual executioner, or if Vader would do the job himself, as he had with her father. Or perhaps she’d survive somehow, as a perpetual prisoner, or, in some miraculous scenario, an escapee. She didn’t quite let herself hope for the latter, but if the opportunity came—she’d be ready.
After a few minutes of silence, Tuvié returned, immediately scolding Ellex for not helping Lucy to a chair. Lucy didn’t bother attending to Ellex’s prickly response, instead trying not to welcome Tuvié’s light grip on her arm as she led her several feet away and guided her into a chair. Lucy reached out, her fingers brushing a wide, flat surface. A table, made of some glossily smooth material. Not metal, Lucy didn’t think.
She stretched further, but she couldn’t reach any of the other edges of the table; it must be large.
“Lord Vader hosts guests here,” Tuvié said helpfully.
“I thought he didn’t have guests,” said Lucy.
“Well, not guests-guests—none of them stay for more than a few hours. Admirals and moffs and the like who have business with Lord Vader that he prefers to handle in private.”
Lucy paused, then asked, “Speaking of Vader, where is he? How long will he be away?”
“That’s no concern of yours,” said Ellex.
“It’s hardly a secret!” Tuvié returned. “You needn’t worry, Miss Lucy; he’s just dealing with some admirals who gave him trouble. Admiral Varti, I think, and … Jerrod? Something like that. He said it would only be a few hours, and that was three hours ago.”
Lucy took a deep breath. He’d be back any time now, then.
“Jerjerrod,” Ellex said. “An incompetent waste of space, if you ask me. Lord Vader should lop off his head and be done with it.”
“How uncivilized,” said Tuvié. “Anyway, he’s a cousin to some grand moff or another. It’d be a disaster.”
Ellex gave a dismissive clank. “If that’s quite all—”
“Yes, I can manage perfectly well,” Tuvié told her.
With that, Ellex marched away. Lucy waited until the door slammed shut behind her, then took a steadying breath. It was impossible not to feel the strain in her muscles easing out with just Tuvié.
I can’t trust her, Lucy reminded herself. I can’t trust any of them.
“Dreadful, isn’t she?” Tuvié remarked. “Very impressive, of course—but no manners at all!”
Lucy gave a short nod.
Tuvié chatted lightly for several more minutes. Then, the door slid open again, and what sounded like a veritable army of droids clattered in the room.
“F-2VA, you requested a luncheon for this human?” one of them said in a deep, resonant sort of voice. “We have prepared a feast!”
“A what?” said Lucy.
“She’s not human,” Tuvié said, “but—”
This drew even more of Lucy’s attention. “What? Of course I’m a human!”
“Your genetic code is hardly distinguishable, to be sure,” Tuvié said soothingly. “That looks most satisfactory, Arren.”
The droid, or another one, gave a loud whirr. A loud clamour of metallic footsteps drew nearer—Lucy instinctively braced herself for danger—and then something clinked on the table before her. The clink was joined by several others: four, five, six. Before Lucy could respond, someone reached past her, and suddenly, a combination of savoury smells wafted to her nose. She was, she realized, ravenous.
“I—”
“This should sustain you, humanoid,” boomed Arren. “We hope you enjoy it.”
“I’m sure I will,” Lucy said automatically. Her stomach gave a loud growl. “Uh, thank you?”
“It—was—our—pleasure. We do not often have the opportunity to exercise our abilities.”
“Right,” said Lucy.
She reached out cautiously, her fingers touching the edge of a plate. It was only then that she reached a horrifying realization: she didn’t know how to eat without her eyesight. Were there even utensils?
As she fumbled cautiously, Tuvié’s familiar grasp took hold of her wrist, and directed her slightly to the side, where Lucy could feel a fork. She awkwardly took it in hand.
She’d have rather figured it out alone, or at least with only Tuvié. The cooking droids seemed to be waiting for her judgment, however, so—guided by Tuvié—she managed to break off a small piece of whatever was on the plate in front of her and stab it. Cautiously, she lifted it to her lips and took a bite.
A rich, lightly spiced flavour filled her mouth. It was some sort of meat, but the most delicious meat she’d ever had, and so soft that it all but melted on her tongue. Lucy closed her eyes.
“Is it satisfactory?” Arren asked.
Lucy swallowed. “Uh—yeah. More than satisfactory.”
“Very well. We will now depart, having excelled at our function!”
“Goodbye,” said Lucy weakly.
Once the cooking droids left, Lucy scooted closer to the table, irrationally anxious about spoiling a dead woman’s dress, then abandoned nearly all restraint. She ate through three dishes of combined meat, vegetables, and bread, all cooked as perfectly as the first, slowing just enough to avoid indigestion, and stopping just short of making herself sick.
Lucy set down the fork.
“Do you feel better?” Tuvié asked, sounding more than usually solicitous. “There’s more if you need it.”
“I think I’ll explode if I eat anything more,” said Lucy.
“Oh! Lord Vader would be most displeased,” Tuvié replied. Lucy wasn’t sure if she was joking or not. “We’ll leave the rest to be preserved for dinner.”
Vader would certainly have returned by then. Lucy’s brief sense of well-being fled, though she did her best to avoid betraying it to Tuvié. As they walked out of the dining hall, she asked,
“Why did you say I’m not human?”
“Tisix analyzed your genetic code,” said Tuvié. “It falls slightly out of the parameters of variability among humans. Very slightly, mind you.”
That’s impossible, Lucy almost said. But she supposed she really didn’t know anything about her mother. For all Lucy knew, she could have been a member of some compatible species rather than purely human. The idea had never crossed her mind, however, and unsettled her in some odd way.
“My mother was nonhuman?” she said, more to herself than the droid.
“I wouldn’t think so,” said Tuvié. “Well, where to next?”
“I’d like to rest,” Lucy said firmly. Maybe, despite all evidence to the contrary, she’d be able to touch the Force now.
Tuvié took her back to the bedchamber, and for a good hour, Lucy sat cross-legged on the bed, trying to meditate under Tuvié’s eye. If she had eyes. As soon as Lucy attempted to reach out to the Force, she felt the Dark Side’s suffocating embrace. She inhaled, tamping down her frustration and fears, but only the miasma rippled about her.
Until—something glimmered on the furthest edges of her awareness. Just for a moment, a flicker of peace touching her before slipping beyond her senses, but it was something. She hardly dared hope that it was the Light Side, and tried again. Now, she felt nothing. But when she finally managed to sink into a steady calm, she felt the flicker again before it slid entirely away.
Lucy opened her eyes, feeling as exhausted as she had after Yoda sent her racing through the swamp and all its obstacles.
“You’re perspiring,” said Tuvié, sounding puzzled. “But you didn’t do anything, and the temperature is normative. Is it the carbon-sickness?”
“No,” Lucy said, offering no further explanation. She doubted Tuvié would understand even if she did feel like betraying her efforts. “I just need some sleep. Will you be watching me?”
“Of course,” Tuvié replied. “Nothing will happen to you under my guard!”
Lucy sighed. But despite the creepiness of trying to sleep under the observation of one of Vader’s droids, she was tired enough, and Tuvié inoffensive enough, that she soon drifted off.
In her dreams, Lucy could see. She blinked, refusing to cry, and peered around. Nothing seemed familiar. She stood in a desert city, not on on Tatooine—at least, not one she recognized, and when she craned her head back, she saw only one sun. She seemed to be in a major market of some kind, people bustling all around, some of them jostling her as they moved from stall to stall, weighing fruit and examining glass ornaments. It struck her as cleaner than any of the towns she knew on Tatooine, in a way she couldn’t quite pin down. There was a power in this place, slippery but unmistakable; the Force was strong here.
Lucy shivered and glanced down. She was wearing a dress passed down from Beru, a thin brown one meant for Tatooine’s scalding daytime hours. But this place was cold.
Something, she couldn’t have said what, drove her onwards. As she walked, she reached out to the Force, letting herself drift with its eddies until it suffused her. She felt welcomed, and yet grieved—an odd sense of loss.
As she made her way through the crowds, they seemed to shift in and out of her sight. Not because of her eyesight itself, but because—because—
It’s not real, she thought.
Then her eyes fell on a man, dark-robed and slightly turned away. He seemed real. And he seemed to be looking around, looking for something, and yet—not.
She didn’t understand. Lucy repressed a burst of aggravation at it all, the Force drifting from her.
No. Don’t leave. Please, don’t leave me.
The man tilted his head. Lucy moved forward, just able to make out a bit of red among the layers of his robe, and—
Darkness fell.
Lucy opened her eyes, to nothing. The man was gone, the Force, every bit of colour and comfort. Then she felt hands on her shoulders, shaking her.
“Miss Lucy? Miss Lucy!”
“Tuvié?” she asked groggily. “What is it?”
“I’m so sorry to wake you,” said Tuvié. “But it’s Lord Vader. He wants to see you.” She paused. “Now.”
title: The Jedi and the Sith Lord (3/?)
verse: Lucy Skywalker: my f!Luke AU, following from The Adventures of Lucy Skywalker and The Imperial Menace
characters: Luke/Lucy Skywalker, Tuvié (F-2VA); also, Ellex (LX-3) and Arren (RN-7)
stuff that happens: Lucy and Tuvié explore Bast Castle.
previous sections: one, two
CHAPTER THREE
Lucy tried to meditate. She really did.
Everyone had told her that the Force would always be with her—Ben, Yoda, even Vader. But she couldn’t feel it. She couldn’t feel anything beyond a heavy miasma that pulsed in erratic, intense surges.
The Dark Side. She knew it. And she refused to touch that, no matter what Darth Vader said or did. She still remembered her failure in the cave, the future that awaited her on that path. She couldn’t ever allow herself to follow Vader’s footsteps.
Here, though, the Dark Side blotted out everything but its own power. No matter how much Lucy tried to clear her mind, and settle her racing thoughts into peace and passivity, the Force that she knew remained out of reach. It might as well have not existed, for all she felt of it.
She had no connection to the Force. She had no weapon. She couldn’t see.
She was afraid.
Her rational mind knew that for the danger it was. Fear must be suppressed, sealed away into some deep pocket of her mind where it could do no harm. Otherwise, it would consume her thoughts and decisions, drawing her inexorably towards the Dark Side, whatever her intentions. Fear existed only to be conquered. She knew that.
Yet when she woke the next day, a blinded, disarmed, cut-off prisoner in Darth Vader’s fortress, she lay frozen in place under the blankets. Every instinct urged her to scramble for a place to hide, like some hunted animal.
Her own voice haunted her. I’m not afraid!
You will be, Yoda had told her. Had he known this was coming? Surely not. Surely—
There was no place to hide, she reminded herself. And whatever she might have lost, she hadn’t died. She had to keep going, just like yesterday.
Lucy breathed deeply, as Yoda had taught her, letting that first burst of terror subside. She still felt frightened, her hands shaking until she forced them into stillness, but she could think. That was her only chance.
Sitting up, she strained to sense anything, even without the Force. The air felt cool on her skin, and a little stale. That made sense; it seemed doubtful that anyone had stayed here—been trapped here—at all recently. Unless Vader habitually kept prisoners in comfortable bedrooms, anyway. But she thought she caught a quiet sound now, something metallic, like a very low whirr.
“Tisix? Tuvié?” said Lucy, tossing the blankets aside. “Is that you?”
The whirr intensified. “Good morning, Miss Lucy! Are you prepared for activity?”
Lucy, immediately wary, said, “It depends on the activity.”
“Why, that is exactly what I think!” said Tuvié, moving a little further away. Something slid open on the opposite side of the room. “Hmm. Let’s not damage anything.”
Lucy wasn’t about to make promises on that front.
“Yes,” Tuvié went on, “I think this one will do nicely! If you’re careful, of course, but I’m sure you will be.”
What was she even going on about? Had Vader sent her to prepare Lucy for combat? Doomed combat, without a weapon or the Force—
Tuvié clattered back over.
“Miss Lucy, raise your arms.”
Lucy hesitated, then obeyed, bracing herself for whatever might follow. With no further warning, Tuvié pulled Lucy’s nightdress up over her head and tossed it aside.
Lucy jerked away. “What the—”
“Please keep your arms up,” said Tuvié. “It’s the best way.”
For a second, Lucy stayed still, arms wrapped about herself and every nerve on alert. But her flesh shivered in the air, and she couldn’t see—ha!—a way out.
“Miss Lucy—”
“All right,” Lucy said, and lifted her arms again.
Soft material fluttered over her skin as Tuvié lowered something over Lucy’s arms and let it drop down to her waist, then shook it out until the bottom rustled against the floor. Another dress?
Irrepressibly, Lucy thought of Leia helping her dress after she’d blown up the Death Star. They’d gone through Leia’s finery together, looked at their reflections together, talked at times and fallen into comfortable silence at others. She’d never known anyone who understood her the way that Leia did. Anyone who cared the way Leia did, for all her sharp edges. Even Han—that was different, and all tangled up with Leia, anyway. Or it had been, before Lucy left them—but she’d had to! And now Han was all but dead, and Leia might be anywhere at all, assuming that Vader hadn’t lied about her escape. If he really hadn’t, then … then Lucy was glad, more than glad, to be separated from her. Glad Leia was somewhere safe.
She just missed her.
“Here we go,” said Tuvié brightly, pulling one of Lucy’s arms down into a satiny sleeve, then following with the other.
“Umph—”
More material brushed the underside of Lucy’s chin. A high collar, tightening about her throat as Tuvié buttoned up the back of the dress. She took two gulping breaths of air that felt like they might be her last—but nothing happened, except that Tuvié made a satisfied click before pulling another article of clothing around Lucy’s shoulders and over her arms. A sort of pointed short robe. Lucy brushed a finger over the material of the robe, little beads jangling against her wrist with the motion of her hand.
“Very nice, if I do say so myself,” said Tuvié. She sounded immensely pleased with herself.
“I guess this was Senator Amidala’s, too?” Lucy asked. She felt less like the Jedi prisoner of a Sith Lord and more like some sort of doll for Vader’s droid.
She’d often seen droids treated as glorified dolls; now it seemed the tables had turned.
“Oh, yes,” Tuvié said happily. “It all is. We couldn’t find anything else here—not anything appropriate for your size and, hm, situation. The colours used to be more vibrant, I think, but they’re still quite pleasing. It does show when one uses quality materials, doesn’t it?”
“I suppose so,” said Lucy, laying her palms against the thick skirts. They were stiff and slightly pleated. What would Aunt Beru think?
She had no idea. She didn’t know what Beru would think of almost anything she’d done, or Owen either. There was so much she hadn’t known about them, that she’d never know, thanks to the Empire. Vader might not have personally killed them, as he had her father, but—
“—I was constructed too recently to have ever seen her with my own optics,” Tuvié was saying, “but it seems quite typical for the senator. From all I have observed, she had very refined tastes. And she was small, like you, so you’re quite lucky!”
“Lucky,” said Lucy blankly.
She thought of her uncle and aunt’s bones, and Obi-Wan, and her visions of Han’s and Leia’s suffering, and that terrible moment of choice when she’d turned over her father’s lightsaber. But she also thought of Biggs, and how little this imprisonment resembled Leia’s on the Death Star, and of Alderaan and the dead she’d left behind on her way to Dagobah.
“Imagine if you were tall for your species,” said Tuvié. “It would be a disaster! I’d wager my right arm that the Maker never thought of that.”
“I’m not going to take you up on that one,” Lucy told her. “What activity were you thinking about?”
“Oh! Well, you’re still recovering, of course, but I thought I might escort you around the castle. Even if you can’t see anything, I can describe it to you. Surely that would be more interesting than sitting here until Lord Vader returns?”
“He’s not here?” Lucy said, hardly daring to clutch at relief. “Really?”
“There was trouble with some foolish admirals,” said Tuvié. “He told us that he had to manage it personally. He was most displeased, if you ask me.”
“I bet he was,” said Lucy. “But wouldn’t he be even angrier if he found out you let me roam around his castle?”
Tuvié patted her shoulder with that oddly fleshy hand. “No indeed! I asked him myself, and he said you could go anywhere in the castle you liked, as long as I watch over you.”
This seemed extremely suspicious. “You’re sure?”
“Quite sure,” Tuvié said. “Most organics can be terribly duplicitous—no offense to you, Miss Lucy. But Lord Vader always means what he says. And there’s no danger here, I assure you.”
Lucy gave a strangled laugh.
“But if there were,” added Tuvié, “I am more than capable of handling it. So you’ll be quite safe! Unless you’d rather stay here?”
Lucy hesitated another moment, then shook her head. “No. Let’s go, Tuvié.”
-
Tuvié had somehow dredged up a pair of soft shoes that fit Lucy exactly. She helped Lucy put them on, and with that, they headed out of Lucy’s personal prison, into the wider one.
As Tuvié guided her about the castle, she described everything in a detail that Lucy might have appreciated, had she been able to listen more closely. But she was busy counting and memorizing steps from one room to another, trying to create a map in her mind. Tuvié didn’t seem to notice her distraction, even though Lucy’s preoccupation had her stumbling over her own feet more than once.
At one point, she even fell down, scraping her palms on the stone floor and blushing with a mixture of embarrassment and frustration. Tuvié had released her arm to turn towards a training room of some kind, explaining its many features while Lucy tried to remember if she’d gone forty-three or forty-seven steps from the last room, and without the Force to guide her steps, some unevenness in the floor tripped her up.
“Am dkadha!” she said.
“Oh! Miss Lucy, I’m so sorry!” cried Tuvié, helping her to her feet.
“It’s not your fault,” Lucy told her wearily. “Let’s keep going.”
“Well—if you’re sure—”
Tuvié’s hand returned to Lucy’s arm and she gently led her into the practice room, pointing out various raised platforms that could be remotely moved about the room, and a sealed equipment cabinet. Lucy paused in front of it, once again trying to reach out for the Force, sense anything that might be of use. But she felt not even the tiniest glimmer, and could nearly have screamed in fury.
Anger is a path to the Dark Side. Anger is a path to the Dark Side. Anger is a path to the Dark Side.
“That word,” said Tuvié.
Lucy gave up. “What?”
“The one you said a few minutes ago, when you fell down.”
She wasn’t going to be embarrassed about swearing in front of Vader’s droid. Really, she shouldn’t even have been embarrassed about falling down in front of her. Tuvié just made it easy to forget that she was Vader’s droid. Still, Lucy felt her cheeks flush again.
“What about it?” Lucy said.
For several seconds, Tuvié fell uncharacteristically silent. Then she said,
“I’m not familiar with it.”
“You wouldn’t be,” said Lucy.
“I am familiar with over one hundred million forms of communication,” said Tuvié stiffly.
“I didn’t mean … of course you are,” Lucy hurried to say. “But I’ve never met a droid who knew my family’s language—”
It had struck her after the award ceremony at Massassi, when she wandered alone in the hills for a little while, that except out of her own mouth, she would never hear her ancestors’ language again. Shmi’s people had been slaughtered, and Shmi herself enslaved and tortured to death. She’d taught Alsaraic to Beru before she died, and Owen picked up some along the way, but the Empire had burned them both down to their bones. Beru faithfully taught it to Lucy in turn and Anakin knew it from the cradle he never had, but Darth Vader murdered him long ago.
Alsaraic was gone, and the Alsarai with it. At least, she thought so, until months later, when she muttered to herself in Alsaraic and Threepio responded in it, his accent better than hers. She’d nearly burst into tears. And now, Threepio was—he’d be all right. He had to be. Even Vader said he was.
“—except one,” she finished.
“They must have exceptional programming,” said Tuvié.
Lucy actually found herself smiling, and didn’t know whether she should regret it. “Yes, rather.”
“Still, no one could be better than the Maker,” Tuvié said. “I don’t see why he didn’t program me with it.”
Lucy replied, “Threepio—my droid friend—is pretty old, I think. He must have been programmed by someone who knew Alsaraic back then, or had records, but Vader wouldn’t.”
“Why not?” said Tuvié.
“My people are dead,” Lucy said shortly. “It’s just me. Vader wouldn’t have access to it.”
“Hmm,” Tuvié said, sounding doubtful. “Perhaps not. But that means my knowledge banks are incomplete.”
Lucy squinted around the room. Was some of the darkness a shade lighter than the rest? She couldn’t be sure.
“You will be here for some time, though!” Tuvié said more brightly. “Won’t you?”
Everything looked black again.
“I suppose so,” said Lucy.
“Then you could expand my knowledge!”
Lucy turned to stare in the direction of Tuvié’s voice. “Do you mean—you want me to teach you my family’s language?”
Absolutely not.
“It would be a great favour, I know,” said Tuvié. “But I would very much appreciate the addition to my banks.”
Lucy opened her mouth to say no. However much she feared the total eradication of Alsaraic, however much she’d miss being able to speak and hear it, it was not something to be shared with just anyone. Certainly not someone she could trust as little as a droid programmed by Darth Vader and loyal to him. Yet something kept her from absolute refusal.
“I’m not much of a teacher,” she said at last. “Well, which room is next?”
-
Normally, it would take more than a walk around a castle to tire Lucy out. Certainly, it would have on Dagobah. But her legs felt weak and rubbery by the time her stomach started growling.
“Are you ill?” Tuvié cried.
“Yes,” said Lucy, “but mostly, I’m hungry.”
“Oh! Of course! Organics require refuelling as well,” she said. “I don’t know how I always forget these things. But the kitchen droids will be so pleased.”
Without further explanation, she tugged Lucy into a new room, one that felt vaguely more spacious than most of those they’d explored so far. The air, too, seemed different—fresher, though even colder. She could hear a low murmur of machinery.
“There you are!” said Tuvié.
Something made a metallic scraping sound.
“I am,” Ellex replied. “What do you want? Is the girl causing problems?”
Lucy stiffened.
“Oh, no, no,” Tuvié rushed to say, “it’s only that she requires sustenance. Would you mind guarding her while I speak to the kitchen droids? I’m sure they’ll enjoy the chance to—”
“I have more important tasks than observing a small organic,” Ellex told her.
“I am quite sure that the Maker would disagree,” said Tuvié, as cheerfully as ever.
Apart from the quiet sounds of Ellex’s and Tuvié’s machinery, the room fell into total silence. Then Ellex said,
“Fine. Just be quick about it.”
Tuvié’s presence made Lucy feel absurdly weak and useless. Her absence was still worse. When her steps receded and a door slammed closed, Lucy felt her heart pound, her will alone keeping her legs and hands from trembling. Alone with a disgruntled super battle droid, she dared not move, just held herself as ready as she could for whatever might come.
For several minutes, Ellex neither did nor said anything. Lucy briefly considered trying to say something to her, but after a moment’s thought, gave up on it. Then the droid remarked,
“For some reason, Lord Vader values your life.”
Lucy scowled. “I know.”
“Therefore,” Ellex went on, “you needn’t concern yourself with my ending it. I will only kill you if Lord Vader changes his mind.”
“That’s very reassuring,” said Lucy.
“Yes, I thought it would be,” Ellex replied.
Despite herself, Lucy did relax a little. She knew she couldn’t take Ellex on in her current state, so she thought she might as well accept the droid’s word that she intended no harm (yet). It was hard not to wonder, though, if she stood next to her eventual executioner, or if Vader would do the job himself, as he had with her father. Or perhaps she’d survive somehow, as a perpetual prisoner, or, in some miraculous scenario, an escapee. She didn’t quite let herself hope for the latter, but if the opportunity came—she’d be ready.
After a few minutes of silence, Tuvié returned, immediately scolding Ellex for not helping Lucy to a chair. Lucy didn’t bother attending to Ellex’s prickly response, instead trying not to welcome Tuvié’s light grip on her arm as she led her several feet away and guided her into a chair. Lucy reached out, her fingers brushing a wide, flat surface. A table, made of some glossily smooth material. Not metal, Lucy didn’t think.
She stretched further, but she couldn’t reach any of the other edges of the table; it must be large.
“Lord Vader hosts guests here,” Tuvié said helpfully.
“I thought he didn’t have guests,” said Lucy.
“Well, not guests-guests—none of them stay for more than a few hours. Admirals and moffs and the like who have business with Lord Vader that he prefers to handle in private.”
Lucy paused, then asked, “Speaking of Vader, where is he? How long will he be away?”
“That’s no concern of yours,” said Ellex.
“It’s hardly a secret!” Tuvié returned. “You needn’t worry, Miss Lucy; he’s just dealing with some admirals who gave him trouble. Admiral Varti, I think, and … Jerrod? Something like that. He said it would only be a few hours, and that was three hours ago.”
Lucy took a deep breath. He’d be back any time now, then.
“Jerjerrod,” Ellex said. “An incompetent waste of space, if you ask me. Lord Vader should lop off his head and be done with it.”
“How uncivilized,” said Tuvié. “Anyway, he’s a cousin to some grand moff or another. It’d be a disaster.”
Ellex gave a dismissive clank. “If that’s quite all—”
“Yes, I can manage perfectly well,” Tuvié told her.
With that, Ellex marched away. Lucy waited until the door slammed shut behind her, then took a steadying breath. It was impossible not to feel the strain in her muscles easing out with just Tuvié.
I can’t trust her, Lucy reminded herself. I can’t trust any of them.
“Dreadful, isn’t she?” Tuvié remarked. “Very impressive, of course—but no manners at all!”
Lucy gave a short nod.
Tuvié chatted lightly for several more minutes. Then, the door slid open again, and what sounded like a veritable army of droids clattered in the room.
“F-2VA, you requested a luncheon for this human?” one of them said in a deep, resonant sort of voice. “We have prepared a feast!”
“A what?” said Lucy.
“She’s not human,” Tuvié said, “but—”
This drew even more of Lucy’s attention. “What? Of course I’m a human!”
“Your genetic code is hardly distinguishable, to be sure,” Tuvié said soothingly. “That looks most satisfactory, Arren.”
The droid, or another one, gave a loud whirr. A loud clamour of metallic footsteps drew nearer—Lucy instinctively braced herself for danger—and then something clinked on the table before her. The clink was joined by several others: four, five, six. Before Lucy could respond, someone reached past her, and suddenly, a combination of savoury smells wafted to her nose. She was, she realized, ravenous.
“I—”
“This should sustain you, humanoid,” boomed Arren. “We hope you enjoy it.”
“I’m sure I will,” Lucy said automatically. Her stomach gave a loud growl. “Uh, thank you?”
“It—was—our—pleasure. We do not often have the opportunity to exercise our abilities.”
“Right,” said Lucy.
She reached out cautiously, her fingers touching the edge of a plate. It was only then that she reached a horrifying realization: she didn’t know how to eat without her eyesight. Were there even utensils?
As she fumbled cautiously, Tuvié’s familiar grasp took hold of her wrist, and directed her slightly to the side, where Lucy could feel a fork. She awkwardly took it in hand.
She’d have rather figured it out alone, or at least with only Tuvié. The cooking droids seemed to be waiting for her judgment, however, so—guided by Tuvié—she managed to break off a small piece of whatever was on the plate in front of her and stab it. Cautiously, she lifted it to her lips and took a bite.
A rich, lightly spiced flavour filled her mouth. It was some sort of meat, but the most delicious meat she’d ever had, and so soft that it all but melted on her tongue. Lucy closed her eyes.
“Is it satisfactory?” Arren asked.
Lucy swallowed. “Uh—yeah. More than satisfactory.”
“Very well. We will now depart, having excelled at our function!”
“Goodbye,” said Lucy weakly.
Once the cooking droids left, Lucy scooted closer to the table, irrationally anxious about spoiling a dead woman’s dress, then abandoned nearly all restraint. She ate through three dishes of combined meat, vegetables, and bread, all cooked as perfectly as the first, slowing just enough to avoid indigestion, and stopping just short of making herself sick.
Lucy set down the fork.
“Do you feel better?” Tuvié asked, sounding more than usually solicitous. “There’s more if you need it.”
“I think I’ll explode if I eat anything more,” said Lucy.
“Oh! Lord Vader would be most displeased,” Tuvié replied. Lucy wasn’t sure if she was joking or not. “We’ll leave the rest to be preserved for dinner.”
Vader would certainly have returned by then. Lucy’s brief sense of well-being fled, though she did her best to avoid betraying it to Tuvié. As they walked out of the dining hall, she asked,
“Why did you say I’m not human?”
“Tisix analyzed your genetic code,” said Tuvié. “It falls slightly out of the parameters of variability among humans. Very slightly, mind you.”
That’s impossible, Lucy almost said. But she supposed she really didn’t know anything about her mother. For all Lucy knew, she could have been a member of some compatible species rather than purely human. The idea had never crossed her mind, however, and unsettled her in some odd way.
“My mother was nonhuman?” she said, more to herself than the droid.
“I wouldn’t think so,” said Tuvié. “Well, where to next?”
“I’d like to rest,” Lucy said firmly. Maybe, despite all evidence to the contrary, she’d be able to touch the Force now.
Tuvié took her back to the bedchamber, and for a good hour, Lucy sat cross-legged on the bed, trying to meditate under Tuvié’s eye. If she had eyes. As soon as Lucy attempted to reach out to the Force, she felt the Dark Side’s suffocating embrace. She inhaled, tamping down her frustration and fears, but only the miasma rippled about her.
Until—something glimmered on the furthest edges of her awareness. Just for a moment, a flicker of peace touching her before slipping beyond her senses, but it was something. She hardly dared hope that it was the Light Side, and tried again. Now, she felt nothing. But when she finally managed to sink into a steady calm, she felt the flicker again before it slid entirely away.
Lucy opened her eyes, feeling as exhausted as she had after Yoda sent her racing through the swamp and all its obstacles.
“You’re perspiring,” said Tuvié, sounding puzzled. “But you didn’t do anything, and the temperature is normative. Is it the carbon-sickness?”
“No,” Lucy said, offering no further explanation. She doubted Tuvié would understand even if she did feel like betraying her efforts. “I just need some sleep. Will you be watching me?”
“Of course,” Tuvié replied. “Nothing will happen to you under my guard!”
Lucy sighed. But despite the creepiness of trying to sleep under the observation of one of Vader’s droids, she was tired enough, and Tuvié inoffensive enough, that she soon drifted off.
In her dreams, Lucy could see. She blinked, refusing to cry, and peered around. Nothing seemed familiar. She stood in a desert city, not on on Tatooine—at least, not one she recognized, and when she craned her head back, she saw only one sun. She seemed to be in a major market of some kind, people bustling all around, some of them jostling her as they moved from stall to stall, weighing fruit and examining glass ornaments. It struck her as cleaner than any of the towns she knew on Tatooine, in a way she couldn’t quite pin down. There was a power in this place, slippery but unmistakable; the Force was strong here.
Lucy shivered and glanced down. She was wearing a dress passed down from Beru, a thin brown one meant for Tatooine’s scalding daytime hours. But this place was cold.
Something, she couldn’t have said what, drove her onwards. As she walked, she reached out to the Force, letting herself drift with its eddies until it suffused her. She felt welcomed, and yet grieved—an odd sense of loss.
As she made her way through the crowds, they seemed to shift in and out of her sight. Not because of her eyesight itself, but because—because—
It’s not real, she thought.
Then her eyes fell on a man, dark-robed and slightly turned away. He seemed real. And he seemed to be looking around, looking for something, and yet—not.
She didn’t understand. Lucy repressed a burst of aggravation at it all, the Force drifting from her.
No. Don’t leave. Please, don’t leave me.
The man tilted his head. Lucy moved forward, just able to make out a bit of red among the layers of his robe, and—
Darkness fell.
Lucy opened her eyes, to nothing. The man was gone, the Force, every bit of colour and comfort. Then she felt hands on her shoulders, shaking her.
“Miss Lucy? Miss Lucy!”
“Tuvié?” she asked groggily. “What is it?”
“I’m so sorry to wake you,” said Tuvié. “But it’s Lord Vader. He wants to see you.” She paused. “Now.”
