It was easy enough to track the boy, despite his weakening Force signature. Once Vader had his thoughts back in order, there was no way he could miss that brilliant presence, even as tired as it had become. The silent cries of raw emotion, like a lostling child, were a beacon that drew him in. He couldn't help reaching out to that searching mental hand--invisible fingers touching, trying to anchor him as the boy's brightness in the Force began to drift.

For a single instant--a breath, a heartbeat that he would never admit to anyone--Vader experienced a rush of sharp panic when the boy's consciousness faded to a dim glow.

Then he chastised himself, landed his ship, and walked out to fetch the errant Rebel pilot. The harshly blowing sand would have been blinding, suffocating, but it never reached him; his mask protected him, shielding his eyes and filtering his breaths. The Rebel lay sprawled on the dune, unconscious and unmoving. Helpless.

He didn't even think before he knelt down and lifted the limp form into his arms. The weight seemed negligible to him, no more than a child; when he set the boy down on the lounge seat in the ship, he found himself unable to draw back, to look away. He was caught--for another breath, a single, fragile moment--looking down at the slim, unmoving form, studying the young, sleeping face.

There it was--there she was...

Then he shook his head, dismissing his pointless musings to the back of his mind. Now was not the time for idle speculation; he would wait to ascertain the absolute truth before deciding what was to be done with the boy. The night sandstorm was rising, and the youth was obviously ill--if he stood around daydreaming any more he would be unable to fly clear of the storm and reach the nearest Imperial presence.

Leaving the boy lying in the lounge, he strode for the cockpit and sent his ship into the air.

According to the computer, the closest Imperial outpost was a small squad post in a nearby suburban town called Anchorhead. But a squad post would not have the facilities he required; he would have to travel all the way in to Mos Eisley, where there was a real garrison with its fully stocked and manned medical wards and facilities.

Obviously, the troops at the Mos Eisley Garrison were eager to help, smartly answering his comm despite the hour, and responding quickly to his orders that there be a med team waiting when he landed. Keeping his thoughts clear of any connection to the boy, Vader guided his shuttle down to the sheltered landing pad where the medics and stormtroopers waited for him.

Darth Vader could not be seen carrying a no-account Rebel pilot. So he met the entourage at the base of the ramp, nodding briefly to the officer in charge who had approached to greet him. "Colonel."

"My Lord Vader," the man replied, performing a smoothly-trained gesture that was somehow a most respectful salute and a bow of complete obeisance at the same time--he was good. "The medical team is standing by as per your orders, sir."

"Good, Colonel," Vader replied. "You will find your subject in the rear living quarters of the ship, on the couch. Take him to the medical wing, treat his injuries, and keep him confined. I will...interrogate him at my leisure." He shifted his unfathomable gaze to the medics and their attending guards. "However, you will not injure him in any way. I do not want him harmed--is that clear?"

The gathering straightened in salute. "Yes, sir!" they responded as one.

"Carry on. You," the Sith Lord growled, pulling aside one of the head medics as the rest hustled to do their jobs. "I have additional work for you."

"Sir?" The medic somehow performed a salute, even in the awkward situation he was in. The Colonel of this garrison must be a stickler for parade ettiquette.

"When the prisoner is stable," Vader commanded, pulling a datachip from his belt, "take a blood sample and compare it to the one stored in this chip. I want a full genetic profile on this prisoner--and a midichlorian count, if you have the equipment. When you have this information, you will report it to me--and only me."

One of the medic's eyebrows twitched with surprise that Vader could sense, but the man's professionalism was profound. "Yes sir, Lord Vader. As you command."

Vader let him go, turning away to face the Colonel. "I am here on Imperial business, Colonel," he informed the officer, who still stood at attention. "There is no need for you or your men to inquire about this business, nor to record my visit in the garrison log. When I leave, it will be as if I was never here."

The colonel never even blinked at this drastic change in procedures. "Aye, my Lord. I will have all mention of you, your ship, and your prisoner purged from the logs and the sensor reports. The safety and secrecy of Imperial missions is of utmost priority to me, sir."

"See that it remains that way," Vader responded, striding beyond the man.

The colonel and his aides followed, hurrying to keep up with the Dark Lord's long steps. "We have quarters prepared for you, sir, for as long as you need to stay--"

"That will not be necessary, Colonel," the Sith Lord interrupted curtly, heading into the garrison building. Behind him, he could hear the chattering medics and the hum of a repulsor gurney. "What I need is a console with a connection to the central Imperial computer networks."

"Er, yes sir! Left at this junction, sir."

Trying not to look over his shoulder at the medics scuttling off to the medical wing with his young prisoner, Vader followed the colonel's directions deeper into the garrison, where a computer workstation in the intelligence and observation section was made ready for him. He spent the next forty-five minutes carefully slicing into some Coruscant files and reports to see if anything of note was happening back home--such as the state of his flagship, and if his master had any particular orders regarding him; he had done this often enough before, when he wanted information without having to dig through red tape or put up with a lengthy and pointless call to the Emperor.

Everything seemed in order, at least officially. But there were traces of deleted transmission logs from the Imperial Palace--and a brief flight calculation that indicated that the Executor and several of her attending Star Destroyers were no longer searching for Rebels, but traveling toward Naboo.

Following his path.

Erasing his tracks and closing the connection, Vader sat back in his chair, crossing his arms. Anger still smoldered inside him--dangerous, waiting for an opportunity to flare up at the nearest available target. And as soon as he found something irritating enough to trigger his temper--a guilty party, an offending officer, some incompetent clerk or malfunctioning bit of machinery--he was going to give in to a spectacular fit of rage. The last few days' events had done nothing whatsoever to calm his ever-waiting temper.

Knowing that there was a traitor aboard his flagship only made it worse. Someone on his ship had betrayed him, and now his master obviously knew of his disobedience. He wondered who the guilty party could be; not Piett, certainly--the man was intelligent and loyal, and Vader had never sensed deceit in him--and Ozzel was probably too stupid to consider countermanding his orders, even as oily as the Admiral was. Perhaps there was an Imperial Special Operations spy amongst his crew.

Although the thought that his master would have such little faith in him as to plant spies--overseers--among his crew...

A slightly-nervous presence approaching behind him drew his thoughts out of their downward spiral of ire--for the moment--as he straightened up and half-turned to acknowledge the officer saluting him. It was one of the colonel's aides, standing smartly at parade attention.

"I beg your pardon, my Lord," the aide said smartly. "You wished to be notified of the prisoner's status, sir."

Something very small within the Sith Lord's heart lurched at the man's words--a tiny thing that somehow encompassed fear and worry and hope all at once. He quickly quashed it with his annoyance at the entire situation and rose to his full height to regard the nervous officer. "Continue," he growled.

"Yes sir!" The aide saluted yet again. "The chief medical officer reports that the prisoner's condition is stable. Also, one of the lieutenant medics wishes to send word that he has compiled the report you ordered, my Lord."

"Very well," Vader rumbled, pushing aside a trace of eagerness. "Take me to the medical bay."

The aide obeyed quickly. The walk was in truth quite short, as the garrison was not very large--but to the anxious Sith Lord, the journey seemed to take an eternity; endless lengths of gray corridors and stark halls stood between him and his destination, full of marching stormtroopers and hustling officers. His impatience grew with every step, making his guide more nervous as the Dark Lord seemed to loom even darker beside him.

Then they were turning the corner into the medical area, into a sterile, well-lit corridor that hosted offices and wards--and Vader was about to hear the truth about something he had spent the last two hours trying not to think about. And suddenly, the trip was much too short, because he still wasn't ready to think about it.

But he was a Sith Lord, the Emperor's Right Hand, and it would not do to bolt off down the hallway in front of all the medics and officers simply because he'd found himself struck with a sudden and unfamiliar case of nerves. So he drew upon his anger and irritation once again to shove the hesitation aside--really, he was a grown man, not a stumbling boy; he was supposed to be past such frivolous emotional nonsense. He wasn't like that any more--

--like a scared and confused young man whose wife had just told him, and he was terrified because it was so new and so huge, and it would be impossible to keep their secret here now--and oh Force he wasn't ready for this, it was too fast, too much, he'd only just returned and he was still getting used to being Husband because they were always separate for so long--but now, oh skies above, he was supposed to be Father and he just wasn't ready--a baby, a child, that could blow their secret life wide open--terror and wonder and realizing...

...realizing...this was more than himself; it was frightening, and amazing, and...more than he'd ever felt before--they'd made something, he and Padme; their love had made life, and that was wonderful no matter how scared he was and joy leaped up through his fear--they had something more than just themselves now, they would be a family and they'd be loved and happy together and he'd do anything to keep them safe--

--until he ripped them all apart with his own two hands--

Vader didn't realize he'd stopped in his tracks just outside the med ward door until he finally heard the aide querying him apprehensively. Glaring at the man--though in truth, he was more shaken by his own thoughts--he brushed past him dismissively and strode into the ward, shoving down old memories to concentrate on the present as the door slid shut behind him.

The lieutenant medic he'd given his orders to stood beside the med-bed, checking the monitors for its occupant's vitals and recording them on his datapad. He looked up as the Sith Lord entered, coming to attention though he couldn't quite salute with his hands full. "Lord Vader, sir," he acknowledged.

"Report, medic," Vader snapped, forcibly keeping his gaze away from the still figure on the bed. "His condition?"

"Yessir," the man responded, stepping around the med-bed to the console in the wall, where he brought up a holo-display--a mess of medical readouts, only a few of which Vader could decipher. "He is stable and relatively healthy, my Lord. We have him on fluids and a light nutrient drip, as he came in with low blood sugar and a fair amount of dehydration. Also, the wound on the back of his shoulder, apparently a neglected and quite recent blaster burn, became somewhat inflamed and has caused a low-grade fever. We have treated the injury, and his temperature is returning to normal as we speak, sir. All told, we expect a complete recovery with no complications."

He'll be fine...

"Very good," Vader rumbled, refusing to allow that shadow of relief to sag his shoulders. He would allow nothing until he knew for sure. "And the information I ordered?"

"Aye, sir." The medic nodded, and hit a few keys on the console. The holo-image shifted again, this time to something that looked like a pair of DNA helixes and far too many columns of numbers and symbols. "According to the blood specimen I took from the patient, sir, and the sample you provided on the data chip, there is a strong genetic match. The chip sample is most likely the paternal donor."

The father.

Vader wanted to sit down. But there was only one chair in the room and he was not going to allow the medic to see how he had been affected.

But...Vader had already known the truth. He had already known. He had known since the young pilot had flung the words at him--no matter how much he'd tried to ignore it, to push it away. The Force showed the truth--and he could see it in the boy--

--our boy--

"And the midichlorian count you requested, sir," the medic was going on, oblivious to the Sith Lord's turmoil. "I'm not sure if our equipment is working properly, since it is slightly outdated, so I ran the test several times. But I still got rather outrageous results, so I believe the machine needs to be recalibrated--"

That got Vader's attention, jolting him. "What? What result?"

The medic glanced uncomfortably at his datapad. "The count was over twenty thousand, sir. Beyond what the testing machine can rate. That's clearly an error, sir--I'm afraid I can't give you accurate results."

Power. He has my power. Twenty thousand...

"No matter," Vader replied, glad for the vocoder in his armor so that the medic could not hear the croak in his voice. "I have the information I need."

"Yes sir," the man replied, still confused. "Er...all that's left is for the prisoner to wake. I can administer a stimulant if you would like to proceed immediately."

Vader's gaze fixed sharply on the medic; under normal circumstances, that was what he would do. Under normal circumstances, he wanted to interrogate as soon as they knew the prisoner would live. Under normal circumstances, he would not wait to acquire any information and execute--

"No," he told the medic, expression hidden behind his mask. "Leave us. I will deal with this one myself."

"Yes, my Lord," the medic replied smartly, switching off the console and heading for the door. "Comm if you require anything."

Vader did not even watch him leave. As much as he'd tried not to acknowledge the boy previously, now he could not tear his eyes from the motionless form on the bed. He did not move, even as the door hissed shut after the medic and the monitors around the bed continued their steady rhythm.

Rhythm; soft, regular beeps, as measured as his own mechanical breaths--the boy's heart, quiet in sleep. A steady beat in time to the gentle thrum in the Force that cried Alive! Alive! with every pulse.

He's alive...

For the first time in a long time indeed, Vader was not sure what to feel. He was almost numb, like shock, but then...he wasn't; something was overflowing his old barriers, filling him in a way that almost hurt. Anger just would not work­--at the moment, he could not even find it. All his old and long-forgotten joy and fear and anticipation had long since been smothered away, victims of crushed hopes and shattered dreams--for a miracle that was to come, then was destroyed...

...and now, suddenly, was real again.

My child is alive...

For a moment he was caught in a swirl of memory and reality again--on that cusp where he could remember, could feel, and those forgotten emotions tried to rise again, battered phoenixes blazing up once more, piercing veils of hate and reminding him what hope felt like--

--I didn't kill him--oh Force--I didn't kill him--

Hope. Profound relief. Tatters of old joy. And he found himself standing at the boy's bedside with no memory of having taken those strides, dark gloves gripping the rails as if to hold himself upright--looking down at the miracle he thought he'd destroyed, that he thought he'd long since finished mourning and put far behind him...

But he hadn't, and he couldn't--never could--because it was that kernel of hate and grief and rage and sorrow that had kept him alive, kept him going, kept him powerful and invulnerable until one of the very sources of that kernel shattered it and cast it aside.

Because his son was alive, and the universe was no longer empty. Alive, a bright spot in the Force that he couldn't believe he had missed all these years. Alive--a piece of himself and of her, part of them both, a terrible wonder nearly as awesome as it had been the first time he knew it. He could see it; he could see himself, and her--there was her brow and his nose and her lips and his chin...so clear, even after all this time...

He's alive...I didn't kill him...

Memory; what he recalled of those last hours on Mustafar were jagged, crystal sharp--her face, her tears, eyes filled with heartbreak and betrayal. Rage fueling the blue sabers' clash. Fire and numbness and pain. His former master, closer to tears than he'd ever seen. Hate.

Horrible, empty grief. He had killed her--

I felt her--she was alive-- The shard of memory stabbed him, reopening a near-mortal wound. My master told me I killed her...but I felt her...!

His mechanical grip tightened on the bed rails until he nearly warped the metal. Something wasn't right--something didn't match--

My son is alive--and he couldn't have survived if she-- He's alive, she had to have been...but he said I killed her, I killed her but I felt her...he said she was dead right there, I killed her--but I didn't, my son is alive--Obi-Wan was there--Obi-Wan must've saved her, he must've--

The thought of Obi-Wan sharpened everything, shattered the haze of confusion, focused into a source of anger. Anger--hatred--power--control.

Obi-Wan. The man who had done this to him--turned her against him, betrayed him, left him to die. The man he had spent almost two decades hating.

The man who had somehow brought her away from that fiery planet, and kept his child alive...

Hatred faltered.

"You were my brother, Anakin! I loved you!"

Enough to come to tears over his demise--enough to save his son--

The tussle between rage and regret was brief, but fierce; he clung desperately to the only things he'd known for so many years--the betrayal, the anger, the resentment and grief and revenge. They had been the constants in his life for so long he was almost afraid to function without them. Without his passion for vengeance and hate, he was powerless. There was nothing good left he could summon.

But...that scrap of old joy, half buried, was still there, and refused to be drowned again... My son is alive!

Something was still wrong, he realized, even as he retook his footing--found his balance in power and focus once more. He was missing a piece--a vital piece of the puzzle that connected all the other pieces--himself, his two masters, his son, his wife, and those horrific events on Mustafar so long ago. Something didn't match up--life, or death, or murder, or betrayal. Someone was wrong.

Someone had lied.

His master had said she was dead, and he'd never doubted, even when his own senses had told him she'd been alive when he left her.

"...it seems in your anger you killed her."

But his son was alive and well; an unborn infant could never have survived the journey from Mustafar to any sort of hospital or medical facility if the mother was already dead. Obi-Wan must have taken her, taken care of them, saved them...

Is she...could she be...alive...?

If his knees had still been organic, they might've given out on him then; something surged that he hadn't felt in years, taking the breath from him even through mechanical regulation. Hope flared again.

But only for a moment--because it couldn't be true. Everything he'd ever known, everything his master had ever told him--it would be shaken if she were alive. He would have known--she would have come to him--something, anything. She had been dead for so long he could not even begin to think of her as alive. He would not allow the possibility.

It would mean he had been wrong about everything...

She couldn't be alive. There was a tomb on Naboo for a mother and child. A funeral recording in his personal quarters on Coruscant. A body that all of Theed had seen, that her parents had cried over. A master who told him he had killed her in his fit of rage on Mustafar. She was dead; had been dead for years.

But his son was somehow alive.

And the brightening in the Force was all the warning he got, sharpening his focus and bringing him back to the present; he looked down at faintly quivering eyelashes and heard a soft moan. Then the hazy eyes were open and finding his own and the whole galaxy went still; everything was frozen, even his own breath, for just an instant in time.

The boy was awake.