Star Wars Dark Angel Scarlet Dragon Ch 02

Eighteen Months After the Battle of Yavin

"Slave I, this is Executor. You are cleared for landing, Bay 34."

"Bay 34 confirmed. Slave I out."

Boba Fett flicked the brake repulsors switches on over his head, slowing his approach to Executor hangar bay above him. The audio sensors in his helmet picked up a soft pained moan from the holding bin behind him. Then silence. Then a sharp BANG against the door that sounded like someone kicked it. Because someone kicked it. His voice was low and gray like buffed gravel. "Somebody woke up from her nap."

The bangs and thuds from the door were soon joined by a female bellowing. "Fett, you son of a bitch! You fucking asshole, Boba Fett!" Another BANG. "You scumbag murdering bounty-hunter fuck! I'm gonna kill you, you piece of shit! Your days are numbered!"

"Oh no," Fett muttered dryly. He tapped the stern repulsors, sending the Slave I upward into the hangar. "What are you gonna do, throttle monkey, fix my ship to death?"

"You can't take us all out, Fett," the voice shouted from the hold. Another kick. "We're growing. Every day. We got cells everywhere. You and your fucking Empire are going down!"

"It's not my Empire, sugar britches." He clicked the repulsors off when the Slave I was caught the Executor's tractor beam. "I just get paid."

I

Captain Piett stood at his usual stiff attention as the Slave I touched down in the hangar bay. Lieutenant Rhys joined him at his side, and assumed the same stance. The Slave I's ramp hissed open and even over the din of TIE fighters taking off and landing, Piett heard the prisoner before he saw her. "I GOING TO FUCKING MURDER YOU LIKE YOU MURDERED MY FRIENDS! I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU, FETT!" Boba Fett emerged. Thrown over his shoulder was a small, screaming, thrashing human girl with her wrists and ankles bound behind her and a bag over her head. Piett wrinkled his nose as the bounty hunter tracked the grime of a hundred different worlds through the bay as he came toward him.

"Where am I putting this?"

"Cellblock 27, Cell 113," Piett instructed.

"Who is that?" the girl yelled. "Where am I? Where did you take me, you fucking walking ration can? Who are these people?"

"Quiet girl!" Lieutenant Rhys snapped.

"Oooh," mocked the girl, still writhing and struggling in Fett's hold on his shoulder. "Fancy Core World accent! Wait..." Her head looked around as she tried to see through the bag. Only then did she hear the noises in the hangar, the roar of TIE fighters arriving and departing, the clank of stormtrooper boots against metal floors. "Is this a Destroyer? Am I on a Star Destroyer?"

"She's smart too," Fett grunted.

The girl thrashed and screamed even more, her volume bouncing off the walls of the hangar. "You MOTHERFUCKERS! YOU IMPERIAL SONS OF BITCHES!"

"Get her out of here, Fett!" Piett barked. He waved two troopers Fett's direction. "Accompany him to the cell block and make sure she's secured! For Force sake Fett, gag the girl!"

Fett half-shrugged. "I like hearing her scream." Followed by the troopers, Fett started toward the hangar opening, when he stopped. He pulled something out of his belt. "She had this on her. Might be important." He gave Piett a hand-held holocom. He turned back and strode to the door with his hard merchandise, who continued her bellowing tirade; "YOU'RE GOING DOWN, MOTHERFUCKERS. WE'RE EVERYWHERE, AND WE'RE WATCHING YOU, YOU MURDERING PIECES OF SHIT! WE'RE COMING FOR YOU! BURN IN HELL!! BURN IN HELLLLLL-" The girl's voice screeching finally faded out as Fett hoisted her out the hangar and down the corridor.

Piett rubbed his temple. He turned to his lieutenant. "Astounding that something so loud could come from a something so small."

"Indeed," agreed Lieutenant Rhys as he smoothed his tunic back into place. "And such language." He pushed his regulation-cut blonde hair back into his officer's cap. "For such idealists, I had no idea the Rebels were so fierce."

Piett turned the prisoner's confiscated holocom in his hand as he muttered, "We'll see how fierce she is." He pulled his own comlink from his pocket. "Piett to Bridge."

"Bridge here."

"Locate Lord Vader."

"Lord Vader is in Sector Six, Sir."

"Understood. Piett out." The grimace that pinched Piett's face did not escape Rhys's notice, and he knew it. "Say nothing, Rhys."

"Is that an order, Sir?" Rhys asked, fighting a grin.

"A suggestion."

"Then it would not be insubordinate of me to point out that it's the middle of the bloody day, Captain?"

Piett sighed, then turned to fully face him. "Rhys. How many officers has Lord Vader murdered since Baroness Sa'thraxxx boarded this ship?"

A pause. "None, Sir."

"Precisely. Despite your personal opinion of her, she is a Grand Inquisitor and Lord Vader's consort-"

"From what I gather, she is a Grand Inquisitor because she is Vader's consort," Rhys sneered. However, his smirk disintegrated under Piett's unamused stare.

"Baroness Sa'thraxxx was promoted from Chief Inquisitor to Grand Inquisitor by the Emperor himself two months ago, Lieutenant Rhys. She earned that promotion for her relentless dedication to the development of new interrogation techniques and prisoner deprogramming methods and by her substantial contributions to Imperial Intelligence. I suggest you regard my summation of her promotion, rather than those bandied around the sabaac table in the officer's club."

"Yes, sir. My apologies, sir. I didn't realize you were so fond of her."

"I'm not. I despise the woman. That doesn't mean I don't respect her." Piett, however, simpered a bit. "That being said, yes Rhys, she does serve other purposes. She is keeping Lord Vader relaxed and... well, I'm not sure 'happy' is a word that one could attribute to the Dark Lord. But she is keeping people alive, whether she knows it or not. For that, I don't care how or when she...'relaxes' him."

Rhys sighed. "Understood, Sir."

Piett turned to the remaining stormtrooper complement behind them. "Have the bounty hunter meet us in Sector Six." One nodded, and relayed the message to the cell block wardens through his helmet com. Piett then turned to Rhys, "You will accompany me, Lieutenant."

The lieutenant's brows raised. "To the Dragon's Den, Sir?"

Piett sighed. "Exactly."

Making their way out of the hangar, they boarded the nearest lift, with the four stormtroopers forming a square around the two officers. Rhys clasped his hands behind his back. "I don't understand, sir."

"What's that, Rhys? Piett asked.

"Lord Vader diverted the Executor to the Corellian Trade Spine to capture one Rebel mechanic. Whatever does he want with a mechanic?"

ii

The lift doors opened, and Piett's party stepped out into the sweeping arched corridors of Sector Six, Lylla Sa'thraxxx's private wing aboard The Executor. Or, as dubbed by officers made bold by winning hands and Corellian liquor passed around off-duty in the officer's club, "The Dragon's Den." Moments later, Boba Fett stepped out of the adjacent lift. Lieutenant Rhys looked around, as he had never been to this part of the Executor, although there had been no shortage of talk. And not just about The Dark Lord and the Baroness or the sector's architectural opulence never seen before on an Imperial Destroyer. The other subject of interest answered the door hail.

A young woman slipped through the door to greet them in the corridor. She wore a filmy teal robe that she held barely closed at her breasts. In the other hand she held a stemmed glass filled with a dark potent liqueur.

Rhys kept a stoic demeanor, despite the heat under his stiff collar. Palissa was the opposite of the Baroness in almost every aspect- petite, golden-skinned, with honey-colored curls, steel-grey eyes and a subtle hourglass figure, a fresh provincial beauty with little need for any cosmetic enhancement. She was soft-spoken and reserved for the most part, and obedient in the company of Sa'thraxxx and Vader. But obedience, Rhys knew, didn't mean dullness of mind- often, it was the exact opposite. There was a brightness in Palissa's eyes, a quiet intelligence there, and she was always alert and watching. Despite her outward serenity she emanated blossoming sensuality, albeit very different than her very experienced mistress. Palissa, unlike the Dragon's brazen and theatrical style, could ensnare a heart by a simple look from those big thick-lashed grey eyes. She was a favorite subject of off-duty conversation of almost every officer onboard, all of whom wished for just one night with her, including himself. But as fate so often toyed with men's hearts and especially their loins, she was only interested in one man; Rhys's commanding officer.

"Hello, Captain Piett," she practically purred.

Piett stiffened more so than military protocol instructed, and cleared his throat. "Lady Palissa.".

"How may I serve you today?"

Piett's eyes, quick and terse, stopped Rhys from any reaction. "I must see Lord Vader immediately."

"Lord Vader is unavailable at the moment, Captain."

"Lady Palissa," he began quietly, "This is a matter of extreme urgency." He became even more annoyed when Palissa sauntered toward the door intercom. "If Lord Vader finds out you barred his officers and withheld vital information from him-"

And with that, Palissa flicked the door com. Lylla's voice screamed a string of particularly foul Huttese profanity that filled the corridor from the speaker. To Piett, she sounded like a bloody demon: "EEE GATO FWEDINA! SH'LYEA DI! SH'LYEA DI,MI REGADDDA! MI REGADDDA, MI REGADDDA! AAAAAAAAHHHHH!!"

Vader's voice, rough, hoarse, and no less frightening: "CHU'RU'DA, SA'THRAXXX? CHU'RU'DA?"

Now in Basic: "YOU, MY LORD, I BELONG TO YOOOOOUUU! OOOOOH GAHHHHHHHHDS-"

Palissa switched the com off, and turned back to the officers with a smile.

"You were saying, Captain?"

Piett looked at the floor. Rhys, seeing crimson blotch his commander's face, leaned in and whispered, "The prisoner isn't going anywhere, sir. It will give her time to tire herself out."

The Captain looked up. "We'll wait here then."

The girl came toward Piett, letting her hand fall from the front of her robe. Although the gesture did not completely expose her, the robe opened just enough to show the crescents of the underside of her breasts. "I could stay out here with you, Captain Piett," she said, running a finger along his officer's insignia on his chest. "Keep you company, maybe?"

Piett looked away. "That won't be necessary, Lady."

Palissa's smile faded and disappointment flickered in her eyes. "Another time, then. Sir." She turned to go.

"May I request," Piett added abruptly, "alerting us when His Lordship will be... ready for our briefing." He paused and softened his tone. "Please?"

The smile returned. "Of course, Captain." With that, she went through the doors.

The party stood silent and immobile... until a snort came out of a stormtrooper's vocoder. "Sh'lyea di, mi regaddda." The other troopers stifled their laughter.

Piett whipped his glare at the trooper. "You have something to say, TK847?"

The trooper snapped to attention. "No sir."

"Care to tell me why you find that word so funny?"

"Because 'sh'lyea di mi regaddda"' means 'fuck me my Lord' in Huttese," Fett muttered, which just sent all the troopers into snickers.

"I know what it means, Master Fett!" Piett barked. He snapped his head over his shoulder at the troops. "Next one who laughs gets his entire unit assigned to sanitation for a month!" The troopers fell silent. He shot a glare at Fett. Fett just shrugged and sauntered away.

Rhys leaned into his commanding officer, and whispered. "Captain, permission to speak? Freely?"

Piett slid his eyes to his Lieutenant. "Granted."

"The Lady Palissa seems very fond of you, sir." Rhys waited for a response. He received none. He pressed further. "We have eighteen standard months left of this mission, sir. No one knows what tomorrow will bring. You are already the envy of every officer aboard, Captain. Enjoy her. There's no shame in it."

Just when Rhys thought Piett couldn't stiffen any more, he was proven wrong. "I am a married man, Rhys."

"And?"

"She's young enough to be my daughter."

"And?"

"There is the distinct possibility that Vader would kill me."

"Probably," Fett grunted. Again, Piett shot a look at the bounty hunter, surprised he could hear the conversation from that distance. Fett reached up and tapped his helmet, indicating the audio sensors he had installed in it. By the Force, how he detested Boba Fett.

They fell silent. Moments passed as they stared at the doors. Then Piett murmured very softly. "She shouldn't wear things like that in front of the men. It's unseemly. She was such a sweet girl when she first boarded, shy, demure." He sniffed. "This is Sa'thraxxx's influence. She should just be herself. Warmth, gentleness. Very appealing qualities indeed."

Rhys stared straight ahead. "I'll make sure she receives that information in the subtlest of ways, Captain."

"Thank you, Lieutenant."

Iii

Her back forced into a sharp arch in the bondage chair, her arms bound to its sides, her thighs forced up and wide and strapped to her ankles, Lylla screamed her orgasm into the domed ceiling. She had lost count of how many times she had come before just letting her body ride this vicious ecstasy for these last hours. Feeling his own release swelling in his balls after denying himself release, Vader pulled himself even further on top of her, crushing her under his massive weight, and thrusted deeper, faster, harder. He knew the action could strain his body to the point of cardiac arrest. But seeing her like this, bound, helpless, crying, begging, was worth the risk: She was his woman, his to use in any way he wished. A drop of saliva fell from his bared teeth to land on her cheek. Even as he ravaged her, Lylla met his fire-colored eyes with hers of star-core white, and bared her own.

There it was, the Dark Side, spreading from her reptilian pupils over her white eyes like an eclipse over the tundra of Hoth, engulfing him, feeding him, calling him home. He threw his head back in a roar as he erupted inside her, the orgasm ripping like a cannon blast through his broken body, muscles pulling out of the cybernetics of his limbs, tearing the flesh, causing as much agony as pleasure. But to him, they were the same and he welcomed both: It was the only time he felt as though he were still alive.

Lylla howled as his cybernetic hand crushed the edge of the durasteel chair right next to her head. But rather than being terrified, she let out a laugh bordering on manic. His strength and power were more intoxicating than any drug the galaxy could provide.

He slammed into her, once, twice, before the fire in his body smoldered out. He lowered his head into the curve of her shoulder. His tortured breathing was a storm in her ear, his body temperature dangerously high. Sensors signaled the medical system's computer of his physical distress. The air instantly cooled and the oxygen mix that flowed through the hyperbaric chamber was immediately recalibrated.

The chamber installed in Lylla's quarters was built much like his own private chamber, but with some exceptions. While his own chamber was for medical treatment and meditation, this one was created solely for sex. In the center stood a three meter tall cylindrical medical terminal, where the Dark Lord could recuperate while systems replenished his artificial and natural organs and redressed him into his armor. But the rest of the chamber was all Lylla.

Apparati for any human sexual position imaginable. A monstrous and indestructible durasteel bed draped with chains and rose-scented leather cuffs made from the endangered Unniriaariin. Plush mattresses, silks, pillows and rugs. For Vader, the atmosphere was more for her sensibilities than for his, but the idea for this modified chamber had been all hers. He showed his approval for her wicked mind and her insatiable body as much and as often his own would allow him.

Vader pressed his scarred lips into her ear. "My Dragon." he half-panted, half-growled.

"My Lord," she moaned, nuzzling his scarred cheek. They shared an intimate chuckle. He pulled his softening shaft out of her and slid off, the cybernetics of his limbs whirring softly. Slowly and with some strain, he moved away and entered the medical terminal.

Lylla tugged at the restraints of the chair. "Aren't you forgetting something?"

"No."

"Cruel."

"Yes." He looked back at her, as she still fought to calm her heavy breathing, her naked body strapped down and spread wide open, her slit swelled and glistening, her hair a wild scarlet halo stuck in sweat to her alabaster skin. His lips curled back. "I like you like this."

The glassine tube filled with medicated steam, soothing and cleansing his skin, while delicate arms of metal, gears, and cabling inserted feeding and hydration tubes into his flesh. Other arms drew his suit from its valet and began to install it around him, integrating the life-support and monitoring systems to organs both cyber and organic. Still another set pushed his breathing mask into position. Lylla sighed in relief when the slow measured hiss of his respirator replaced his rasping attempts to breathe: with his mask back on, any danger had passed.

Once the cylinder's door slid closed, the rest of the chamber depressurized. Lylla sucked the lighter air into her lungs. She found the thick humid air oppressive and difficult, just as he found the normal air she breathed. But the discomfort was offset by the deliciously high oxygen levels that only heightened her afterglow.

He raised his hand. Holographic screens emerged in a sphere all around him, data dashing across the displays at an impossible speed. With his enhanced eye screens and the Force however, Vader had no issue reading the data at such a pace, and he perused them with great interest.

Lylla groaned and let her head fall back, staring at the ceiling of the chamber. It was that time, wasn't it? The time Vader evaluated the progress of her many, many lessons for the week: Languages he assigned her to learn, political science, astrophysics, military strategy, technical manuals, philosophy, history, the list went on. But she was also allowed to select subjects of her own choosing, only on the condition that she complete her assigned tasks. That was no burden for her; she gorged on knowledge, and with the seemingly endless feast of it available to her on the Executor, her hunger would never be satiated. Yet his evaluations always made her anxious. The one thing Lylla would never be able to lose was his approval. She doubted that she could ever survive that.

He focused on a screen. "What is the escape velocity for a gas giant with the mass of 1.8986×1027 kg?" he asked, his mask and vocoder back in place, his voice a rich dark baritone once again.

"60.20 kilometers per second," she answered.

"And its moon that measures 1.314 m/s2?"

"2.025"

Another screen, another question: "Who ordered the bombing of Telos IV during which war, and for what reason?"

Lylla took a breath. "It was the Jedi Civil War, 8097 AHD. The bombing was ordered by Republic Admiral Saul Karath-"

"Who was?"

"A Republic defector. He ordered the bombing to prove his loyalty to the Sith."

"Very good." He swiped another screen over. "The year the Lothan Calendar was introduced?"

"7862 AHD. Vader please. Challenge me."

Vader meant to press her on the the history and strategy of the First Pius Dea Crusade, but something caught his notice. "You're learning Shirook."

"Yes."

"You are challenging yourself. A difficult language for humans."

"Not if you think like an animal. Which Wookies are."

He heard her disdain. "Then why learn it? It is inferior. What is the point of learning a series of grunts and growls devoid of any intellect?"