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Now the medi-center doors slid open to the Emperor and his entourage, whom he gestured to remain outside as he stepped forward, cold yellow eyes locking mercilessly on Hallin."How is my Jedi, Medic?"

"He's um... st.. em.." Pull yourself together, man! "He... remains in a critical condition I'm afraid, Excellency. His injuries were very severe - the proximity of the blast caused blunt and penetrating trauma leading to internal haemorrhaging and hypovolaemic shock. He also has blunt trauma hairline fractures to the skull which caused early seizures. Subsequent scans have shown this to be under control, though we have no prognosis as to complications yet. He also suffered traumatic internal injuries from shrapnel, some of which are very serious - one piece punctured his trachea, causing acute damage and his consequent blood loss. The resultant dip in blood-pressure further restricted oxygen flow to the brain. As you know, he also has compound, comminuted and spiral fractures to his left side which have shattered the radius and humerus of his arm as well as the acromion, scapula and both clavicle. The final impact also caused spinal injuries to L-four and five, and it was probably this which dislocated his femur and ankle and broke several ribs, one of them puncturing his right lung."

"I did not ask what had happened," the Emperor ground out, "I asked his present condition."

Hallin took a heartbeat to calm himself; Not blinded by medical terms then. "In this kind of severe trauma, there are often secondary repercussions due to shock and resultant complications, and it's these which are causing problems now, making it difficult to stabilise the patient, though the team presently in attendance are extremely experienced, and we are trying our level best."

"Without any real effect, is that what you're trying to say?"

Hallin remained silent before that cutting observation.

Palpatine turned away, disgusted, to walk into the dim of the life-support bay and stand beside the boy, his father stepping back, straightening to bow deferentially, the act completely ignored by the Emperor.

There was a stillness to the boy, in body and mind- a stillness within the Force. He reached out to rest his hand on the boy's lacerated chest, spindly fingers spreading as he closed his eyes and searched... a tiny spark remained, neither dwindling nor trying to reignite. Palpatine opened his eyes, frustrated and apprehensive. Had all this work - all this expenditure of energy and time, been for nothing?

It would not be the end of his greater plan were the boy to die now, though it would delay it considerably. Still, the boy could be kept alive physically until his usefulness was at an end. But Palpatine didn't wish to lose that which he had invested so much in creating. He didn't wish to lose this power. He stared at his fallen Jedi for a long time, watching his chest rise and fall mechanically in the dim lights of the medical units. Finally he reached up to brush a long, curved nail down the deep, severe scar which ran from above his Jedi's blood-bruised eye down his cheek and through his pale lips, still swollen and split.

Slowly, he became aware of the boy's father stood silently nearby and lifted his head.

Vader watched the Emperor press his hand to the boy's chest, searching for his familiar presence in the Force, normally a rush of incandescent light, now little more than an ember, and he knew what his Master would say.

He watched him study the boy, lost in thought, seeing only his precious plans and his manipulations, afraid that he might lose them, and still he knew what the Emperor would say.

He watched him reach out to touch the angry, ugly gash which scarred his son's face from forehead to chin, burning Vader as if it were his own, and he waited for the words he knew would come.

He knew they'd come because he'd thought them himself a thousand times since he'd seen his son laid unconscious and injured, bloody and bruised, still as the grave.

Palpatine looked up to him, cold voice hard and gravelly, absolutely unyielding; "It should have been you."

He turned and walked from the room, leaving Vader to lower his head back to his son, wishing absolutely that it had been.

.

.

.

Hallin stood quietly by the bed, checking the readouts for the umpteenth time that day, willing some kind of change.

He gently tried to pry open The Commander's right eye, both the white of the anterior chamber and the iris still flooded completely red from internal haemorrhaging, blood darkening over the days but not yet clearing. This too had been injured by whatever had hit his face, the iris split and the lens damaged, causing fears that he may well lose sight in that eye. Specialists had reassured that it could be treated or replaced, and everyone was simply waiting for the blood to clear and the lens to reattach as the swelling went down, before they made a more accurate prognosis.

Everyone was simply waiting...

Fifteen days since the explosion, and everyone was still waiting. Fourteen days put Luke past the preferred norm, but still a long way from the upper limit of thirty-five - but he was now officially beginning to cut into his chances of a full recovery and increase his chances of regression into a vegetative state.

Hallin leaned in close and said loudly and clearly, "Wake up. You're doing this on purpose and it is not funny."

He checked Skywalker's left arm, still encased in strapped polycarbonate forms, long organic steel tension bars protruding from wrist to elbow and elbow to shoulder, taking the strain of broken bones too badly damaged to hold otherwise, another two maintaining tension across his shattered collarbones. A separate team of three surgical 'droids had taken almost seven hours to reassemble the shattered fragments of bone to save the arm whilst Hallin's team of surgical 'droids had concentrated on tracking down internal injuries in that first mammoth surgical session.

They'd replaced lost fragments with porous, lab-grown polyhusk, laminating the shattered remnants together and securing them with dozens of fine surgical pins, using external tension bars to relieve pressure on the delicate repairs, veneering the reassembled bones and joint surfaces with xenotol. They'd re-laid shredded muscle, scaled from the bone by the fury of the blast, packing the wound with more cultures where mass was lost before suturing the surface, using bacta-impregnated synthiflesh where nothing was left to suture then setting the arm in moulded, polycarbonate splints, sections cut free to allow for the bars set into the bone, two further external tension bars set into bloody, bruised skin over his collarbones, rising gently now with the rasp of the ventilator.

Nathan checked the tracheotomy tube which kept Luke's reconstructed trachea open and the fluid tap which drained his collapsed lung, remaining due to necessity, then he turned his eyes back to the organic steel pins and bars of Skywalker's arm, frowning. It was a mess, and would have been far better removed. Hallin had intended to do so - had already loaded the amputation program into the surgical 'droids when the Emperor's comm had stopped him. Now it would be at best a long, difficult recovery.

Luke's prosthetic right hand, damaged beyond repair, had been removed. Synthiflesh was already being cultivated over a new replacement prosthesis, the wet-wired connections which joined synthetic and organic nerves together carefully re-spliced and left inactive, bundled together in preparation for the fitting. The long, chromed locking bar which had been grafted into the bone when the first prosthesis had been fitted three years ago protruded unnervingly from the scarred stump, the bundle of wet-wire connections pulled back and taped to his arm.

In short, he looked dreadful - scarily so in fact, even to Hallin. He rubbed tiredly at his eyes, "You may have slept, my friend, but you're costing me way too much of the same. If you wouldn't mind waking up now, maybe I could get a little shut-eye?"