by Jason Fry
“I hadn’t thought of it that way,” Threepio said. “I for one will be much more comfortable when the Rebellion wins, then.”
On this flight the churning infinity of faster-than-light travel brought Luke no comfort—his anxieties seemed to press in on him despite his attempts to empty his mind of them. What had the Force been trying to tell him back there above Devaron? Should he have waited for the strange feeling to return?
Perhaps the Force was trying to tell him that he was supposed to be learning to command its power instead of fetching communications logs. Learning the ways of the Force was what his father had done with his life—and the legacy Ben Kenobi had preserved for two decades on Tatooine, passing it along with the lightsaber that Luke’s father had wanted him to have. And there he was worrying about proper Whiforlan fluting.
What if the Force was trying to stop him from making a mistake?
The rebel scatter program brought Luke’s Y-wing out of hyperspace in the Tertiary Usaita system, which was little more than a sparse collection of dust and rock around a red dwarf, marked by a navigational beacon left there thousands of years before by a long-dead Republic survey team.
It was a lonely place—but not, as it turned out, an empty one.
“Unknown fighter, this is the Kreuge’s Revenge,” a voice said in Luke’s cockpit. “This is a restricted system. Shut down all flight systems and prepare for inspection.”
“Artoo, calculate the next jump and get us out of here!” Luke said.
Artoo whistled an acknowledgment, and Luke threw the control yoke hard right, grimacing at how sluggishly the Y-wing responded. His sensor scope lit up, and his eyes took in the information: three TIE fighters, backed up by a Razor-class frigate.
“Oh no!” squealed Threepio. “We’re in danger! Artoo, do something!”
“Hang on, Threepio,” Luke said sternly.
He turned to the navigational heading Artoo gave him and opened up the Y-wing’s throttle, trying to coax every bit of speed out of the heavy fighter. But moments later brilliant flashes of light erupted around them and the Y-wing shuddered.
The three TIEs raced overhead, and Luke squeezed the trigger, peppering them with laser fire as they wheeled around for another pass.
“How long, Artoo?” he asked.
Artoo whistled and hooted.
“A minute?” Threepio shrieked. “What do you mean you’re triangulating our position? This isn’t the time for stargazing, you miserable lump of circuits!”
Luke rolled the Y-wing to port, eyes jumping from his long-range scanners to the TIEs angling in on him. He tried to summon the Force, to let it guide his hands. But Threepio’s chatter and the flashes of laser fire kept throwing off his concentration. The Y-wing’s starboard shields flared as the TIEs’ lasers struck home, and alarms began to blare.
“Artoo, divert the power,” Luke said, hammering at the Imperial fighters with the Y-wing’s turret guns. The more maneuverable Imperials were wheeling in all directions now, swooping in on their slower target.
Focus, Luke told himself. Use the Force.
He rolled the Y-wing over to starboard, trying to protect the vulnerable shield, and mashed down on the triggers. One of the TIEs vanished in a cloud of flames. But almost immediately, another fighter streaked up from beneath him, its laser cannons raking the Y-wing’s hull. The starboard shield flickered and died—and with it, Luke felt his connection to the Force slipping.
The frigate was peppering them with blasts now, too, bouncing the fighter up and down. Luke squeezed off a flurry of shots at one of the remaining fighters, forcing its pilot to abandon his attack run. But his wingman took advantage of Luke’s distraction to drop behind the Y-wing. Green flashes lit up space as the TIE fighter’s blasts ripped through the starboard engine. Red lights blinked frantically on Luke’s control panel.
“Try to increase the power!” he yelled, firing desperately at the two fighters hunting him, and weaving left and right in an effort to throw off the Imperials’ aim.
The starboard engine’s power levels climbed, then plummeted. Laser fire knocked the fighter sideways. The TIE that had hit them streaked away from the Y-wing, cut right, then turned and raced back toward them, aiming at the battered fighter’s defenseless starboard side.
“This is the end,” Threepio moaned.
Luke fired at the TIE, but the Imperial pilot refused to deviate from his course. He kept coming, waiting to line up the shot that would destroy the engine and leave the Y-wing helpless in space. Luke tried to turn away, but the fighter was barely responding.
I’m sorry, Ben, he thought. I’m sorry, Father. I tried my best.
He braced for impact—
—and was shoved back into his chair as the Y-wing shot into the safety of hyperspace.
Artoo beeped, perhaps a bit smugly.
“Well, you certainly took your time about it,” Threepio grumbled.
As the two droids continued their long-running argument, Luke exhaled in mingled gratitude and disbelief. But there was no time to waste. The Y-wing was barely flying—they’d been saved by the tough old fighter’s ability to soak up damage, but they needed to find a spaceport in which to make repairs. And they needed to do it quickly.
Luke rejected Artoo’s first choice for a starport, then the next three. All were either too far away or tightly controlled by the Empire.
“That’s enough, Artoo,” he said. “We’re going back to Devaron.”
Artoo whistled an objection.
“But, Master Luke, our mission—” Threepio began.
“Send an encrypted message to the fleet,” he said. “Tell them I’ll resume the retrieval mission after we repair our fighter.”
Artoo started to hoot at him, but Luke shook his head.
“No, my mind’s made up—take us to Devaron.”
That’s where the Force was telling me to go, Luke thought. This time I’m going to listen.
THE Y-WING FLEW LOW over the thick jungles of Devaron, a ribbon of smoke trailing from its damaged engine. Luke had shushed the droids and sought to clear his mind of doubts and questions, letting the Force direct the fighter’s flight. It had guided him into the atmosphere on the far side of the planet from the capital and its Imperial garrison, then across the outback. Below him, the jungle was broken by outcroppings of stone that rose high above the surrounding trees, crowned with enormous vines and creepers. The light of the late-afternoon sun turned the rivers into threads of brilliant orange and pink.
Luke turned the Y-wing to starboard. Ahead was another pair of rocky pillars.…No, that wasn’t correct, Luke saw now. This was something different. The rocky pillars were artificial structures—towers made by intelligent hands.
Luke eased up on the throttle, and something began banging inside the battered engine. The tops of the towers were jagged, stabbing into the sky, and their sides were pocked with craters.
That’s blast damage, Luke thought. From heavy weapons. They really took a beating.
“Artoo, look for a place to set down near those towers,” Luke said. “This is where we’re supposed to go. I know it is.”
Artoo hooted urgently. Luke glanced at the screen and frowned.
“I understand you can barely keep the fighter in the air,” he said. “But this is important.”
“Master Luke, are you sure that’s the wisest choice?” Threepio asked. “Artoo says he can land our ship, but doubts he can get it airborne again. We must find a place for repairs.”
Luke sighed. Threepio had a point. Surely the Force wasn’t telling him to maroon himself in the middle of the jungle.
“You’re right—it will have to wait,” he said. “Scan the area for signs of settlement—and listen for activity on Imperial communications channels.”
The town was little more than a cluster of buildings atop a plateau in the jungle, with a landing field whose single beacon winked in the gloom of dusk. A massive spire of bare gray stone rose a hundred meters into the
air on one side of the town, crowning a steep, forested slope. On the other side of the plateau the trees had been cleared and the hill carved into terraced farmers’ fields.
Luke flew low over the town—his fighter’s data file said it was called Tikaroo—and peered down at the landing field.
“I mostly see atmosphere fliers down there,” he said. “No sign of any Imperial ships. But there are a couple of star yachts parked off to the side. That one looks like a SoroSuub 3000. That’s a pretty fancy ship to find near a farm town in the middle of nowhere.”
“Perhaps the last harvest was particularly rewarding,” said Threepio.
Luke shook his head.
“Farmers don’t spend their credits on star yachts,” he said. “They save their money so they don’t starve when they have a bad year.”
Artoo hooted.
“Oh, switch off,” Threepio said. “Like you know anything about agriculture, you oversize screwdriver.”
Luke decided that solving this particular mystery would have to wait—his choice was to set down in Tikaroo or crash in the jungle. He activated the retrorockets and set the Y-wing down with a jolt, followed by a hiss of coolant venting from some punctured reservoir.
The air was wet and ripe with vegetation. Light spilled from the open doorway of a squat building at the end of the landing field. Luke descended from the cockpit and patted the Y-wing’s hull gratefully, then strolled across the landing field as the droids extricated themselves from the fighter.
A Devaronian male met him at the door, wiping his hands on a rag. Behind him, a teenage Devaronian girl looked up from a cluttered workbench, scowling beneath her polarized goggles.
“Name’s Korl Marcus,” Luke said after a tense moment in which he couldn’t remember what it said on his false identification. “I’m a hyperspace scout. My droids and I ran into a little pirate trouble a couple of systems over, and we need some repairs.”
“I’m Kivas,” the Devaronian said. “That’s my daughter, Farnay. Let me get a light and we’ll take a look at your problem.”
Kivas fetched a work light, and Luke followed him across the landing field, where the droids were waiting.
“Hello, sir,” Threepio said. “I am See-Threepio, human-cyborg relations. And this is—”
“No need to be so formal, Threepio,” Luke said hastily. “Let the man work.”
Kivas let the light play over the Y-wing’s twisted hull and peered into the craters blasted into its plating. The holes in the starboard engine were fringed with beads where laser blasts had liquefied the metal.
“Pirate trouble, eh?” he said with a smirk. “Should probably report that to the Imperial governor.”
“I probably should,” Luke said, giving Threepio a warning glance. “Did I mention I have credits?”
“Always good to hear,” Kivas said. “I can repair this with what I have in the shop. But it will take three or four days—and six thousand credits. All in advance.”
“Six thousand?” Threepio gasped. “Master L—um, Korl, this man does not run a reputable business. I suggest we—”
“That will do, Threepio,” Luke said. “Six thousand? Really?”
“It would cost less if I had replacement parts shipped in from the capital,” Kivas said with a shrug. “But then there’d be a lot of paperwork. Permits, bureaucrats asking questions, that sort of thing.”
“Oh, there’s enough paperwork in the galaxy as it is,” Luke said smoothly, reaching for his credit chip. “Let’s not trouble the authorities—surely the Empire has more important things to worry about than repairs to a scout ship.”
“I’ll get your fighter under cover, then,” Kivas said, showing a mouthful of pointed teeth. “Town’s that way—you can take a room at the depot with the others.”
The depot was a rambling building in the center of Tikaroo, assembled seemingly at random from wood, stone, prefab plastic buildings, and shipping containers emblazoned with the faded logos of Corellian import-export firms. A long porch looked out over shuttered shops and food stalls. Landspeeders, speeder bikes, and a trio of squat, green-skinned pack beasts awaited their owners out front.
Luke followed the buzz of conversation and music through a pair of swinging doors and into a wide common room crowded with tables, mismatched chairs, and couches, many of which had seen better decades. Faces turned his way as he entered, with Threepio following uncertainly behind. There were men and women from a dozen different species, though at least half of those gathered were Devaronians. A few wore rich clothes, but most were clad in worn, practical garments.
“Hey, Porst! Fresh meat!” one of the Devaronians yelled as Luke made his way across the room to a counter crowded with bottles of brightly colored liquid. Some of the liquids were fizzing or roiling in a way he found alarming. “Man needs a room! And probably a guide!”
A Rodian missing one of his antennae began pounding on a buzzer set into the top of the counter, grinning at Luke. After a moment an old Devaronian with an eye patch emerged from a curtained alcove, looking Luke up and down. He named an exorbitant price for a room.
“That’s fine,” Luke said before Threepio could risk another short circuit. Both Porst and the onlookers seemed slightly disappointed—apparently they’d been looking forward to a lively bout of haggling.
“Next customer was mine—we rolled a chance-cube for it, remember?” the Rodian warned the young Devaronian standing next to him at the counter. Then he turned to Luke.
“Name’s Opato, good sir—and I’m the best guide in Tikaroo,” he said. “Bagged pikhrons on my last three hunts. Satisfaction guaranteed or you get a third of your credits back.”
“What’s a—” Luke began.
“My green friend here couldn’t guide you out of a sack if you cut the bottom out of it first,” the young Devaronian interrupted.
“Sir, be wary!” Opato exclaimed. “This one’s the biggest liar in Tikaroo—and that’s saying something!”
The Devaronian smiled at Luke.
“You need a native—someone like Duna Hilaris. That’s me. I’ve been exploring this jungle since I was a boy. I’m famous for knowing every pool, sand pit, and shady glade the pikhrons like to visit.”
“Glad to hear it,” Luke said. “But what’s a pikhron?”
When the laughter showed no signs of stopping, Threepio sidled up to Luke.
“My data file on this planet is basic, but apparently pikhrons are native herbivores. Their skins and teeth fetch considerable prices on the black market, as hunting them is forbidden by Imperial decree.”
“Lots of things are forbidden around here but happen anyway,” Duna said. “Don’t make your master worry, tin man. We’ve got an arrangement with the governor.”
“I’m not much of a hunter, but I could use a guide,” Luke said. “I want to visit the towers I saw on my way in. The ruined ones?”
The crowd fell silent, even the clank of utensils on dinner plates stopping. The music burbled merrily along uninterrupted. A puzzled Luke looked from face to face.
“Eedit’s off limits,” Porst said.
Luke smiled. “I thought many things were forbidden in Tikaroo but happened anyway.”
The joke fell flat—Opato took a sudden interest in his drink, Duna checked his comlink, and the other guides turned away.
“Was it something I said?” Luke asked.
“No one goes to Eedit,” Porst said. “You’d bring ruin to us all, messing with that place. It would risk everything we have left.”
“Why? I don’t understand.”
“Because it’s cursed, you brainless outlander,” growled a massive, mean-looking slab of humanoid muscle. “Filled with the ghosts of the—”
Porst made a slashing motion across his throat, his single eye cold and staring.
“All you need to know is to stay away from it,” he said, handing Luke his room key. “Number twelve upstairs. House rules are on the back of the door, but here’s the most important one: I don�
�t tolerate troublemakers. And you’re already on my bad side, outlander.”
“Think I’ll turn in, then,” Luke said. “Maybe we can make a fresh start tomorrow.”
Porst just turned away.
The room was simple but clean, with a balcony overlooking Tikaroo. Luke stared up at the stars while Threepio fussed over the room’s power connectors, certain he and Artoo would be incinerated the second they tried to recharge.
No moons were in the sky. Luke couldn’t remember if Devaron had any.
“I for one will be grateful to be back with the Alliance,” Threepio said. “I know you’re disappointed not to find a guide, Master Luke, but no doubt it’s for the best. I almost think I’d prefer getting shot at by the Empire to a suicidal trek into jungles prowled by savage beasts.”
Luke just smiled. He wasn’t afraid of jungle beasts, and he didn’t believe in curses. He’d reach the towers. He just hadn’t figured out how yet.
HE WAS SWIMMING in dark water, beneath two pale moons in a sky spangled with stars.
He moved through the water with smooth, easy strokes, alternately gliding along the surface and dipping beneath it. When he got tired he surfaced and treaded water gently until the ripples he’d created ebbed, turning the water into a mirror of the night sky. He looked down at the water and saw his face looking back—except it wasn’t his face. His reflection had black eyes and mottled gray-and-green skin wreathed by tentacles.
He dove, powerful kicks of his feet taking him deep beneath the water. He inhaled water but didn’t choke—the oxygen in it revitalized him. He smiled. It was peaceful down there below the surface—a realm of pleasantly cool water and muted sound.
A rock wall loomed ahead of him, with a dark oval cut in the middle of it. He swam down into it, then up through a twisting corridor. His feet found purchase on stone steps, and his head broke the surface of the water. At the top of the stairs stood a human in dark gray and brown robes. He was holding a lightsaber, which he held out with a smile.
Luke awoke with a start, sitting up in the bed in his room in the Tikaroo depot. It was dark, and the night thrummed with the song of insects. Threepio sat on a bench against the wall, his photoreceptors dark as he recharged, but Luke saw the red light of Artoo’s processing indicator turn his way, followed by a curious beep.
