Trilogy

by George Lucas

  The man gestured toward the display screen, which showed a computer portrait of the battle station. “Pardon me for asking, sir, but what good are our snub fighters going to be against that?”

  Dodonna considered. “Well, the Empire doesn’t think a one-man fighter is any threat to anything except another small ship, like a TIE fighter, or they would have provided tighter screens. Apparently they’re convinced that their defensive weaponry can fend off any light attacks.

  “But an analysis of the plans provided by Princess Leia has revealed what we think is a weakness in the station’s design. A big ship couldn’t get near it, but an X- or Y-wing fighter might.

  “It’s a small thermal exhaust port. Its size belies its importance, as it appears to be an unshielded shaft that runs directly into the main reactor system powering the station. Since this serves as an emergency outlet for waste heat in the event of reactor overproduction, its usefulness would be eliminated by particle shielding. A direct hit would initiate a chain reaction that would destroy the station.”

  Mutterings of disbelief ran through the room. The more experienced the pilot, the greater his expressed disbelief.

  “I didn’t say your approach would be easy,” Dodonna admonished them. He gestured at the screen. “You must maneuver straight in down this shaft, level off in the trench, and skim the surface to—this point. The target is only two meters across. It will take a precise hit at exactly ninety degrees to reach the reactor systematization. And only a direct hit will start the complete reaction.

  “I said the port wasn’t particle-shielded. However, it is completely ray-shielded. That means no energy beams. You’ll have to use proton torpedoes.”

  A few of the pilots laughed humorlessly. One of them was a teenaged fighter jockey seated next to Luke who bore the unlikely name of Wedge Antilles. Artoo Detoo was there also, seated next to another Artoo unit who emitted a long whistle of hopelessness.

  “A two-meter target at maximum speed—with a torpedo, yet,” Antilies snorted. “That’s impossible even for the computer.”

  “But it’s not impossible,” protested Luke. “I used to bulls-eye womp-rats in my T-16 back home. They’re not much bigger than two meters.”

  “Is that so?” the rakishly uniformed youth noted derisively. “Tell me, when you were going after your particular varmint, were there a thousand other, what did you call it, ‘womp-rats’ armed with power rifles firing up at you?” He shook his head sadly.

  “With all that firepower on the station directed at us, this will take a little more than barnyard marksmanship, believe me.”

  As if to confirm Antilles’ pessimism, Dodonna indicated a string of lights on the ever-changing schematic. “Take special note of these emplacements. There’s a heavy concentration of firepower on the latitudinal axes, as well as several dense circum-polar clusters.

  “Also, their field generators will probably create a lot of distortion, especially in and around the trench. I figure that maneuverability in that sector will be less than point three.” This produced more murmurs and a few groans from the assembly.

  “Remember,” the General went on, “you must achieve a direct hit. Yellow squadron will cover for Red on the first run. Green will cover Blue on the second. Any questions?”

  A muted buzz filled the room. One man stood, lean and handsome—too much so, it seemed, to be ready to throw away his life for something as abstract as freedom.

  “What if both runs fail? What happens after that?”

  Dodonna smiled tightly. “There won’t be any ‘after that.’ ” The man nodded slowly, understandingly, and sat down. “Anyone else?” Silence now, pregnant with expectation.

  “Then man your ships, and may the force be with you.”

  Like oil draining from a shallow pot, the seated ranks of men, women, and machines rose and flowed toward the exits.

  Elevators hummed busily, lifting more and more deadly shapes from buried depths to the staging area in the primary temple hangar as Luke, Threepio, and Artoo Detoo walked toward the hangar entrance.

  Neither the bustling flight crews, nor the pilots performing final checkouts, nor the massive sparks thrown off as power couplings were disconnected captured Luke’s attention at the moment. Instead, it was held by the activity of two far more familiar figures.

  Solo and Chewbacca were loading a pile of small strongboxes onto an armored landspeeder. They were completely absorbed with this activity, ignoring the preparations going on all around them.

  Solo glanced up briefly as Luke and the robots approached, then returned to his loading. Luke simply watched sadly, conflicting emotions careening confusedly off one another inside him. Solo was cocky, reckless, intolerant, and smug. He was also brave to a fault, instructive, and unfailingly cheery. The combination made for a confusing friend—but a friend nonetheless.

  “You got your reward,” Luke finally observed, indicating the boxes. Solo nodded once. “And you’re leaving, then?”

  “That’s right, kid. I’ve got some old debts to pay off, and even if I didn’t, I don’t think I’d be fool enough to stick around here.” He eyed Luke appraisingly. “You’re pretty good in a scrape, kid. Why don’t you come with us? I could use you.”

  The mercenary gleam in Solo’s eyes only made Luke mad. “Why don’t you look around you and see something besides yourself for a change? You know what’s going to happen here, what they’re up against. They could use a good pilot. But you’re turning your back on them.”

  Solo didn’t appear upset at Luke’s tirade. “What good’s a reward if you’re not around to spend it? Attacking that battle station isn’t my idea of courage—more like suicide.”

  “Yeah … Take care of yourself, Han,” Luke said quietly, turning to leave. “But I guess that’s what you’re best at, isn’t it?” He started back into the hangar depths, flanked by the two ’droids.

  Solo stared after him, hesitated, then called, “Hey, Luke … may the force be with you.” Luke looked back to see Solo wink at him. He waved—sort of. Then he was swallowed up by moving mechanics and machinery.

  Solo returned to his work, lifted a box—and stopped, to see Chewbacca gazing fixedly at him.

  “What are you staring at, gruesome? I know what I’m doing. Get back to work!”

  Slowly, still eyeing his partner, the Wookiee returned to the task of loading the heavy crates.

  Sorrowful thoughts of Solo vanished when Luke saw the petite, slim figure standing by his ship—the ship he had been granted.

  “Are you sure this is what you want?” Princess Leia asked him. “It could be a deadly reward.”

  Luke’s eyes were filled with the sleek, venomous metal shape. “More than anything.”

  “Then what’s wrong?”

  Luke looked back at her and shrugged. “It’s Han. I thought he’d change his mind. I thought he’d join us.”

  “A man must follow his own path,” she told him, sounding now like a Senator. “No one can choose it for him. Han Solo’s priorities differ from ours. I wish it were otherwise, but I can’t find it in my heart to condemn him.” She stood on tiptoes, gave him a quick, almost embarrassed kiss, and turned to go. “May the force be with you.”

  “I only wish,” Luke murmured to himself as he started back to his ship, “Ben were here.”

  So intent was he on thoughts of Kenobi, the Princess, and Han that he didn’t notice the larger figure which tightly locked on to his arm. He turned, his initial anger gone instantly in astonishment as he recognized the figure.

  “Luke!” the slightly older man exclaimed. “I don’t believe it! How’d you get here? Are you going out with us?”

  “Biggs!” Luke embraced his friend warmly. “Of course I’ll be up there with you.” His smile faded slightly. “I haven’t got a choice, anymore.” Then he brightened again. “Listen, have I got some stories to tell you …”

  The steady whooping and laughing the two made was in marked contrast to the solemnity with which th
e other men and women in the hangar went about their business. The commotion attracted the attention of an older, warworn man known to the younger pilots only as Blue Leader.

  His face wrinkled with curiosity as he approached the two younger men. It was a face scorched by the same fire that flickered in his eyes, a blaze kindled not by revolutionary fervor but by years of living through and witnessing far too much injustice. Behind that fatherly visage a raging demon fought to escape. Soon, very soon, he would be free to let it loose.

  Now he was interested in these two young men, who in a few hours were likely to be particles of frozen meat floating about Yavin. One of them he recognized.

  “Aren’t you Luke Skywalker? Have you been checked out on the Incom T-65?”

  “Sir,” Biggs put in before his friend could reply, “Luke’s the best bush pilot in the outer-rim territories.”

  The older man patted Luke reassuringly on the back as they studied his waiting ship. “Something to be proud of. I’ve got over a thousand hours in an Incom skyhopper myself.” He paused a moment before going on.

  “I met your father once when I was just a boy, Luke. He was a great pilot. You’ll do all right out there. If you’ve got half your father’s skill, you’ll do a damn sight better than all right.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’ll try.”

  “There’s not much difference control-wise between an X-wing T-65,” Blue Leader went on, “and a skyhopper.” His smile turned ferocious. “Except the payload’s of a somewhat different nature.”

  He left them and hurried toward his own ship. Luke had a hundred questions to ask him, and no time for even one.

  “I’ve got to get aboard my own boat, Luke. Listen, you’ll tell me your stories when we come back. All right?”

  “All right. I told you I’d make it here someday, Biggs.”

  “You did.” His friend was moving toward a cluster of waiting fighters, adjusting his flight suit. “It’s going to be like old times, Luke. We’re a couple of shooting stars that can’t be stopped!”

  Luke laughed. They used to reassure themselves with that cry when they piloted starships of sandhills and dead logs behind the flaking, pitted buildings of Anchorhead … years and years ago.

  Once more Luke turned toward his ship, admiring its deadly lines. Despite Blue Leader’s assurances, he had to admit that it didn’t look much like an Incom skyhopper. Artoo Detoo was being snuggled into the R-2 socket behind the fighter cockpit. A forlorn metal figure stood below, watching the operation and shuffling nervously about.

  “Hold on tight,” See Threepio was cautioning the smaller robot. “You’ve got to come back. If you don’t come back, who am I going to have to yell at?” For Threepio, that query amounted to an overwhelming outburst of emotion.

  Artoo beeped confidently down at his friend, however, as Luke mounted the cockpit entry. Farther down the hangar he saw Blue Leader already set in his acceleration chair and signaling to his ground crew. Another roar was added to the monstrous din filling the hangar area as ship after ship activated its engines. In that enclosed rectangle of temple the steady thunder was overpowering.

  Slipping into the cockpit seat, Luke studied the various controls as ground attendants began wiring him via cords and umbilicals into the ship. His confidence increased steadily. The instrumentation was necessarily simplified and, as Blue Leader had indicated, much like his old skyhopper.

  Something patted his helmet, and he glanced left to see the crew chief leaning close. He had to shout to be heard above the deafening howl of multiple engines. “That R-2 unit of yours seems a little beat up. Do you want a new one?”

  Luke glanced briefly back at the secured ’droid before replying. Artoo Detoo looked like a permanent piece of the fighter.

  “Not on your life. That ’droid and I have been through a lot together. All secure, Artoo?” The ’droid replied with a reassuring beep.

  As the ground chief jumped clear, Luke commenced the final checkout of all instruments. It slowly occurred to him what he and the others were about to attempt. Not that his personal feelings could override his decision to join them. He was no longer an individual, functioning solely to satisfy his personal needs. Something now bound him to every other man and woman in this hangar.

  All around him, scattered scenes of good-bye were taking place—some serious, some kidding, all with the true emotion of the moment masked by efficiency. Luke turned away from where one pilot left a mechanic, possibly a sister or wife, or just a friend, with a sharp, passionate kiss.

  He wondered how many of them had their own little debts to settle with the Empire. Something crackled in his helmet. In response, he touched a small lever. The ship began to roll forward, slowly but with increasing speed, toward the gaping mouth of the temple.

  XII

  LEIA ORGANA SAT SILENTLY BEFORE the huge display screen on which Yavin and its moons were displayed. A large red dot moved steadily toward the fourth of those satellites. Dodonna and several other field commanders of the Alliance stood behind her, their eyes also intent on the screen. Tiny green flecks began to appear around the fourth moon, to coalesce into small clouds like hovering emerald gnats.

  Dodonna put a hand on her shoulder. It was comforting. “The red represents the progress of the Imperial battle station as it moves deeper into Yavin’s system.”

  “Our ships are all away,” a Commander behind him declared.

  A single man stood alone in the cylindrical hold, secured to the top of a rapier-thin tower. Staring through fixed-mount electrobinoculars, he was the sole visible representative of the vast technology buried in the green purgatory below.

  Muted cries, moans, and primeval gurglings drifted up to him from the highest treetops. Some were frightening, some less so, but none were as indicative of power held in check as the four silvery starships which burst into view above the observer. Keeping a tight formation, they exploded through humid air to vanish in seconds into the morning cloud cover far above. Sound-shadows rattled the trees moments later, in a forlorn attempt to catch up to the engines which had produced them.

  Slowly assuming attack formations combining X- and Y-wing ships, the various fighters began to move outward from the moon, out past the oceanic atmosphere of giant Yavin, out to meet the technologic executioner.

  The man who had observed the byplay between Biggs and Luke now lowered his glare visor and adjusted his half-automatic, half-manual gunsights as he checked the ships to either side of him.

  “Blue boys,” he addressed his intership pickup, “this is Blue Leader. Adjust your selectors and check in. Approaching target at one point three …”

  Ahead, the bright sphere of what looked like one of Yavin’s moons but wasn’t began to glow with increasing brightness. It shone with an eerie metallic glow utterly unlike that of any natural satellite. As he watched the giant battle station make its way around the rim of Yavin, Blue Leader’s thoughts traveled back over the years. Over the uncountable injustices, the innocents taken away for interrogation and never heard from again—the whole multitude of evils incurred by an increasingly corrupt and indifferent Imperial government. All those terrors and agonies were concentrated, magnified, represented by the single bloated feat of engineering they were approaching now.

  “This is it, boys,” he said to the mike. “Blue Two, you’re too far out. Close it up, Wedge.”

  The young pilot Luke had encountered in the temple briefing room glanced to starboard, then back to his instruments. He executed a slight adjustment, frowning. “Sorry, boss. My ranger seems to be a few points off. I’ll have to go on manual.”

  “Check, Blue Two. Watch yourself. All ships, stand by to lock S-foils in attack mode.”

  One after another, from Luke and Biggs, Wedge and the other members of Blue assault squadron, the replies came back. “Standing by …”

  “Execute,” Blue Leader commanded, when John D. and Piggy had indicated they were in readiness.

  The double wings on the X-wing f
ighters split apart, like narrow seeds. Each fighter now displayed four wings, its wing-mounted armament and quadruple engines now deployed for maximum firepower and maneuverability.

  Ahead, the Imperial station continued to grow. Surface features became visible as each pilot recognized docking bays, broadcast antennae, and other man-made mountains and canyons.

  As he neared that threatening black sphere for the second time, Luke’s breathing grew faster. Automatic life-support machinery detected the respiratory shift and compensated properly.

  Something began to buffet his ship, almost as if he were back in his skyhopper again, wrestling with the unpredictable winds of Tatooine. He experienced a bad moment of uncertainty until the calming voice of Blue Leader sounded in his ears.

  “We’re passing through their outer shields. Hold tight. Lock down freeze-floating controls and switch your own deflectors on, double front.”

  The shaking and buffeting continued, worsened. Not knowing how to compensate, Luke did exactly what he should have: remained in control and followed orders. Then the turbulence was gone and the deathly cold peacefulness of space had returned.

  “That’s it, we’re through,” Blue Leader told them quietly. “Keep all channels silent until we’re on top of them. It doesn’t look like they’re expecting much resistance.”

  Though half the great station remained in shadow, they were now near enough for Luke to be able to discern individual lights on its surface. A ship that could show phases matching a moon … once again he marveled at the misplaced ingenuity and effort which had gone into its construction. Thousands of lights scattered across its curving expanse gave it the appearance of a floating city.

  Some of Luke’s comrades, since this was their first sight of the station, were even more impressed. “Look at the size of that thing!” Wedge Antilles gasped over his open pickup.

  “Cut the chatter, Blue Two,” Blue Leader ordered. “Accelerate to attack velocity.”