Trilogy

by George Lucas

  Threepio felt greatly relieved by this turn of events. He translated for Boushh. Everyone studied the bounty hunter closely for his reaction; guns were readied.

  Then Boushh released a switch on the thermal detonator, and it went dead. “Zeebuss,” he nodded.

  “He agrees,” Threepio said to Jabba.

  The crowd cheered; Jabba relaxed. “Come, my friend, join our celebration. I may find other work for you.” Threepio translated, as the party resumed its depraved revelry.

  Chewbacca growled under his breath as he was led away by the Gamorreans. He might have cracked their heads just for being so ugly, or to remind everyone present what a Wookiee was made of—but near the door he spotted a familiar face. Hidden behind a half-mask of pit-boar teeth was a human in the uniform of a skiff guard—Lando Calrissian. Chewbacca gave no sign of recognition; nor did he resist the guard who now escorted him from the room.

  Lando had managed to infiltrate this nest of maggots months earlier to see if it was possible to free Solo from Jabba’s imprisonment. He’d done this for several reasons.

  First, because he felt (correctly) that it was his fault Han was in this predicament, and he wanted to make amends—provided, of course, he could do so without getting hurt. Blending in here, like just one of the pirates, was no problem for Lando, though—mistaken identity was a way of life with him.

  Second, he wanted to join forces with Han’s buddies at the top of the Rebel Alliance. They were out to beat the Empire, and he wanted nothing more in his life now than to do just that. The Imperial police had moved in on his action once too often; so this was a grudge match, now. Besides, Lando liked being part of Solo’s crowd, since they seemed to be right up at the business end of all the action against the Empire.

  Third, Princess Leia had asked him to help, and he just never could refuse a princess asking for help. Besides, you never knew how she might thank you some day.

  Finally, Lando would have bet anything that Han simply could not be rescued from this place—and Lando just plain couldn’t resist a bet.

  So he spent his days watching a lot. Watching and calculating. That’s what he did now, as Chewie was led away—he watched, and then he faded into the stonework.

  The band started playing, led by a blue, flop-eared jizz-wailer named Max Rebo. Dancers flooded the floor. The courtiers hooted, and brewed their brains a bit more.

  Boushh leaned against a column, surveying the scene. His gaze swept coolly over the court, taking in the dancers, the smokers, the rollers, the gamblers … until it came to rest squarely on an equally unflappable stare from across the room. Boba Fett was watching him.

  Boushh shifted slightly, posturing with his weapon cradled like a loving child. Boba Fett remained motionless, an arrogant sneer all but visible behind his ominous mask.

  Pig guards led Chewbacca through the unlit dungeon corridor. A tentacle coiled out one of the doors to touch the brooding Wookiee.

  “Rheeaaahhr!” he screamed, and the tentacle shot back into its cell.

  The next door was open. Before Chewie fully realized what was happening, he was hurled forcefully into the cell by all the guards. The door slammed shut, locking him in darkness.

  He raised his head and let out a long, pitiful howl that carried through the entire mountain of iron and sand up to the infinitely patient sky.

  The throne room was quiet, dark, and empty as night filled its littered corners. Blood, wine, and saliva stained the floor, shreds of tattered clothing hung from the fixtures, unconscious bodies curled under broken furniture. The party was over.

  A dark figure moved silently among the shadows, pausing behind a column here, a statue there. He made his way stealthily along the perimeter of the room, stepping once over a snoring Yak Face. He never made a sound. This was Boushh, the bounty hunter.

  He reached the curtained alcove beside which the slab that was Han Solo hung suspended by a force field on the wall. Boushh looked around furtively, then flipped a switch near the side of the carbonite coffin. The humming of the force field wound down, and the heavy monolith slowly lowered to the floor.

  Boushh stepped up and studied the frozen face of the space pirate. He touched Solo’s carbonized cheek, curiously, as if it were a rare, precious stone. Cold and hard as diamond.

  For a few seconds he examined the controls at the side of the slab, then activated a series of switches. Finally, after one last, hesitant glance at the living statue before him, he slid the decarbonization lever into place.

  The casing began to emit a high-pitched sound. Anxiously Boushh peered all around again, making certain no one heard. Slowly, the hard shell that was covering the contours of Solo’s face started to melt away. Soon, the coating was gone from the entire front of Solo’s body, freeing his upraised hands—so long frozen in protest—to fall slackly to his sides. His face relaxed into what looked like nothing so much as a death-mask. Boushh extracted the lifeless body from its casing and lowered it gently to the floor.

  He leaned his gruesome helmet close to Solo’s face, listening closely for signs of life. No breath. No pulse. With a start, Han’s eyes suddenly snapped open, and he began to cough. Boushh steadied him, tried to quiet him—there were still guards who might hear.

  “Quiet!” he whispered. “Just relax.”

  Han squinted up at the dim form above him. “I can’t see … What’s happening?” He was, understandably, disoriented, after having been in suspended animation for six of this desert planet’s months—a period that was, to him, timeless. It had been a grim sensation—as if for an eternity he’d been trying to draw breath, to move, to scream, every moment in conscious, painful asphyxiation—and now suddenly he was dumped into a loud, black, cold pit.

  His senses assaulted him all at once. The air bit at his skin with a thousand icy teeth; the opacity of his sight was impenetrable; wind seemed to rush around his ears at hurricane volumes; he couldn’t feel which way was up; the myriad smells filling his nose made him nauseous, he couldn’t stop salivating, all his bones hurt—and then came the visions.

  Visions from his childhood, from his last breakfast, from twenty-seven piracies … as if all the images and memories of his life had been crammed into a balloon, and the balloon popped and they all came bursting out now, randomly, in a single moment. It was nearly overwhelming, it was sensory overload; or more precisely, memory overload. Men had gone mad, in these first minutes following decarbonization, hopelessly, utterly mad—unable ever again to reorganize the ten billion individual images that comprised a lifespan into any kind of coherent, selective order.

  Solo wasn’t that susceptible. He rode the surge of this tide of impressions until it settled down to a churning backwash, submerging the bulk of his memories, leaving only the most recent flotsam to foam on the surface; his betrayal by Lando Calrissian, whom he’d once called friend; his ailing ship; his last view of Leia; his capture by Boba Fett, the iron-masked bounty hunter who …

  Where was he now? What had happened? His last image was of Boba Fett watching him turn into carbonite. Was this Fett again now, come to thaw him for more abuse? The air roared in his ears, his breathing felt irregular, unnatural. He batted his hand in front of his face.

  Boushh tried to reassure him. “You’re free of the carbonite and have hibernation sickness. Your eyesight will return in time. Come, we must hurry if we’re to leave this place.”

  Reflexively Han grabbed the bounty hunter, felt at the grated face-mask, then drew back. “I’m not going anywhere—I don’t even know where I am.” He began sweating profusely as his heart once again churned blood, and his mind groped for answers. “Who are you, anyway?” he demanded suspiciously. Perhaps it was Fett after all.

  The bounty hunter reached up and pulled the helmet away from his head revealing, underneath, the beautiful face of Princess Leia.

  “One who loves you,” she whispered, taking his face tenderly in her still-gloved hands and kissing him long on the lips.

  II

/>   HAN STRAINED TO SEE HER, though he had the eyes of a newborn. “Leia! Where are we?”

  “Jabba’s palace. I’ve got to get you out of here quick.”

  He sat up shakily. “Everything’s a blur … I’m not going to be much help …”

  She looked at him a long moment, her blinded love—she’d traveled light-years to find him, risked her life, lost hard-won time needed sorely by the Rebellion, time she couldn’t really afford to throw away on personal quests and private desires … but she loved him.

  Tears filled her eyes. “We’ll make it,” she whispered.

  Impulsively, she embraced him and kissed him again. He, too, was flooded with emotion all at once—back from the dead, the beautiful princess filling his arms, snatching him from the teeth of the void. He felt overwhelmed. Unable to move, even to speak, he held her tightly, his blind eyes closed fast against all the sordid realities that would come rushing in soon enough.

  Sooner than that, as it happened. A repulsive squishing sound suddenly became all too obvious behind them. Han opened his eyes, but could still see nothing. Leia looked up to the alcove beyond, and her gaze turned to an expression of horror. For the curtain had been drawn away, and the entire area, floor to ceiling, was composed of a gallery of the most disgusting miscreants of Jabba’s court—gawking, salivating, wheezing.

  Leia’s hand shot up to her mouth.

  “What is it?” Han pressed her. Something obviously was terribly wrong. He stared into his own blackness.

  An obscene cackle rose from the other side of the alcove. A Huttese cackle.

  Han held his head, closed his eyes again, as if to keep away the inevitable for just one more moment. “I know that laugh.”

  The curtain on the far side was suddenly drawn open. There sat Jabba, Ishi Tib, Bib, Boba, and several guards. They all laughed, kept laughing, laughed to punish.

  “My, my, what a touching sight,” Jabba purred. “Han, my boy, your taste in companions has improved, even if your luck has not.”

  Even blind, Solo could slide into smooth talk easier than a spice-eater. “Listen, Jabba, I was on my way back to pay you when I got a little side-tracked. Now I know we’ve had our differences, but I’m sure we can work this out …”

  This time Jabba genuinely chuckled. “It’s too late for that, Solo. You may have been the best smuggler in the business, but now you’re Bantha fodder.” He cut short his smile and gestured to his guards. “Take him.”

  Guards grabbed Leia and Han. They dragged the Corellian pirate off, while Leia continued struggling where she was.

  “I will decide how to kill him later,” Jabba muttered.

  “I’ll pay you triple,” Solo called out. “Jabba, you’re throwing away a fortune. Don’t be a fool.” Then he was gone.

  From the rank of guards, Lando quickly moved forward, took hold of Leia, and attempted to lead her away.

  Jabba stopped them. “Wait! Bring her to me.”

  Lando and Leia halted in mid-stride. Lando looked tense, uncertain what to do. It wasn’t quite time to move yet. The odds still weren’t just right. He knew he was the ace-in-the-hole, and an ace-in-the-hole was something you had to know how to play to win.

  “I’ll be all right,” Leia whispered.

  “I’m not so sure,” he replied. But the moment was past; there was nothing else to be done now. He and Ishi Tib, the Birdlizard, dragged the young princess to Jabba.

  Threepio, who’d been watching everything from his place behind Jabba, could watch no more. He turned away in dread.

  Leia, on the other hand, stood tall before the loathsome monarch. Her anger ran high. With all the galaxy at war, for her to be detained on this dustball of a planet by this petty scumdealer was more outrageous than she could tolerate. Still, she kept her voice calm; for she was, in the end, a princess. “We have powerful friends, Jabba. You will soon regret this …”

  “I’m sure, I’m sure,” the old gangster rumbled with glee, “but in the meantime, I will thoroughly enjoy the pleasure of your company.”

  He pulled her eagerly to him until their faces were mere inches apart, her belly pressed to his oily snake skin. She thought about killing him outright, then and there. But she held her ire in check, since the rest of these vermin might have killed her before she could escape with Han. Better odds were sure to come later. So she swallowed hard and, for the time being, put up with this slimepot as best she could.

  Threepio peeked out momentarily, then immediately withdrew again. “Oh no, I can’t watch.”

  Foul beast that he was, Jabba poked his fat, dripping tongue out to the princess, and slopped a beastly kiss squarely on her mouth.

  Han was thrown roughly into the dungeon cell; the door crashed shut behind him. He fell to the floor in the darkness, then picked himself up and sat against the wall. After a few moments of pounding the ground with his fist, he quieted down and tried to organize his thoughts.

  Darkness. Well, blast it, blind is blind. No use wishing for moondew on a meteorite. Only it was so frustrating, coming out of deep-freeze like that, saved by the one person who …

  Leia! The star captain’s stomach dropped at the thought of what must be happening to her now. If only he knew where he was. Tentatively he knocked on the wall behind him. Solid rock.

  What could he do? Bargain, maybe. But what did he have to bargain with? Dumb question, he thought—when did I ever have to have something before I could bargain with it?

  What, though? Money? Jabba had more than he could ever count. Pleasures? Nothing could give Jabba more pleasure than to defile the princess and kill Solo. No, things were bad—in fact, it didn’t look like they could get much worse.

  Then he heard the growl. A low, formidable snarl from out of the dense blackness at the far corner of the cell, the growl of a large and angry beast.

  The hair on Solo’s arms stood on end. Quickly he rose, his back to the wall. “Looks like I’ve got company,” he muttered.

  The wild creature bellowed out an insane “Groawwwwr!” and raced straight at Solo, grabbing him ferociously around the chest, lifting him several feet into the air, squeezing off his breathing.

  Han was totally motionless for several long seconds—he couldn’t believe his ears. “Chewie, is that you!?”

  The giant Wookiee barked with joy.

  For the second time in an hour, Solo was overcome with happiness; but this was an entirely different matter. “All right, all right, wait a second, you’re crushing me.”

  Chewbacca put his friend down. Han reached up and scratched his partner’s chest; Chewie cooed like a pup.

  “Okay, what’s going on around here, anyway?” Han was instantly back on track. Here was unbelievably good fortune—here was someone he could make a plan with. And not only someone, but his most loyal friend in the galaxy.

  Chewie filled him in at length. “Arh arhaghh shpahrgh rahr aurowwwrahrah grop rahp rah.”

  “Lando’s plan? What is he doing here?”

  Chewie barked extensively.

  Han shook his head. “Is Luke crazy? Why’d you listen to him? That kid can’t even take care of himself, let alone rescue anyone.”

  “Rowr ahrgh awf ahraroww rowh rohngr grgrff rf rf.”

  “A Jedi Knight? Come on. I’m out of it for a little while and everybody gets delusions …”

  Chewbacca growled insistently.

  Han nodded dubiously in the blackness. “I’ll believe it when I see it—” he commented, walking stoutly into the wall. “If you’ll excuse the expression.”

  The iron main gate of Jabba’s palace scraped open harshly, oiled only with sand and time. Standing outside in the dusty gale, staring into the black cavernous entranceway, was Luke Skywalker.

  He was clad in the robe of the Jedi Knight—a cassock, really—but bore neither gun nor lightsaber. He stood loosely, without bravado, taking a measure of the place before entering. He was a man now. Wiser, like a man—older more from loss than from years. Loss of illusions, lo
ss of dependency. Loss of friends, to war. Loss of sleep, to stress. Loss of laughter. Loss of his hand.

  But of all his losses, the greatest was that which came from knowledge, and from the deep recognition that he could never un-know what he knew. So many things he wished he’d never learned. He had aged with the weight of this knowledge.

  Knowledge brought benefits, of course. He was less impulsive now. Manhood had given him perspective, a framework in which to fit the events of his life—that is, a lattice of space and time coordinates spanning his existence, back to earliest memories, ahead to a hundred alternative futures. A lattice of depths, and conundrums, and interstices, through which Luke could peer at any new event in his life, peer at it with perspective. A lattice of shadows and corners, rolling back to the vanishing point on the horizon of Luke’s mind. And all these shadow boxes that lent such perspective to things … well, this lattice gave his life a certain darkness.

  Nothing of substance, of course—and in any case, some would have said this shading gave a depth to his personality, where before it had been thin, without dimension—though such a suggestion probably would have come from jaded critics, reflecting a jaded time. Nonetheless, there was a certain darkness, now.

  There were other advantages to knowledge: rationality, etiquette, choice. Choice, of them all, was a true double-edged sword; but it did have its advantages.

  Furthermore he was skilled in the craft of the Jedi now, where before he’d been merely precocious.

  He was more aware now.

  These were all desirable attributes, to be sure; and Luke knew as well as anyone that all things alive must grow. Still, it carried a certain sadness, the sum of all this knowledge. A certain sense of regret. But who could afford to be a boy in times such as these?