by George Lucas
Chewie barked another direction at Han.
“Yeah, I know, I can see a lot better now—it must be all the blood rushing to my head.”
“Great,” Lando called up. “Now could you just grow a few inches taller?”
The deck gunners on the barge were lining up this human chain in their sights for the coup de grace, when Luke stepped in front of them, laughing like a pirate king. He lit his lightsaber before they could squeeze off a shot; a moment later they were smoking corpses.
A company of guards suddenly rushed up the steps from the lower decks, firing. One of the blasts shot Luke’s lightsaber from his hand. He ran down the deck, but was quickly surrounded. Two of the soldiers manned the deck gun again. Luke looked at his hand; the mechanism was exposed—the complex steel-and-circuit construction that replaced his real hand, which Vader had cut off in their last encounter.
He flexed the mechanism; it still worked.
The deck gunners fired at the skiff below. It hit to the side of the small boat. The shock wave almost knocked Chewie loose, but in tipping the boat further, Han was able to grab onto Lando’s wrist.
“Pull!” Solo yelled at the Wookiee.
“I’m caught!” screamed Calrissian. He looked down in panic to see one of the Sarlacc’s tentacles slowly wrap around his ankle. Talk about a wild card—they kept changing the rules every five minutes in this game. Tentacles! What kind of odds was anybody gonna give on tentacles? Very long, he decided with a fatalistic grunt; long, and sticky.
The deck gunners realigned their sights for the final kill, but it was all over for them before they could fire—Leia had commandeered the second deck gun, at the other end of the ship. With her first shot she blasted the rigging that stood between the two deck guns. With her second shot she wiped out the first deck gun.
The explosions rocked the great barge, momentarily distracting the five guards who surrounded Luke. In that moment he reached out his hand, and the lightsaber, lying on the deck ten feet away, flew into it. He leaped straight up as two guards fired at him—their laser bolts killed each other. He ignited his blade in the air and, swinging it as he came down, mortally wounded the others.
He yelled to Leia across the deck. “Point it down!”
She tilted the second deck gun into the deck and nodded to Threepio at the rail.
Artoo, beside him, beeped wildly.
“I can’t, Artoo!” Threepio cried. “It’s too far to jump … aaahhh!”
Artoo butted the golden droid over the edge, and then stepped off himself, tumbling head over wheels toward the sand.
Meanwhile, the tug-of-war was continuing between the Sarlacc and Solo, with Baron Calrissian as the rope and the prize. Chewbacca held Han’s leg, braced himself on the rail, and succeeded in pulling a laser pistol out of the wreckage with his other hand. He aimed the gun toward Lando, then lowered it, barking his concern.
“He’s right!” Lando called out. “It’s too far!”
Solo looked up. “Chewie, give me the gun.”
Chewbacca gave it to him. He took it with one hand, still holding on to Lando with the other.
“Now, wait a second, pal,” Lando protested, “I thought you were blind.”
“I’m better, trust me,” Solo assured him.
“Do I have a choice? Hey! A little higher, please.” He lowered his head.
Han squinted … pulled the trigger … and scored a direct hit on the tentacle. The wormy thing instantly released its grip, slithering back into its own mouth.
Chewbacca pulled mightily, drawing first Solo back into the boat—and then Lando.
Luke, meantime, gathered Leia up in his left arm; with his right he grabbed ahold of a rope from the rigging of the half blown-down mast, and with his foot kicked the trigger of the second deck gun—and jumped into the air as the cannon exploded into the deck.
The two of them swung on the swaying rope, all the way down to the empty, hovering escort skiff. Once there, Luke steered it over to the still-listing prison skiff, where he helped Chewbacca, Han, and Lando on board.
The Sail Barge continued exploding behind them. Half of it was now on fire.
Luke guided the skiff around beside the barge, where See-Threepio’s legs could be seen sticking straight up out of the sand. Beside them, Artoo-Detoo’s periscope was the only part of his anatomy visible above the dune. The skiff stopped just above them and lowered a large electromagnet from its compartment in the boat’s helm. With a loud clang, the two droids shot out of the sand and locked to the magnet’s plate.
“Ow,” groaned Threepio.
“beeeDOO dwEET!” Artoo agreed.
In a few minutes, they were all in the skiff together, more or less in one piece; and for the first time, they looked at one another and realized they were all in the skiff together, more or less in one piece. There was a great, long moment of hugging, laughing, crying, and beeping. Then someone accidentally squeezed Chewbacca’s wounded arm, and he bellowed; and then they all ran about, securing the boat, checking the perimeters, looking for supplies—and sailing away.
The great Sail Barge settled slowly in a chain of explosions and violent fires, and—as the little skiff flew quietly off across the desert—disappeared finally in a brilliant conflagration that was only partially diminished by the scorching afternoon light of Tatooine’s twin suns.
III
THE SANDSTORM OBSCURED EVERYTHING—sight, breath, thought, motion. The roar of it alone was disorienting, sounding like it came from everywhere at once, as if the universe were composed of noise, and this was its chaotic center.
The seven heroes walked step by step through the murky gale, holding on to one another so as not to get lost. Artoo was first, following the signal of the homing device which sang to him in a language not garbled by the wind. Threepio came next, then Leia guiding Han, and finally Luke and Lando, supporting the hobbling Wookiee.
Artoo beeped loudly, and they all looked up: vague, dark shapes could be seen through the typhoon.
“I don’t know,” shouted Han. “All I can see is a lot of blowing sand.”
“That’s all any of us can see,” Leia shouted back.
“Then I guess I’m getting better.”
For a few steps, the dark shapes grew darker; and then out of the darkness, the Millennium Falcon appeared, flanked by Luke’s X-wing and a two-seater Y-wing. As soon as the group huddled under the bulk of the Falcon, the wind died down to something more describable as a severe weather condition. Threepio hit a switch, and the gangplank lowered with a hum.
Solo turned to Skywalker. “I’ve got to hand it to you, kid, you were pretty good out there.”
Luke shrugged it off. “I had a lot of help.” He started toward his X-wing.
Han stopped him, his manner suddenly quieter, even serious. “Thanks for coming after me, Luke.”
Luke felt embarrassed for some reason. He didn’t know how to respond to anything but a wisecrack from the old pirate. “Think nothing of it,” he finally said.
“No, I’m thinkin’ a lot about it. That carbon freeze was the closest thing to dead there is. And it wasn’t just sleepin’, it was a big, wide awake Nothin’.”
A Nothing from which Luke and the others had saved him—put their own lives in great peril at his expense, for no other reason than that … he was their friend. This was a new idea for the cocky Solo—at once terrible and wonderful. There was jeopardy in this turn of events. It made him feel somehow blinder than before, but visionary as well. It was confusing. Once, he was alone; now he was a part.
That realization made him feel indebted, a feeling he’d always abhorred; only now the debt was somehow a new kind of bond, a bond of brotherhood. It was even freeing, in a strange way.
He was no longer so alone.
No longer alone.
Luke saw a difference had come over his friend, like a sea change. It was a gentle moment; he didn’t want to disturb it. So he only nodded.
Chewie growled affectio
nately at the young Jedi warrior, mussing his hair like a proud uncle. And Leia warmly hugged him.
They all had great love for Solo, but somehow it was easier to show it by being demonstrative to Luke.
“I’ll see you back at the fleet,” Luke called, moving toward his ship.
“Why don’t you leave that crate and come with us?” Solo nudged.
“I have a promise I have to keep first … to an old friend.” A very old friend, he smiled to himself in afterthought.
“Well, hurry back,” Leia urged. “The entire Alliance should be assembled by now.” She saw something in Luke’s face; she couldn’t put a name to it, but it scared her, and simultaneously made her feel closer to him. “Hurry back,” she repeated.
“I will,” he promised. “Come on, Artoo.”
Artoo rolled toward the X-wing, beeping a farewell to Threepio.
“Good-bye, Artoo,” Threepio called out fondly. “May the Maker bless you. You will watch out for him, won’t you, Master Luke?”
But Luke and the little droid were already gone, on the far side of the flyer.
The others stood without moving for a moment, trying to see their futures in the swirling sand.
Lando jarred them awake. “Come on, let’s get off this miserable dirt ball.” His luck here had been abominable; he hoped to fare better in the next game. It would be house rules for a while, he knew; but he might be able to load a few dice along the way.
Solo clapped him on the back. “Guess I owe you some thanks, too, Lando.”
“Figured if I left you frozen like that you’d just give me bad luck the rest of my life, so I might as well get you unfrozen sooner, as later.”
“He means ‘you’re welcome’.” Leia smiled. “We all mean you’re welcome.” She kissed Han on the cheek to say it personally one more time.
They all headed up the ramp of the Falcon. Solo paused just before going inside and gave the ship a little pat. “You’re lookin’ good, old girl. I never thought I’d live to see you again.”
He entered at last, closing the hatch behind him.
Luke did the same in the X-wing. He strapped himself into the cockpit, started up the engines, felt the comfortable roar. He looked at his damaged hand: wires crossed aluminum bones like spokes in a puzzle. He wondered what the solution was. Or the puzzle, for that matter. He pulled a black glove over the exposed infrastructure, set the X-wing’s controls, and for the second time in his life, he rocketed off his home planet, into the stars.
* * *
The Super Star Destroyer rested in space above the half-completed Death Star battle station and its green neighbor, Endor. The Destroyer was a massive ship, attended by numerous smaller warships of various kinds, which hovered or darted around the great mother ship like children of different ages and temperaments: medium range fleet cruisers, bulky cargo vessels, TIE fighter escorts.
The main bay of the Destroyer opened, space-silent. An Imperial shuttle emerged and accelerated toward the Death Star, accompanied by four squads of fighters.
Darth Vader watched their approach on the viewscreen in the control room of the Death Star. When docking was imminent, he marched out of the command center, followed by Commander Jerjerrod and a phalanx of Imperial stormtroopers, and headed toward the docking bay. He was about to welcome his master.
Vader’s pulse and breathing were machine-regulated, so they could not quicken; but something in his chest became more electric around his meetings with the Emperor; he could not say how. A feeling of fullness, of power, of dark and demon mastery—of secret lusts, unrestrained passion, wild submission—all these things were in Vader’s heart as he neared his Emperor. These things and more.
When he entered the docking bay, thousands of Imperial troops snapped to attention with a momentous clap. The shuttle came to rest on the pod. Its ramp lowered like a dragon’s jaw, and the Emperor’s royal guard ran down, red robes flapping, as if they were licks of flame shooting out of the mouth to herald the angry roar. They poised themselves at watchful guard in two lethal rows beside the ramp. Silence filled the great hall. At the top of the ramp, the Emperor appeared.
Slowly, he walked down. A small man was he, shriveled with age and evil. He supported his bent frame on a gnarled cane and covered himself with a long, hooded robe—much like the robe of the Jedi, only black. His shrouded face was so thin of flesh it was nearly a skull; his piercing yellow eyes seemed to burn through all at which they stared.
When the Emperor reached the bottom of the ramp, Commander Jerjerrod, his generals, and Lord Vader all kneeled before him. The Supreme Dark Ruler beckoned to Vader, and began walking down the row of troops.
“Rise, my friend, I would talk with you.”
Vader rose, and accompanied his master. They were followed in procession by the Emperor’s courtiers, the royal guard, Jerjerrod, and the Death Star elite guard, with mixed reverence and fear.
Vader felt complete at the Emperor’s side. Though the emptiness at his core never left him, it became a glorious emptiness in the glare of the Emperor’s cold light, an exalted void that could encompass the universe. And someday would encompass the universe … when the Emperor was dead.
For that was Vader’s final dream. When he’d learned all he could of the dark power from this evil genius, to take that power from him, seize it and keep its cold light at his own core—kill the Emperor and devour his darkness, and rule the universe. Rule with his son at his side.
For that was his other dream—to reclaim his boy, to show Luke the majesty of this shadow force: why it was so potent, why he’d chosen rightly to follow its path. And Luke would come with him, he knew. That seed was sown. They would rule together, father and son.
His dream was very close to realization, he could feel it; it was near. Each event fell into place, as he’d nudged it, with Jedi subtlety; as he’d pressed, with delicate, dark strength.
“The Death Star will be completed on schedule, my master,” Vader breathed.
“Yes, I know,” replied the Emperor. “You have done well, Lord Vader … and now I sense you wish to continue your search for the young Skywalker.”
Vader smiled beneath his armored mask. The Emperor always knew the sense of what was in his heart; even if he didn’t know the specifics. “Yes, my master.”
“Patience, my friend,” the Supreme Ruler cautioned. “You always had difficulty showing patience. In time, he will seek you out … and when he does, you must bring him before me. He has grown strong. Only together can we turn him to the dark side of the Force.”
“Yes, my master.” Together, they would corrupt the boy—the child of the father. Great, dark glory. For soon, the old Emperor would die—and though the galaxy would bend from the horror of that loss, Vader would remain to rule, with young Skywalker at his side. As it was always meant to be.
The Emperor raised his head a degree, scanning all the possible futures. “Everything is proceeding as I have foreseen.”
He, like Vader, had plans of his own—plans of spiritual violation, the manipulation of lives and destinies. He chuckled to himself, savoring the nearness of his conquest: the final seduction of the young Skywalker.
Luke left his X-wing parked at the edge of the water and carefully picked his way through the adjoining swamp. A heavy mist hung in layers about him. Jungle steam. A strange insect flew at him from out of a cluster of hanging vines, fluttered madly about his head, and vanished. In the undergrowth, something snarled. Luke concentrated momentarily. The snarling stopped. Luke walked on.
He had terribly ambivalent feelings about this place. Dagobah. His place of tests, of training to be a Jedi. This was where he’d truly learned to use the Force, to let it flow through him to whatever end he directed it. So he’d learned how caretaking he must be in order to use the Force well. It was walking on light; but to a Jedi it was as stable as an earthen floor.
Dangerous creatures lurked in this swamp; but to a Jedi, none were evil. Voracious quicksand mires waited, s
till as pools; tentacles mingled with the hanging vines. Luke knew them all, now, they were all part of the living planet, each integral to the Force of which he, too, was a pulsing aspect.
Yet there were dark things here, as well—unimaginably dark, reflections of the dark corners of his soul. He’d seen these things here. He’d run from them, he’d struggled with them; he’d even faced them. He’d vanquished some of them.
But some still cowered here. These dark things.
He climbed around a barricade of gnarled roots, slippery with moss. On the other side, a smooth, unimpeded path led straight in the direction he wanted to go; but he did not take it. Instead, he plunged once more into the undergrowth.
High overhead, something black and flapping approached, then veered away. Luke paid no attention. He just kept walking.
The jungle thinned a bit. Beyond the next bog, Luke saw it—the small, strangely-shaped dwelling, its odd little windows shedding a warm yellow light in the damp rain forest. He skirted the mire, and crouching low, entered the cottage.
Yoda stood smiling inside, his small green hand clutching his walking stick for support. “Waiting for you I was.” He nodded.
He motioned Luke to sit in a corner. The boy was struck by how much more frail Yoda’s manner seemed—a tremor to the hand, a weakness to the voice. It made Luke afraid to speak, to betray his shock at the old master’s condition.
“That face you make,” Yoda crinkled his tired brow cheerfully. “Look I so bad to young eyes?”
He tried to conceal his woeful countenance, shifting his position in the cramped space. “No, Master … of course not.”
“I do, yes, I do!” The tiny Jedi Master chuckled gleefully. “Sick I’ve become. Yes. Old and weak.” He pointed a crooked finger at his young pupil. “When nine hundred years old you reach, look as good you will not.”
