by George Lucas
Smoke was everywhere, substantial rumblings came from all directions at once, people were running and shouting. Electrical fires, steam explosions, cabin depressurizations, disruption of chain-of-command. Added to this, the continued bombardments by Rebel cruisers—smelling fear in the enemy—merely heightened the sense of hysteria that was already pervasive.
For the Emperor was dead. The central, powerful evil that had been the cohesive force to the Empire was gone; and when the dark side was this diffused, this nondirected—this was simply where it led.
Confusion.
Desperation.
Damp fear.
In the midst of this uproar, Luke had made it, somehow, to the main docking bay—where he was trying to carry the hulking deadweight of his father’s weakening body toward an Imperial shuttle. Halfway there, his strength finally gave out, though; and he collapsed under the strain.
Slowly he rose again. Like an automaton, he hoisted his father’s body over his shoulder and stumbled toward one of the last remaining shuttles.
Luke rested his father on the ground, trying to collect strength one last time, as explosions grew louder all around them. Sparks hissed in the rafters; one of the walls buckled, and smoke poured through a gaping fissure. The floor shook.
Vader motioned Luke closer to him. “Luke, help me take this mask off.”
Luke shook his head. “You’ll die.”
The Dark Lord’s voice was weary. “Nothing can stop that now. Just once let me face you without it. Let me look on you with my own eyes.”
Luke was afraid. Afraid to see his father as he really was. Afraid to see what person could have become so dark—the same person who’d fathered Luke, and Leia. Afraid to know the Anakin Skywalker who lived inside Darth Vader.
Vader, too, was afraid—to let his son see him, to remove this armored mask that had been between them so long. The black, armored mask that had been his only means of existing for over twenty years. It had been his voice, and his breath, and his invisibility—his shield against all human contact. But now he would remove it; for he would see his son before he died.
Together they lifted the heavy helmet from Vader’s head—inside the mask portion, a complicated breathing apparatus had to be disentangled, a speaking modulator and view-screen detached from the power unit in back. But when the mask was finally off and set aside, Luke gazed on his father’s face.
It was the sad, benign face of an old man. Bald, beardless, with a mighty scar running from the top of his head to the back of the scalp, he had unfocused, deepset, dark eyes, and his skin was pasty white, for it had not seen the sun in two decades. The old man smiled weakly; tears glazed his eyes, now. For a moment, he looked not too unlike Ben.
It was a face full of meanings, that Luke would forever recall. Regret, he saw most plainly. And shame. Memories could be seen flashing across it … memories of rich times. And horrors. And love, too.
It was a face that hadn’t touched the world in a lifetime. In Luke’s lifetime. He saw the wizened nostrils twitch, as they tested a first, tentative smell. He saw the head tilt imperceptibly to listen—for the first time without electronic auditory amplification. Luke felt a pang of remorse that the only sounds now to be heard were those of explosions, the only smells, the pungent sting of electrical fires. Still, it was a touch. Palpable, unfiltered.
He saw the old eyes focus on him. Tears burned Luke’s cheeks, fell on his father’s lips. His father smiled at the taste.
It was a face that had not seen itself in twenty years.
Vader saw his son crying, and knew it must have been at the horror of the face the boy beheld.
It intensified, momentarily, Vader’s own sense of anguish—to his crimes, now, he added guilt at the imagined repugnance of his appearance. But then this brought him to mind of the way he used to look—striking, and grand, with a wry tilt to his brow that hinted of invincibility and took in all of life with a wink. Yes, that was how he’d looked once.
And this memory brought a wave of other memories with it. Memories of brotherhood, and home. His dear wife. The freedom of deep space. Obi-Wan.
Obi-Wan, his friend … and how that friendship had turned. Turned, he knew not how—but got injected, nonetheless, with some uncaring virulence that festered, until … hold. These were memories he wanted none of, not now. Memories of molten lava, crawling up his back … no.
This boy had pulled him from that pit—here, now, with this act. This boy was good.
The boy was good, and the boy had come from him—so there must have been good in him, too. He smiled up again at his son, and for the first time, loved him. And for the first time in many long years, loved himself again, as well.
Suddenly he smelled something—flared his nostrils, sniffed once more. Wildflowers, that was what it was. Just blooming; it must be spring.
And there was thunder—he cocked his head, strained his ears. Yes, spring thunder, for a spring rain. To make the flowers bloom.
Yes, there … he felt a raindrop on his lips. He licked the delicate droplet … but wait, it wasn’t sweet water, it was salty, it was … a teardrop.
He focused on Luke once again, and saw his son was crying. Yes, that was it; he was tasting his boy’s grief—because he looked so horrible; because he was so horrible.
But he wanted to make it all right for Luke, he wanted Luke to know he wasn’t really ugly like this, not deep inside, not altogether. With a little self-deprecatory smile, he shook his head at Luke, explaining away the unsightly beast his son saw. “Luminous beings are we, Luke—not this crude matter.”
Luke shook his head, too—to tell his father it was all right, to dismiss the old man’s shame, to tell him nothing mattered now. And everything—but he couldn’t talk.
Vader spoke again, even weaker—almost inaudible. “Go, my son. Leave me.”
At that, Luke found his voice. “No. You’re coming with me. I’ll not leave you here. I’ve got to save you.”
“You already have, Luke,” he whispered. He wished, briefly, he’d met Yoda, to thank the old Jedi for the training he’d given Luke … but perhaps he’d be with Yoda soon, now, in the ethereal oneness of the Force. And with Obi-Wan.
“Father, I won’t leave you,” Luke protested. Explosions jarred the docking bay in earnest, crumbling one entire wall, splitting the ceiling. A jet of blue flame shot from a gas nozzle nearby. Just beneath it the floor began to melt.
Vader pulled Luke very close, spoke into his ear. “Luke, you were right … and you were right about me … Tell your sister … you were right.”
With that, he closed his eyes, and Darth Vader—Anakin Skywalker—died.
A tremendous explosion filled the back of the bay with fire, knocking Luke flat to the ground. Slowly, he rose again; and like an automaton, stumbled toward one of the last remaining shuttles.
* * *
The Millennium Falcon continued its swerving race through the labyrinth of power channels, inching ever-closer to the hub of the giant sphere—the main reactor. The Rebel cruisers were unloading a continuous bombardment on the exposed, unfinished superstructure of the Death Star, now, each hit causing a resonating shudder in the immense battle station, and a new series of catastrophic events within.
Commander Jerjerrod sat, brooding, in the control room of the Death Star, watching all about him crumble. Half of his crew were dead, wounded, or run off—where they hoped to find sanctuary was unclear, if not insane. The rest wandered ineffectually, or railed at the enemy ships, or fired all their guns at all sectors, or shouted orders, or focused desperately on a single task, as if that would save them. Or, like Jerjerrod, simply brooded.
He couldn’t fathom what he’d done wrong. He’d been patient, he’d been loyal, he’d been clever, he’d been hard. He was the commander of the greatest battle station ever built. Or, at least, almost built. He hated this Rebel Alliance, now, with a child’s hate, untempered. He’d loved it once—it had been the small boy he could bully, the enra
ged baby animal he could torture. But the boy had grown up now; it knew how to fight back effectively. It had broken its bonds.
Jerjerrod hated it now.
Yet there seemed to be little he could do at this point. Except, of course, destroy Endor—he could do that. It was a small act, a token really—to incinerate something green and living, gratuitously, meanly, toward no end but that of wanton destruction. A small act, but deliciously satisfying.
An aide ran up to him. “The Rebel fleet is closing, sir.”
“Concentrate all fire in that sector,” he answered distractedly. A console on the far wall burst into flame.
“The fighters in the superstructure are eluding our defense system, Commander. Shouldn’t we—”
“Flood sectors 304 and 138. That should slow them up.” He arched his eyebrows at the aide.
This made little sense to the aide, who had cause to wonder at the commander’s grasp of the situation. “But, sir …”
“What is the rotation factor to firing range on the Endor Moon?”
The aide checked the compuscreen. “Point oh two to moon target, sir. Commander, the fleet—”
“Accelerate rotation until moon is in range, and then fire on my mark.”
“Yes, sir.” The aide pulled a bank of switches. “Rotation accelerating, sir. Point oh one to moon target, sir. Sixty seconds to firing range. Sir, goodbye, sir.” The aide saluted, put the firing switch in Jerjerrod’s hand as another explosion shook the control room, and ran out the door.
Jerjerrod smiled calmly at the view-screen. Endor was starting to come out of the Death Star’s eclipse. He fondled the detonation switch in his hand. Point oh oh five to moon target. Screams erupted in the next room.
Thirty seconds to firing.
* * *
Lando was homing in on the reactor core shaft. Only Wedge was left, flying just ahead of him, and Gold Wing, just behind. Several TIE fighters still trailed.
These central twistings were barely two planes wide, and turned sharply every five or ten seconds at the speeds Lando was reaching. Another Imperial jet exploded against a wall; another shot down Gold Wing.
And then there were two.
Lando’s tail-gunners kept the remaining TIE fighters jumping in the narrow space, until at last the main reactor shaft came into view. They’d never seen a reactor that awesome.
“It’s too big, Gold Leader,” yelled Wedge. “My proton torpedoes won’t even dent that.”
“Go for the power regulator on the north tower,” Lando directed. “I’ll take the main reactor. We’re carrying concussion missiles—they should penetrate. Once I let them go, we won’t have much time to get out of here, though.”
“I’m already on my way out,” Wedge exclaimed.
He fired his torpedoes with a Corellian war-cry, hitting both sides of the north tower, and peeled off, accelerating.
The Falcon waited three dangerous seconds longer, then loosed its concussion missiles with a powerful roar. For another second the flash was too bright to see what had happened. And then the whole reactor began to go.
“Direct hit!” shouted Lando. “Now comes the hard part.”
The shaft was already caving in on top of him, creating a tunnel effect. The Falcon maneuvered through the twisting outlet, through walls of flame, and through moving shafts, always just ahead of the continuing chain of explosions.
Wedge tore out of the superstructure at barely sublight speed, whipped around the near side of Endor, and coasted into deep space, slowing slowly in a gentle arc, to return to the safety of the moon.
A moment later, in a destabilized Imperial shuttle, Luke escaped the main docking bay, just as that section began to blow apart completely. His wobbling craft, too, headed for the green sanctuary in the near distance.
And finally, as if being spit out of the very flames of the conflagration, the Millennium Falcon shot toward Endor, only moments before the Death Star flared into brilliant oblivion, like a fulminant supernova.
Han was binding Leia’s arm-wound in a fern dell when the Death Star blew. It captured everyone’s attention, wherever they happened to be—Ewoks, stormtrooper prisoners, Rebel troops—this final, turbulent flash of self-destruction, incandescent in the evening sky. The Rebels cheered.
Leia touched Han’s cheek. He leaned over, and kissed her; then sat back, seeing her eyes focused on the starry sky.
“Hey,” he jostled, “I’ll bet Luke got off that thing before it blew.”
She nodded. “He did. I can feel it.” Her brother’s living presence touched her, through the Force. She reached out to answer the touch, to reassure Luke she was all right. Everything was all right.
Han looked at her with deep love, special love. For she was a special woman. A princess not by title, but by heart. Her fortitude astounded him, yet she held herself so lightly. Once, he’d wanted whatever he wanted, for himself, because he wanted it. Now he wanted everything for her. Her everythings. And one thing he could see she wanted dearly, was Luke.
“You really care for him, don’t you?”
She nodded, scanning the sky. He was alive, Luke was alive. And the other—the Dark One—was dead.
“Well, listen,” Han went on, “I understand. When he gets back, I won’t stand in your way …”
She squinted at him, suddenly aware they were crossing wires, having different conversations. “What are you talking about?” she said. Then she realized what he was talking about. “Oh, no. No.” She laughed, “it’s not like that at all—Luke is my brother.”
Han was successively stunned, embarrassed, and elated. This made everything fine, just fine.
He took her in his arms, embraced her, lowered her back down into the ferns … and being extra careful of her wounded arm, lay down there beside her, under the waning glow of the burning Star.
* * *
Luke stood in a forest clearing before a great pile of logs and branches. Lying still and robed, atop the mound, was the lifeless body of Darth Vader. Luke set a torch to the kindling.
As the flames enveloped the corpse, smoke rose from the vents in the mask, almost like a black spirit, finally freed. Luke stared with a fierce sorrow at the conflagration. Silently, he said his last goodbye. He, alone, had believed in the small speck of humanity remaining in his father. That redemption rose, now, with these flames, into the night.
Luke followed the blazing embers as they sailed to the sky. They mixed, there, in his vision, with the fireworks the Rebel fighters were setting off in victory celebration. And these, in turn, mingled with the bonfires that speckled the woods and the Ewoks’ village—fires of elation, of comfort and triumph. He could hear the drums beating, the music weaving in the firelight, the cheers of brave reunion. Luke’s cheer was mute as he gazed into the fires of his own victory and loss.
A huge bonfire blazed in the center of the Ewok village square for the celebration that night. Rebels and Ewoks rejoiced in the warm firelight of the cool evening—singing, dancing, and laughing, in the communal language of liberation. Even Teebo and Artoo had reconciled, and were doing a little jig together, as others clapped in time to the music. Threepio, his regal days in this village over, was content to sit near the spinning little droid who was his best friend in the universe. He thanked the Maker that Captain Solo had been able to fix Artoo, not to mention Mistress Leia—for a man without protocol, Solo did have his moments. And he thanked the Maker this bloody war was over.
The prisoners had been sent on shuttles to what was left of the Imperial Fleet—the Rebel Star Cruisers were dealing with all that. Up there, somewhere. The Death Star had burned itself out.
Han, Leia, and Chewbacca stood off a short way from the revelers. They stayed close to each other, not talking; periodically glancing at the path that led into the village. Half waiting, half trying not to wait; unable to do anything else.
Until, at last, their patience was rewarded: Luke and Lando, exhausted but happy, stumbled down the path, out of the darkness,
into the light. The friends rushed to greet them. They all embraced, cheered, jumped about, fell over, and finally just huddled, still wordless, content with the comfort of each other’s touch.
In a while, the two droids sidled over as well, to stand beside their dearest comrades.
The fuzzy Ewoks continued in wild jubilation, far into the night, while this small company of gallant adventurers watched on from the sidelines.
For an evanescent moment, looking into the bonfire, Luke thought he saw faces dancing—Yoda, Ben; was it his father? He drew away from his companions, to try to see what the faces were saying; they were ephemeral, and spoke only to the shadows of the flames, and then disappeared altogether.
It gave Luke a momentary sadness but then Leia took his hand, and drew him back close to her and to the others, back into their circle of warmth, and camaraderie, and love.
The Empire was dead.
Long live the Alliance.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
GEORGE LUCAS is the noted filmmaker of American Graffiti, the Indiana Jones trilogy, the Star Wars saga, Willow, Tucker: The Man and His Dream, and the television series The Young Indiana Jones Chronicles. Mr. Lucas lives in Marin County.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
JAMES KAHN is a recovering emergency room doctor who has published a science fiction trilogy of his own, as well as a couple of murder mysteries and a handful of novelizations.
STAR WARS—The Expanded Universe
You saw the movies. You watched the cartoon series, or maybe played some of the video games. But did you know …
In The Empire Strikes Back, Princess Leia Organa said to Han Solo, “I love you.” Han said, “I know.” But did you know that they actually got married? And had three Jedi children: the twins, Jacen and Jaina, and a younger son, Anakin?
