by Ken Liu
© & TM 2017 Lucasfilm Ltd.
All rights reserved. Published by Disney • Lucasfilm Press, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Disney • Lucasfilm Press, 1101 Flower Street, Glendale, California 91201.
ISBN 978-1-368-00124-3
Designed by Leigh Zieske
Visit the official Star Wars website at: www.starwars.com.
For Esther and Miranda. May the Force be with you, always.
—K. L.
For Dawn, thank you for all your care, love and patience. You are my Force.
—J. G. J.
LUKE SKYWALKER?
I THOUGHT HE WAS A MYTH.
—REY
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
The Wayward Current
The Myth Buster
Interlude One
The Starship Graveyard
Interlude Two
Fishing in the Deluge
Interlude Three
I, Droid
Interlude Four
The Tale of Lugubrious Mote
Interlude Five
Big Inside
Dreams and Heroes
THE LONG-HAUL TRANSPORT BARGE Wayward Current was almost through its six-week journey from the wild, sparsely populated Mooshie Cluster to glitzy, flamboyant Canto Bight on the planet Cantonica. The deckhands gathered on the mess deck had just come off their watch; they were there to eat, socialize, and play games before catching a few hours of sleep.
They made a motley crew—some humanoid and human, a few reptilian and avian, and even a few droids. Almost all the deckhands were still short of full maturity by the standards of whatever species they belonged to. That was important, because Tuuma the Hutt, captain of the Wayward Current, insisted on having a crew the majority of which were still so enchanted by the boundless possibilities of the future that they would accept next to no pay in exchange for a chance to see the galaxy.
Ulina, the third mate, drained her pungent, tongue-burning Olo tea as a loud moan echoed through the dimly lit corridors of the barge, like the last dregs of steam departing from the furnace of an old moisture farm. She scanned through the dozen or so deckhands gathered around the low rusty table, wolfing down their food, and settled on a lanky fifteen-year-old girl with cropped hair.
“Sounds like the feisty filly in the corner stall is having trouble sleeping.” The patch over Ulina’s left eye glowed red with annoyance. “Did you do the endurance exercises with her in the double-gravity chamber today? You know fathiers need heavy exercise when they’re cooped up on a ship like this.”
“Sorry,” said Teal, the fifteen-year-old. “I had to clean the reflux combusters—”
“No excuses,” said Ulina. “Each of these fathiers is worth more than three years of your wages. Go fix your mistake.”
“Do I get only half rations next meal?” asked Teal timidly.
“You’ve been making a lot of mistakes on this trip. Almost late for some chore every day.” Though her tone was severe, the red glow in Ulina’s eye patch faded to a gentler orange. “But…we’ve been shorthanded. If you finish and come back quickly, I might not even remember that you had to do your chores out of order. I’m old, as some of you keep reminding me.”
The young deckhands around the table chuckled at this. No one knew where Ulina was from, but it was said that she was older than all the deckhands put together. The gruff third mate had a kind streak in her that was all too rare among the desperadoes who plied the long-haul trade routes to eke out a living.
“If you dawdle and the first mate runs into you when he makes his rounds, though, you’ll have to go hungry. He’s got a much better memory than I.”
Chastened but also relieved, Teal stuffed her bread and nutrient paste tube into her pockets as she got up from the table.
“You’re acting like we’re going to steal your food,” said G’kolu, a twelve-year-old Anlari boy whose fleshy horns were only as long as a human finger. The horns curled to show his amusement. “You’re not going to enjoy eating that in the stinking fathier stalls anyway. Leave it here. I promise it will be here when you get back.”
“That’s not why—” Teal stopped.
“What, are you planning on sharing it with the fathiers?” asked Jane, a girl from Tanto Winn, where everyone had green eyes. “That bit of bread isn’t even enough to fill the gap between their teeth. They won’t appreciate it.”
Teal shook her head. “None of your business.” She turned and ran off.
The echoes of her footsteps bounced against the bulkheads and partitions, drawing more groans and neighs from other fathiers, massive towering creatures of incredible speed and grace—when not confined in the cramped quarters of a spaceship. They stamped their four legs, each as big around as a tree trunk and a few meters tall, and the din they made took a while to subside.
G’kolu’s horns twisted pensively, but he said nothing. The first rule of being on a deep-space crew was that you respected the privacy of others. Everyone had secrets.
Ulina turned to the rest of the deckhands. “Better get some sleep. We’ll be in port by morning watch, and it’s going to be a long day of unloading in Canto Bight.”
“I’m thinking we need another serving of vegicus tails,” said G’kolu. “Even the captain has to agree that we need energy to do the work, right?” The boy could wheedle for more food better than anyone else on the crew.
Ulina was about to object, but Dwoogan, the ship’s cook, was already firing up the fryer on the other side of the counter. Dwoogan was a tall muscular woman whose scarred face hinted at a mysterious past. Somehow she always managed to turn the most revolting ingredients into something delicious—even the vegicus, the vermin that lived in the bilges and storage nooks of long-haul spaceships. On long voyages with limited supplies, a resourceful cook like Dwoogan sometimes turned to them as extra protein supplements.
Ulina grunted noncommittally, but the young deckhands could tell by the pulsing green glow of her eye patch that she had assented.
A tantalizing oily aroma soon filled the mess deck. The deckhands let out a loud cheer that set off more groans from the fathiers in their pens in the ship’s bowels.
“I wonder if we’ll see anyone famous in Canto Bight,” said G’kolu, his horns standing up eagerly. The city’s immense fathier racetracks and crowded casinos were legendary.
“Who do you want to see?” asked Dwoogan. She dropped handfuls of vegicus tails into the boiling oil, making everyone’s mouths water as the greasy scent filled their noses.
“The jockeys!” said Jane, her green eyes wide, as if she were already in the grandstands.
“The holo stars!” said G’kolu.
“The people who have so much money that they wear their clothes only once before throwing them away,” said Tyra, a thirteen-year-old human girl whose family had scavenged in junkyards all over the galaxy.
“The heroes of the New Republic!” said Naldy, a skinny boy with striped skin who wouldn’t tell anyone where he was from.
“Any heroes in particular?” asked Dwoogan. Her tone was affectionate, playful. She stirred the tails with a ladle and didn’t flinch as drops of hot oil splashed against her powerful arms.
“Luke Skywalker,” said Naldy.
“But he hasn’t been seen in years,” said G’kolu, his horns making a skeptical half turn.
“Doesn’t mean that he wouldn’t be in Canto Bight,” said Naldy defe
nsively. “He rode tauntauns, didn’t he? I bet he would make an amazing jockey.”
“I bet he’d rather be in the piloting races,” said G’kolu. “Way more money in those. I heard that he once made the Kessel Run in under twelve parsecs.”
“You’re thinking of someone else,” said Tyra. She and G’kolu shared the same quarters and bickered like siblings. “Skywalker was the one who once took down twenty AT-ATs with his lightsaber.”
The other young deckhands chimed in.
“My mother told me it was two hundred! And he rode a tauntaun while doing it.”
“Tauntauns are even harder to ride than fathiers—”
“My uncle said he used magic to smash two Star Destroyers together—”
“It wasn’t magic. It was just good piloting. And it was six Star Destroyers—”
“Twee-BOOP eek eek eek—”
“That’s a name I haven’t heard in a while,” said Ulina. The children and droids instantly quieted. Ulina’s eye patch pulsed from amber to magenta. “There are lots of stories about Luke Skywalker. Some of them might even be true.”
The deckhands hung on every word. Ulina had seen far more of the galaxy than the rest of them, and there seemed to be nothing she didn’t know.
“Tell us one?” pleaded G’kolu, his horns leaning forward eagerly.
“It’s late,” said Ulina.
The deckhands would not accept this.
“Just one! Please?”
“We’ll work extra hard tomorrow.”
“Dwee BOOP tweetweetwee?” Even the ship’s ancient droid custodian, G2-X, joined the chorus as he set the platter of fried vegicus tails on the table.
Dwoogan came over and stood at the edge of the group, her arms crossed in front of her, a grin on her face.
Ulina looked at her. “What are you so pleased about?”
“Every night, you say no. And they manage to drag a story out of you anyway.”
“Since you’re mocking my ability to maintain discipline, I’m going to assign you the task of telling the story tonight.” Ulina strained to keep the smile off her face but was not having an easy time of it.
The deckhands cheered again as they reached grubby fingers for the platter of hot vegicus tails. A story from Dwoogan was an even better treat.
“All right. As it happens, I did once hear a story about Luke Skywalker….”
I’M OUT OF IT FOR A LITTLE
WHILE, AND EVERYONE GETS
DELUSIONS OF GRANDEUR!
—HAN SOLO
I DIDN’T START MY LIFE as a cook, but you’ve probably guessed that already from these scars on my face. There was a time when I could make the Kessel Run in less than fifteen parsecs and piloted my own blockade skipper against the Trade Federation—but those are stories for another evening.
One day, after a particularly unpleasant bit of cat and mouse with two Imperial customs patrols, I stopped in Xu’hu for a bit of much-needed R & R. I landed on the shore of Vette Lake and made my way to the Dande Donjon, by reputation a welcoming watering hole for anyone who wanted to play games of chance, drink well-brewed spice tea, swap tales with strangers who didn’t probe into your past, and most important of all, pay in untraceable credits.
A group of disreputable-looking characters sat on a circle of benches by the spice tea bar.
“Double shot, light spice, don’t hold back on the bubbles,” a woman shouted to the droid bartender. She was dressed in an engineer’s overalls, and the lines on her leathery face spoke of long years spent struggling to get obstinate machines to obey. After a second, she added, “And add all the blue milk powder you can dissolve in it.”
The droid beeped in acknowledgment and began to prepare the sweet foamy concoction. Even I smacked my lips in anticipation.
Though I had never been to the Donjon before, I knew right away that this was the right crowd for me. There are as many types of drinking establishments as there are sentient species in the galaxy. In some places, customers could duel with blasters without anyone batting an eye. I, on the other hand, desired the company of people who preferred blue milk to mindspice.
“I’ll have the same,” I called out.
A few in the crowd glanced up at me and nodded in acknowledgment. A Togruta sitting with his back to me grunted and shifted on his bench, making room. I envied his ability to use his hornlike montrals to sense my presence.
The droid bartender brought my beverage over after a minute. I breathed in the luscious, tangy aroma and took a tentative sip, savoring the delightful sensation of tiny bubbles of sugary air bursting on my tongue. Pure bliss.
Only then did I begin to pay attention to the chatter around me. The engineer whose drink order I had copied was arguing a theory.
“I’m telling you, no one, and I mean no one, has ever seen him eat anything, not even a dried Naboo sardine or a ration cracker.” Her animated gestures and passionate voice held the crowd’s rapt attention.
“But, Redy,” my Togruta seatmate objected, “maybe he eats only when he’s underwater.”
“No,” said the woman. “There are plenty of holos and pictures of rebels training underwater, and lots of them feature soldiers chomping down on good chow. That’s basic propaganda one-oh-one, right? You want people to fight for you, you have to promise they’ll at least get to eat. And you never see Ackbar eat anything in those, either.”
“So what does that mean?” asked a man who wore a cowl that hid his face in shadow. A glass of blue milk stood in front of him—a traditional, wholesome choice. His voice was gravelly and deep, and in the flickering light from the Donjon’s hovering firefly lamps, I could see he had a graying beard.
“So you have to put it all together,” said Redy, a sly and triumphant smile on her face. She leaned in to the circle of benches and lowered her voice conspiratorially. We all leaned in, too, as she counted off her points on her fingers, one by one.
“Think about it: his lip movements don’t match his words exactly—we engineers notice stuff like that; rumors are rampant that he sometimes sits still for hours when he thinks no one is around to see; he’s never been away from some power source for more than a day; and he’s never been caught on cam eating.” She paused, and the crowd held its breath. “The conclusion is inescapable: He. Is. Not. Real.”
“What?” My Togruta companion almost spat out his tea, a dark broth-like drink that smelled of spiced meat.
Redy was only too happy to explain. “My guess is that Ackbar is a mindless droid draped in Mon Calamari skin and remotely operated by Rebel Alliance and New Republic bigwigs. He’s literally a puppet.”
Everyone was stunned into silence. I had heard plenty of outrageous ideas in cantinas around the galaxy, but this one ranked among the most…original. After a moment, I asked, “Why…why would the New Republic create a puppet admiral?”
“It’s about appearances.” Redy was prepared for my skepticism. “Ackbar is handsome, tall, impressive-looking, and the backstory they made up for him tugs at the heartstrings. Who doesn’t sympathize with a scrappy common soldier who worked his way up the ranks and turned into a brilliant strategist? But do you really believe an aquatic soldier who had never even piloted an X-wing could mastermind the incredible victories at Endor and Jakku? However, it sure made a great morale booster to say that he did.”
“So you think someone else came up with those plans?” another woman asked. I liked her boots. They were tipped with figures of Kowakian monkey-lizards, a fun touch.
“Without a doubt. My guess is that Mon Mothma, Leia Organa, Jan Dodonna, and the rest of them had a whole group of strategists and thinkers in some windowless hideout working for them. Like most engineers, they do the hard work but get no credit. Many of them probably aren’t the photogenic type, what with years of studying in dimly lit military archives and sitting in front of computers all day to run simulations. Maybe they look too bookish, too short, too small, too plain.…The politicians needed a handsome symbol to rally the troo
ps, and so they created Ackbar, the puppet admiral.” She swept her hand through the air dramatically. “Never underestimate the power of propaganda.”
“That’s quite a theory,” said the man with the cowl. I could hear a trace of amusement in his voice. “For an unlicensed engineer, you sure know a lot about politics.”
Redy bristled. “I wasn’t always on the run, living on scraps from fixing smugglers’ rust buckets, you know! I went to the University of Coruscant and once worked on the most advanced starships in the Imperial shipyards. I got to meet and greet real admirals, and even showed a couple of grand moffs around the shipyards. I know what I’m talking about.”
The man held out his hands and dipped his head slightly. “I meant no offense. The galaxy is a large place, and it’s always refreshing to hear new stories. Why don’t you enlighten us more?”
“I just pay more attention to details,” a mollified Redy said with pride. “They don’t call me Redy the Myth Buster for nothing. I’ve discovered even more elaborate conspiracies that will make your head spin.”
Instead of saying more, she drained the last of her tea, sighed wistfully, and set down the mug with finality. She took a credit chip out of a small breast pocket and glanced at the display with a worried frown. “Guess it’s time to find more work,” she muttered.
Even though I knew exactly what she was doing, I couldn’t help falling for it. “Wait,” I said, “you can’t leave us hanging like that. I’ll buy you another drink. Tell the story.”
“I don’t know.” Redy licked her lips. “It’s about a legend of the Rebellion, Luke Skywalker. But it’s a pretty long story, and I’m also hungry—”
“I’ll buy you dinner,” the hooded man said. He leaned forward in his seat, and the hood slipped back a bit, revealing a pair of sharp eyes and a lined face that somehow managed to retain a hint of boyish mischief. “This, I gotta hear.”
Her ploy a success, Redy called out to the droid bartender, “A triple shot, extra bubbles, a heap of blue milk powder—and get me a plate of Naboo sardine fritters with lava sauce. These two are paying!”
