by Jason Fry
This time the remote didn’t back off but accelerated, following a zigzag course and peppering him with fire. Luke’s blade was a blue blur, deflecting bolts all around him. He slipped slightly as he tried to return to ready position, then leapt over a flurry of bolts aimed at his feet.
Luke’s mind flashed back to the Mos Eisley cantina, where two alien thugs had picked a fight with him. Ben had tried to play peacemaker, sensing Luke’s growing panic, but the aliens hadn’t been interested in peace. One had flung Luke into a table, then gone for his blaster, ready to gun Ben down.
The old Jedi’s hand had dipped to the lightsaber on his belt, faster than anyone would have imagined a desert hermit could move. His lightsaber sliced the blaster aimed at him in two, then carved through the thugs.
It was the first time Luke had ever seen a lightsaber in action, and what amazed him was that there was no wasted motion—one moment two alien bullies were threatening an old man’s life, and the next moment their days of threatening anyone were over.
Ben had stood for a moment, coolly regarding the other patrons at the bar with the lightsaber held before him in ready position. Then he’d deactivated his blade and helped Luke up from where he’d been sprawled on the filthy floor, looking on in awe.
Luke tried to imagine what the patrons of the cantina had thought to see a Jedi Knight in their midst after nearly two decades in which Force-users had been nothing more than rumor and legend. What had it been like when Jedi were common sights in the galaxy? And would such a day ever come again?
The remote zipped left, then right, then cut back to the left and shot Luke in the knee. He yelped at the sting of the laser bolt as the machine returned to floating in front of him.
“Artoo! That dreadful machine has injured Master Luke!”
“Just my pride,” Luke said, wiping the sweat from his forehead and reminding himself to quit daydreaming.
When he resumed the ready position the remote began to dart from side to side again, testing his defenses. It tried to get behind him, and he parried the pencil-thin shaft of laser light, sending it caroming off an annoyed Artoo. He kept turning as the remote dove at his feet, leaping over its bolts and reminding himself to keep his guard up.
Luke took two more hits and lowered his blade, causing the remote to back away. He told himself to ignore Threepio’s comments and push out the fear of failure trying to creep into his head.
Ben had been gentle after the death of Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru, letting Luke grieve for his family and rage at the Empire for murdering them. His emotions were natural, Ben said, and his love for his family did him credit. But he then warned that Luke must resist the desire for revenge. Anger and hatred could help him draw power from the Force—but only at a terrible price. For those emotions unlocked the dark side of the Force, leading a Jedi to temptation—and sometimes ruin.
A Jedi had to learn to let go of anger before calling on the Force, Ben had instructed. But he or she also had to let go of fear—for fear led to anger, inviting the dark side in.
“I’m not afraid,” Luke said, raising his saber again. “I won’t fail.”
The remote tried to zip around behind him. He whirled, blade humming, and blocked its shot—then turned the other way as it tried to reverse course and target his hip. He deflected a shot aimed at his head, then one intended for his knee, then leapt to avoid one that struck at his feet. He smiled to himself but then pushed the elation away, too, trying to see and hear nothing but the remote.
It felt like he and the remote were dancing, like they were somehow connected—man and machine, joined by the energy of the training laser and the blade of Luke’s lightsaber. They moved together—first for a minute, then for five, and then Luke lost all track of time.
When the remote backed away he didn’t register it at first but simply waited, barely conscious that he was breathing hard. Then he realized the remote had stopped attacking and lowered his blade, letting his shoulders slump.
“Well done, Master Luke!” Threepio called. “A most impressive display!”
Luke smiled at the protocol droid, waving to acknowledge Artoo’s enthusiastic whistles. Then the remote chattered in an electronic language and a second remote rose to float alongside it.
Luke’s smile faded away.
LUKE KNEW THE TWO REMOTES wouldn’t attack until he raised his lightsaber to ready position, so he took a moment to catch his breath. Then he nodded and lifted his arms, blade held out in front of him.
As he’d expected, the two remotes drifted apart, taking up positions on either side of him. One after another they darted in, forcing him to reorient his defenses. Then they retreated. Luke felt his heartbeat quickening as he tried to watch both of them, his feet automatically carrying him backward so he’d have a better chance of keeping them both in sight.
The remotes followed him.
Don’t fall in a pit, Luke reminded himself.
One of the remotes dove at his left. A quarter second later, the other remote attacked him from the right. Luke had expected that and brought his saber sweeping around in an overhead arc, the blade intersecting the laser blast.
Which was when the other remote hit him in the seat of his pants.
“Ow,” Luke complained, fighting the urge to rub the spot as the remotes retreated.
They swooped in again, and this time Luke blocked three shots before the remote to his right slipped a shot through his guard, leaving his knee numb.
Luke shook the tingling out of his leg and raised his saber again.
He was so busy worrying about how to tell the difference between an attack and a feint that the left-hand remote’s very first shot hit him in the wrist.
“Stop,” Luke said, sitting down in the grass with a sigh of disgust. The remotes backed off, hovering around waist level.
“You’re right to quit, Master Luke,” Threepio said. “Two against one is hardly sporting.”
“I’m not quitting,” Luke insisted. “I’m just resting for a moment.”
I had it, he thought. I was commanding the Force. I barely noticed time was passing.
But that had been against one opponent, not two. This was twice as hard—and completely different.
You can do this, Luke told himself, getting to his feet.
Ben had only had a brief period of time to teach him how to wield his father’s lightsaber—a few lessons aboard the Falcon in which Luke had learned the basic defensive postures and the first steps in opening himself to the Force. But since then he’d practiced the footwork more times than he could count, striving to recall every moment of the time he’d had with his teacher. And those movements had become second nature. He’d come so far since his first tentative practice session aboard the Falcon.
He raised his saber, reminding himself to be light on his feet.
He blocked shots from either side, then stumbled trying to dodge the next one. He rolled over, his saber scorching grass and flagstones, and bounded up with his blade held out in front of him. The remotes circled, trying to break through his defenses.
The remotes both charged him from the right—but one went high and one went low. Luke deflected the bolt the raised remote aimed at his shoulder, but the other one caught him in the knee.
Luke lowered his saber, grimacing. He’d moved with speed and grace, but that wasn’t enough. He’d been foolish to think it could be. He couldn’t track two remotes at once—it was hard enough keeping up with one.
You can do it if you draw on the Force, he thought, and raised the saber again.
He caught one remote’s bolt on his blade, sending it into the glade and scattering a rainbow of protesting songbirds. The other remote fired a bolt past his head, then zipped left and took aim at him again. He deflected the bolt into the grass at his feet, cleaving down with the saber to intercept a shot from the first remote. Then he snapped back to ready position, waving his saber back and forth.
He fought until the sun was low in the sky and the pikh
rons were pale shapes in the gloom. One of the remotes swooped down at him and he deflected its bolt straight back at it, enveloping the little machine in sparks. It retreated and beeped accusingly at him.
“About time you got a taste of your own medicine,” said Threepio.
Then a third remote rose out of the compartment in the pillar.
Luke put his hands on his knees, breathing hard, then deactivated his father’s weapon. His arms were shaking with fatigue.
“That’s enough for today,” he said, and after a minute of uncertain hovering the remotes retreated to their compartment and shut themselves down.
All Luke wanted to do was sleep, but he forced himself to bathe as best he could in the fountain and then activate the warming unit on a tin of food concentrate. Threepio had set up the portable heater, and Luke settled himself gratefully in front of its glow, poking at his dinner.
The droids sat on the other side of the heater, sharing a recharge from the portable battery Luke had brought. Beyond them the pikhrons lowed quietly to one another.
“I must say, your exercises are stimulating to observe, Master Luke,” Threepio said. “Your agility has improved immensely. No doubt that’s thanks to watching the recordings Artoo and I discovered.”
“No doubt,” Luke said.
Artoo let out an electronic sigh, and Luke smiled around a mouthful of stew. Devaron’s moons shone brightly in the sky—the same moons that had helped lead him to the Temple of Eedit and its secrets. Eedit’s Jedi must have stood in the same spot and looked up at the same moons, back when the temple was whole and no one imagined the Jedi Order could ever fall.
“I wish I could have met them,” Luke murmured. “I wish I could have learned from them.”
“I beg your pardon, Master Luke?” asked Threepio, his photoreceptors like lamps in the darkness.
“I was just thinking about what it must have been like here, before the Empire. When the Jedi were the galaxy’s defenders of peace and justice.”
Artoo hooted mournfully, but for once Threepio thought it best to remain silent.
As he stared into the glowing heater, Luke suddenly felt very alone. His lightsaber was all that was left of his father, and possibly of the Jedi Order he’d served. He was piecing together his own training from disembodied voices, vague hunches, and equipment scavenged from ruins. It was crazy to think that he’d ever learn to command the Force or become a skilled duelist, let alone see the Jedi Order reborn. The Empire was powerful and ruthless—and it had its own enforcers who could command the Force, beings such as the terrifying, black-armored Darth Vader.
But then Luke shook his head. Destroying the Death Star had seemed impossible, too—what chance did an untrained farm boy have, alone in a trench with Vader preparing to finish him off? Yet Luke had succeeded, turning the Empire’s greatest weapon into space dust. He’d done so with help from his friends, and by trusting the Force.
Luke wondered what Han and Chewbacca were doing and smiled to imagine them arguing over how to keep the Falcon flying this time. He thought of Princess Leia and felt his breath catch at the thought of the strong, beautiful rebel leader. He wondered what Wedge was doing and who was serving as his wingman.
He had friends. And the Force was with him.
As long as those things were true, there was reason to hope.
He held up his lightsaber, feeling the comforting weight of it in his hand.
“I never knew you, Father,” he said. “But I swear I will become a Jedi. And when I do, I will honor your service and your sacrifice.”
And then Luke put the saber down on the flagstones and crawled into his sleeping bag. Before he could even worry about how to face three remotes, he was asleep.
A few kilometers away, Sarco had gathered branches and leaves and built another fire. The happabores stood nearby, occasionally churning up the dirt with their snouts as they searched for roots to gnaw.
Huddled behind her tree, Farnay tried to keep her teeth from chattering as she stared through her macrobinoculars at the alien. She hadn’t known what to do when the Scavenger settled down to wait for Luke—which had made her realize she hadn’t known what to do when she set out after the young rebel and his guide in the first place. She’d been too worried about Luke to wait in Tikaroo for the Scavenger to return and claim he’d fallen off a cliff or been gored by a pikhron bull, or some tale that no one would ever be able to prove was a lie.
But it was clear that the Scavenger wasn’t going anywhere, and she couldn’t afford to spy on him any longer—she was out of food and hadn’t brought supplies for an extended trip into the jungle.
Dad will know what to do, she thought, then swallowed. He’d be angry with her, of course—her comlink was filled with messages asking her where she was, which she’d acknowledged by curtly informing him she was fine.
He’d be angry with her, but he’d also know the best way to help Luke.
Farnay slipped away from the tree, wincing at each crinkle and crack of dry leaves beneath her feet. She shushed her pack beast—he was hungry, too—and led him in the direction of the jungle path and home.
KIVAS HEARD the incoming ship before he saw it, and knew immediately what it was—a Sentinel-class Imperial landing craft. There was something wrong with one of the fuel pumps—a clog, by the sound of it. It wasn’t bad yet—the pilot probably hadn’t noticed anything except a slight pull to one side on takeoff—but it would ground the ship within a week or two if not serviced.
Somehow I don’t think they’re here to get it fixed, Kivas thought.
Kivas knew he had a few minutes—Imperial ships coming to Tikaroo from the capital always followed the valley up from the south, then curled in to touch down on the landing field. He picked up his toolbox, pulled down the shutters on the hangar behind him, and locked the door. Then he strolled across the landing field and popped the access hatch on the starboard engine of a Mark V Struthimer star yacht that had landed yesterday.
The Sentinel’s engines were louder now. Kivas scattered a few tools beneath the star yacht, picked up his smallest hydrospanner, and reached up into the access hatch as the landing craft roared in over the trees and fired its retrorockets, touching down with a bump and a rattle of landing gear. The Imperial craft’s fuel pump was in worse shape than he’d thought.
Kivas glanced over at the landing craft, then put his gloved hands back into the engine he was pretending to service. The sound of the Sentinel’s engines died away, and a minute later he heard the tramp of boot heels approaching. He looked over with what he hoped would seem like mild curiosity and saw an olive-green-clad officer approaching with a squad of stormtroopers behind him.
Kivas stripped off his dirty work gloves and stepped away from the star yacht.
“What can I do for you, Lieutenant?” he asked after eyeing the rank badge on the officer’s uniform. Some Imperials reacted badly if you addressed them by the wrong rank.
“We’re looking for a starfighter that was spotted in this area three days ago,” the lieutenant said, hands behind his back. “It belongs to a suspected fugitive from Imperial justice.”
“Oh?” Kivas asked. “Lots of places a starfighter might have set down around here. But we’re pretty remote—odds are the pilot would have followed the river to Assarda or Ton-biri.”
“And if he did another squad will find him,” the lieutenant said. “This area is our responsibility. Do you have anything to report?”
Kivas saw the lieutenant’s eyes lingering on the star yachts.
“As the governor knows, the only traffic we get is from hunters going into the jungle,” he said carefully, hoping the officer was familiar with the governor’s orders to let the hunts go on without interference. “But our customers don’t typically show up in starfighters.”
“Then you won’t mind if we take a look in the hangar?”
“Of course not,” Kivas said, fighting down a sense of dread. “But first, you should know your starboard fuel pump is
clogged. It could cut out any minute. I’d be happy to fix it. As a favor to the Empire.”
“How considerate. You can do so after we look in the hangar.”
The lieutenant turned and indicated two of his troopers. “You two stay here.”
Kivas led the officer and the other stormtroopers across the landing field to the hangar. He knew there was nothing to be done—trying to delay them further would only make things worse in the end.
At least Farnay was safe. Kivas had been angry to discover their pack beast gone, and frightened when he realized his daughter had followed Sarco into the jungle. Worry had woken him before dawn that morning, and he’d headed to the landing field because he’d known he wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep. But now he found himself relieved that his daughter had made the choice she did. It was a foolish decision, but Farnay knew the jungle, and at least her rash act had taken her far from Tikaroo.
He unlocked the hangar, raised the shutters with a rattle, and turned on the overhead lights. The officer looked at the Y-wing and raised an eyebrow.
“And you said you had nothing to report,” he said.
“I’m just trying to make a living,” Kivas stammered. “I wanted the starfighter as salvage.”
“I see. And where did it come from?”
Kivas paused, and the officer put his hands on his hips.
“The truth, please,” he said. “It would be a shame to have to take you in for interrogation.”
“The owner isn’t here,” Kivas said. “He went into the woods and hasn’t returned.”
And probably won’t, Kivas thought, looking guiltily at the Y-wing.
“Into the jungle? Did he go alone?”
“No. Two droids were with him. And he had a guide.”
“And where is this guide?”
“I don’t know.”
The officer raised an eyebrow.
“I really don’t. I spend most of my time here, not in town. Last I knew, the guide hadn’t come back, either.”
The two troopers who’d been left to guard the landing field strode into the hangar, holding someone between them by the upper arms.