Journey to Star Wars: The Force Awakens the Weapon of a Jedi: A Luke Skywalker Adventure

by Jason Fry

  Kivas tried to keep his face expressionless.

  “I’m sorry, Dad,” Farnay said.

  The Imperial lieutenant looked from the frightened girl to Kivas.

  “Your daughter?”

  Kivas nodded grimly.

  “Was she the pilot’s guide?”

  Farnay looked at him in surprise, still struggling in the troopers’ grip.

  “No,” Kivas said. “It wasn’t her.”

  The officer studied Farnay for a long moment.

  “But you know where the pilot went, don’t you?” he asked her.

  Farnay’s eyes jumped beseechingly to her father. But the lieutenant’s gaze had turned his way, too.

  “You better tell them,” Kivas told his daughter.

  “Dad, no!”

  “Your father’s a wise man,” the officer said. “I’d listen to him.”

  “Not unless these two Ferijian apes let go of me,” Farnay said, kicking at one of the stormtroopers.

  The officer nodded at his men, who relaxed their grip. Farnay stood for a moment with her eyes downcast, rubbing each arm in turn.

  “They went to Eedit,” she muttered.

  “The old temple?” the officer asked, eyebrows raised. “Are you sure? There’s been no intrusion alarm.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Very well,” the officer said. “We can depart after I verify your story in town—and after you fix the fuel pump you’re so concerned about. But we could use a guide ourselves. This young lady will do nicely.”

  “She’s answered your questions,” Kivas objected. “Leave her alone.”

  “If she does her duty no harm will come to her. I find using someone local encourages good behavior.”

  The lieutenant’s eyes lingered on the Y-wing. Then he turned to Kivas with a smile.

  “And as loyal Imperial citizens, I’m sure you welcome the chance to help the Empire maintain peace and order,” he said.

  The sun was burning off the dew, the birds were singing, and the pikhrons were nibbling at fruit in the branches of the trees.

  Time to get to work, Luke thought.

  He had dreamt all night of lightsaber combat, of repositioning his feet, bending his knees, and angling his blade according to each of the four defensive postures, then switching to downward slashes and side cuts when attacking. His shoulders and arms hurt, but it was a good ache, the kind that followed hard work.

  “I detest those dreadful remotes,” Threepio said as he followed Artoo out of the way. “I swear they enjoy inflicting pain.”

  The previous morning Luke might have agreed with Threepio. Now, he just approached the pillar and ignited his saber. The remotes rose from their compartment as soon as he assumed the ready position, spiraling around each other and then spreading out to flank him.

  The one on the right darted in, and Luke snapped his saber to stop its laser bolt, then whipped the blade back to the left, deflecting another. Then he stepped forward, forcing the remote in the center to give way before it could fire.

  “Master Luke! You’re doing it!” Threepio called.

  Luke grinned—and one of the remotes dove and shot him in the thigh. Artoo beeped his concern.

  “How is it my fault?” Threepio asked Artoo. “Everyone needs a little encouragement.”

  Luke’s leg felt like it was asleep. He rubbed the circulation back into it, grimacing, and turned to face the remotes again, willing the Force to give him the speed and stamina he needed to fight three enemies at once.

  Left and right, up and down, forward and back. Luke’s saber was a whirling disc of energy, scattering laser bolts like rain. He could hear his heart hammering in his chest, his breath loud in his ears.

  One of the remotes used another for cover, slipping a beam of energy through Luke’s defenses and catching him in the shoulder. He bent over, breathing hard.

  That was a scoot and shoot, he thought. Wedge would be proud.

  “How long since the last time I was hit?” he asked Threepio.

  “Thirty-two minutes and twenty-four seconds.”

  Luke nodded. He waited a moment, breathing hard, then got back in the ready position. The remotes swarmed him and he lifted the lightsaber, scattering their bolts and dancing across the courtyard. He skirted the pits and splashed through the pool left by the spring bubbling up through the broken fountain, while the birds zipped from tree to tree and the pikhrons watched quietly.

  A laser beam caught him in the calf and he shouted in surprise, the lightsaber spinning out of his hands and shutting off in the air. He plucked it out of the grass with a grimace.

  “How long that time?”

  “Fourteen minutes and two seconds,” Threepio said.

  Luke’s hair was dark with sweat. He ignited the lightsaber, noticing to his dismay that his hands were shaking.

  Six minutes and thirty-three seconds later two remotes got him at once, catching him in the back of the thigh.

  Luke reminded himself to push the anger and anxiety out of his mind, taking several calming breaths. His palms were sweaty where they gripped his father’s lightsaber. He felt the negative emotions draining away and nodded. But he still felt tired—arms heavy, feet sluggish, his eyes and ears a beat behind the movements of the remotes as they waited for him to resume the exercise.

  He lasted less than two minutes before one of the remotes got him in the side of the head, making his ears ring.

  Then he was hit after forty-two seconds.

  And then after eight.

  Luke hurled his lightsaber aside, gasping for breath. Artoo whistled urgently.

  “I quite agree with Artoo,” Threepio said. “Master Luke, you must rest. You’re only human, after all.”

  Luke flopped down on the grassy flagstones, his chest rising and falling as the remotes retreated to wait inside the pillar.

  “I haven’t done enough,” he said raggedly. “Haven’t completed the exercise.”

  “Surely a rest isn’t against the rules.”

  “No, probably not,” Luke gasped.

  He sat in the grass until he was no longer short of breath and the sweat had stopped running down his face. He got to his feet and walked slowly to where his lightsaber lay, bending to pick it up. His legs ached, and the ancient weapon felt heavy in his hand.

  “Master Luke, are you quite sure you’re recovered?” Threepio asked. “I’d hate to see you damaged.”

  “I’m fine,” Luke said, though he was pretty sure that wasn’t true.

  “Next you’ll tell me you have to fight again without being able to see,” Threepio said. “If you don’t mind my saying so, that seemed terribly reckless.”

  Luke smiled, remembering standing in the hold of the Falcon and trying to track the remote by the hiss of its jets, with the blast shield of Han’s old bucket of a flight helmet covering his eyes. He’d thought Ben was crazy—he could barely control a lightsaber, let alone use it without being able to see. Only his loyalty to the old Jedi had kept him from protesting more vigorously in front of Han and Chewbacca.

  But he’d done it. He’d stopped the remote, without being able to use his eyes. It had been his first lesson in how the Force could enhance one’s senses.

  Luke raised his lightsaber, and the remotes advanced immediately. He parried one strike, then another, listening for each hiss of a remote’s changing direction, eyes tracking each tiny repositioning.

  A laser beam caught him in the thigh.

  “Twenty-six seconds, Master Luke.”

  I can’t do this, Luke thought. Honestly, I’d be better off blind.

  And then he realized.

  The point of fighting with the blast shield covering his eyes hadn’t been to enhance his other senses. It had been to give him no choice but to trust in the Force. He’d done it then—and again in the Death Star trench, when he’d shut off his targeting computer and let the Force tell him when to fire the proton torpedoes that had destroyed the battle station.

  Let go,
Ben’s voice had said. That had been the key—the simple instruction that had saved the Alliance and his own life.

  He hadn’t understood his own training there at Eedit. He’d thought he’d been commanding the Force, using it to amplify his senses and speed up his reflexes. But that hadn’t been it at all. When he’d succeeded, it was because he was letting the Force guide him—and when he’d failed, it was because he was trying to guide it. He’d thought that he was learning to make the Force obey his commands, but really it was the other way around.

  Let go, Luke thought, breathing out.

  He couldn’t track three remotes at once—it was hard enough keeping up with one. And all the practice in the galaxy wouldn’t help him. That wasn’t the point of the exercise any more than whether or not he could see.

  “Are you all right, Master Luke?” Threepio asked.

  “I’m fine,” Luke said. “Threepio, you’re a genius.”

  “I like to think I’m programmed for insights,” Threepio said, to which Artoo offered a disgusted blat.

  Luke raised his blade to ready position, ignoring the ache in his shoulders and the sweat stinging his eyes.

  The remotes streaked in. Luke couldn’t say that he saw them, but the blade of his father’s lightsaber was there to block their energy bolts. He couldn’t say that he heard them, but he turned whenever one tried to get behind him, blocking its attack vector with his blade.

  He was no longer aware of Threepio’s encouragement, or Artoo’s beeps. The chirping birds no longer registered in his ears, nor the chuffs and snorts of the pikhrons. He didn’t notice the sweat running down his neck, or feel the growing heat of the day.

  There was only the Force, its currents stretching into the past and future, and he was part of it, trusting it to take him where he needed to be. His muscles and nerves moved his arms and legs, shifting effortlessly among the four defensive postures that formed the foundation of lightsaber combat. But who was commanding those muscles and nerves?

  The remotes broke off their attack and floated quietly in front of the pillar. Luke looked around the courtyard, faintly startled. The sun had passed directly overhead and was now descending from its zenith in the sky.

  “How long…how long since I was last hit?” he asked.

  “Three standard hours, eleven minutes, and forty-three seconds,” Threepio said. “Perhaps you ought to rest, Master Luke. You must be perilously low on charge.”

  “I feel great,” Luke said with a smile, wanting nothing more than to sink back into the Force and lose himself in it.

  The pikhrons began to snuffle and snort, tossing their heads. The matriarch brought her front feet off the ground and slammed them down, calling urgently to the rest of the group.

  “Now what’s gotten into those peculiar creatures?” Threepio wondered.

  “I think they sense something,” Luke said. “They’re acting like banthas did back home when a krayt dragon was on the hunt.”

  Then he could feel it, too—new ripples in the Force, advancing like waves to crash into the gentle ebb and flow of life in the glade.

  He raised his lightsaber, and the remotes rose up to face him.

  “No,” Luke said. “We’re not training now. Something else is happening.”

  He lowered his weapon, and the remotes backed away—which was when the laser blast knocked him off his feet.

  THE STORMTROOPERS clambered over the rubble of the ruined outbuildings with their blasters raised.

  “Oh no, I’ll be captured!” yelped Threepio, throwing his hands in the air.

  The pikhrons huddled together in terror, bellowing.

  Luke scrambled to his feet. He glanced quickly at his gun belt, but it was on the other side of the fountain. He’d never reach it in time.

  “Surrender, rebel,” said the lead trooper.

  “Come get me,” Luke said, his feet automatically assuming the ready position as he raised his lightsaber.

  The stormtrooper adjusted his rifle’s controls, no doubt setting it for stun.

  I can’t let them capture me, Luke thought. They’ll figure out who I am and make a symbol out of me. The destroyer of the Death Star, brought to justice. And then many worlds that might have joined the Alliance will retreat in fear instead.

  The lead trooper fired at him, blaster emitting rings of concentric blue. Luke barely intercepted them with his blade, the energy dancing along it and vanishing.

  And of course if they capture me I’ll be executed, Luke thought. I’d rather avoid that, too.

  The stormtrooper paused, then nodded at his fellows. The squad began to spread out, advancing across the glade toward him.

  Let the Force guide you, Luke thought. But he turned uncertainly one way and then the other as the troopers executed a flanking maneuver.

  There’s too many of them, shrilled the voice of doubt in his head. Three remotes isn’t anything like eight living adversaries.

  Behind the troopers came a slim man wearing the olive-green uniform of an Imperial officer, dragging along a smaller figure. It was Farnay. Their eyes met and Luke saw the anger in her gaze—anger and fear.

  “Drop your weapon,” the officer said, inclining his chin at the girl in his grip. “Otherwise someone could get hurt.”

  Luke took a step back. He was outnumbered nine to one, and the Imperials had Farnay. He sighed and held his finger over the lightsaber’s activation stud.

  Then a hum reached his ears, followed by a surprised beep from Artoo.

  Luke risked a glance backward. Sarco was striding through the archway that led into the Temple of Eedit. He was carrying a staff whose ends were crowned with cycling purple sparks. The weapon howled and crackled in his hands, and Luke found himself thinking that this was not the Sarco he’d met in the jungle—the being crossing the courtyard radiated both confidence and malice.

  “Hyperspace scout,” Sarco said. “Historian. Farm boy. And yet here you are with a Jedi laser sword in your hand, like you mean to use it.”

  “Be quiet,” the Imperial lieutenant said. “You’re under arrest, both of you.”

  “I don’t think so,” Sarco replied, twisting a dial on his tool belt. Artoo let out an electronic shriek, Threepio stopped and flung his arms in the air, and the troopers clutched their helmets.

  “What was that?” Luke demanded.

  “Electromagnetic pulse to block their transmissions,” Sarco said. “Well, Marcus? Let’s see what you’re capable of.”

  The faceless alien whirled the staff in his hands as he strode across the courtyard. The weapon let out a strange howl, purple lightning flaring from either end. One of the troopers fired at Sarco, a panicky shot that went wide, and the alien speared the trooper with his staff, sending purple energy coursing across his armor. The trooper flopped on the ground, spasming, then lay still.

  The lieutenant drew his sidearm, but Farnay drove her elbow into his stomach, breaking his grip. She scrambled away from him, head down. The officer aimed his blaster at her, and Luke raced forward, lightsaber held at his waist.

  A trooper fired at him—the shot was to kill, not stun—and Luke deflected the bolt into the chest of the lieutenant. The man fell forward with a strangled cry. Luke brought his lightsaber down on the trooper’s helmet, then spun away from the falling soldier and blocked a shot at point-blank range, sending the laser blast back into the chest of the trooper who’d fired it.

  The pikhrons broke into a run, charging over the rubble behind the troopers, seeking safety.

  Sarco brought his staff down like a club on a trooper’s head, then thrust the end into the fallen Imperial’s breastplate. He grunted as a blaster bolt struck the middle of the staff but held on and charged the trooper who’d tried to disarm him, screaming like a Tusken in the Tatooine night.

  Something told Luke to duck. He did, then smelled his hair burning. He swung around, thrusting his lightsaber up and through the armored breastplate of a trooper. He spotted Farnay crouched behind the rim of the foun
tain, watching the fight anxiously.

  The remaining two stormtroopers were between Luke and Sarco. Sarco swung his staff forward as one trooper fired wildly. The alien’s weapon hooked the soldier’s blaster and ripped it out of his hands. The other trooper dropped to one knee and raised his rifle at Luke, who deflected the bolt back at him. The soldier ducked, and the reoriented bolt struck his squadmate in the back of the helmet. Then Sarco stepped over the armored body and brought his staff down on the last trooper’s head.

  Luke stepped back, lowering his lightsaber. It had all happened so quickly.

  “I don’t know why you followed me,” he said to Sarco. “But I’m glad you did.”

  The stormtroopers had been the danger he’d sensed in the Force. But he’d defeated them—thanks to the mystical energy field, and help from his friends. His vision hadn’t been completely accurate—he hadn’t slipped on a flagstone, for one thing—but it had been close enough to warn him.

  “Are you all right?” he called to Farnay.

  She nodded, eyes wide.

  Sarco turned his head in the girl’s direction, then walked past Luke and shoved one of the motionless troopers into a pit blasted in the flagstones.

  “What are you doing?” Luke asked.

  “Making it harder for the Empire to figure out what happened here,” Sarco said, dragging another trooper over to vanish into the darkness. “Pity. Their weapons and armor would be good salvage.”

  Luke hesitated, but disposing of the troopers made sense. The two of them shoved the other fallen soldiers into the pits.

  “Look out!” Farnay yelled.

  Luke looked up to see Sarco spinning his staff slowly in one hand.

  “Stay away from him!” Farnay yelled.

  “What are you going to do about it, brat?” snarled Sarco. “This is no business of yours.”

  He cocked his head at Luke, to the left and then to the right.

  “What are you, Marcus?” he asked. “I’ve been considering that since back in the jungle. You’re no hyperspace scout, that’s for sure. And you can use that sorcerer’s weapon better than you let on.”