by Renee Ahdieh
And he had failed.
He had not seen the paths the young Padawan Anakin had begun to take.
He had missed his chance with the young Skywalker.
And what would happen with this other, reckless Skywalker? The one who was as angry as his father had been?
The next few days, when he planted the seeds, he planted them deeply, thrusting them into the damp and soft ground with his cane, so deep they might not come up again. But he gathered the moss from the branches and covered the plot, and when he had finished, it looked as if nothing at all had been planted there, as if nothing would come up from all that effort.
Nothing at all.
Nothing at all.
Nothing at all.
The night he finished, Yoda sat in front of his fire, and he was lonely.
And he missed, more than he could say, old friends now gone.
So he reached out across the netherworld of the Force for Qui-Gon, but he could not sense him. He reached again, and again, but there was no reply.
“Qui-Gon is occupied, Master Yoda,” said Obi-Wan.
Yoda looked up, though he hardly needed to. He suddenly felt the hut so full of…life. So full of Obi-Wan, who sat cross-legged inside the doorway, shimmering.
“Never before so quietly have you come into a room, Master Kenobi.”
Obi-Wan nodded his shining head. “I find I have developed several new…skills, of late.”
“An entry into the world of the Force it would take for you to develop this one.”
“As you say, Master.”
Yoda crossed the room and sat down on his bunk. It was no longer as damp as it had been. “I am old, Master Kenobi.”
“Nine hundred years is old,” he agreed.
“And worn out.”
“Not so worn out as you might think, Master. Where is my pot?”
Yoda looked up at the empty shelf. “There was an encounter,” he said.
“An encounter? Not so difficult an encounter that you were unable to preserve Qui-Gon’s cloak, I see.”
“Always with you it has to be both. Difficult choices must we sometimes make in this world.”
“As now, Master.”
“Here you are for that?”
“Master, I want you to take on a new Padawan.”
“You do, do you?”
“I want you to train young Skywalker.”
Yoda felt his heart thrill. He had not imagined it could have happened, but here it was. “Yes.”
“You agree so quickly?”
“Long have I wanted to train her.”
“Master, I want you to train Luke.”
Yoda looked at the shimmering face. “No,” he said. He stamped his cane on the floor. “That is not the one. Not ready is he.”
“Who is ever ready?”
“Not that one. A Jedi must have the deepest commitment. That one looks from one cloud to another. A Jedi must have the most serious mind. That one cannot keep his mind from his speeder. Not him. Her.”
“Master.”
“He will not finish what he begins. He is reckless.”
“Master.”
“And well we know the path a reckless one will set his foot.”
The shimmering Obi-Wan sat down on the bunk beside his old Master.
“This is damp,” said Obi-Wan.
“Bother you does dampness still, Master Kenobi?”
“You will be surprised, Master.”
“For one nine hundred years old, no more surprises are there.”
Obi-Wan smiled. “I promise you, Master, you will be surprised.”
“Humph,” said Yoda. He lay down on his bed and pulled the blanket up around him. “Already come the time is to be with you. Already come the time is to become one with the Force.”
Obi-Wan shook his head. “Not yet,” he said.
“And to tell me this, you are the one?”
Obi-Wan spread his arms wide, almost as if he would embrace his old Master. “I am the one to tell you this,” he said.
“Impertinent still.”
“Yes, Master.”
A long silence.
“The other Skywalker I would train. She is ready.”
Obi-Wan shook his head again.
“Oh, demanding now we have become, have we?” said Yoda.
“Forgive me, Master.”
“And if I try to teach this rash, this impatient, this mindless boy the ways of the Force and fail, what then?”
Obi-Wan smiled. “I seem to remember an old Master of mine who liked to say something about trying.”
“Humph,” said Yoda, and drew the blanket up closer. He closed his eyes, and Obi-Wan waited.
“Send him to me then,” said Yoda, in a voice quiet as a whisper.
Obi-Wan tucked the blanket under Yoda’s chin.
“And Obi-Wan?”
“Yes, Master.”
“Sorry about the pot, I am.”
“It was old and ugly.”
Yoda opened his eyes. “So am I.”
“No, Master.”
“Look, Master Kenobi. Look. Old and ugly. What see you?”
Obi-Wan leaned down close. “A luminous being,” he said.
“Humph,” said Yoda, and closed his eyes again. “Annoying, one’s own words to use against him. A bad feeling I have about that.”
But Obi-Wan was already gone.
Yoda nestled deeply into Qui-Gon Jinn’s cloak. He would sleep now. At least, he would try to sleep.
His eyes opened.
He probably would not sleep.
It was not what he had wished for. Not at all. Still, for the first time in a long time, he was eager for the next day.
Enter EMPEROR PALPATINE, having received news from DARTH VADER of OBI-WAN KENOBI’s death.
PALPATINE
Communication hath just been receiv’d,
E’en better than my fantasies conceiv’d.
Darth Vader—my apprentice and my tool,
Th’intimidating fist by which I rule—
Hath told me of Kenobi’s swift demise,
Which news hath struck me with profound surprise.
Upon the Death Star, th’Empire’s latest threat,
The battle was borne out, the old foes met:
Kenobi—feeble, elderly, and weak—
Hath dar’d his former Padawan to seek.
The two men met, and clash’d like fire and ice,
Darth Vader, though, hath triumph’d in a trice.
A few quick parries of his saber red,
And old Kenobi fell—now air, now dead.
Our troopers now report ’twas Tatooine
Whereon Kenobi hid unfound, unseen,
And lo these years hath liv’d in mystery,
Whilst I, the Emperor, made history.
Why Tatooine? And wherefore there so long?
What are the notes that form’d Kenobi’s song?
What melody was it whereat he play’d?
Why in those measures hath he so long stay’d?
Was he designing his own instrument?
And wherefore were his rests so prominent?
His death should fill an Emperor with glee,
Forsooth, my heart should soar inside of me,
Yet there is that which plagueth still my mind—
Yea, questions to these answers I would find.
For instance, there is this that still perplexes—
A riddle that, with obfuscation, vexes.
Darth Vader saith that at the very time—
The second when he hath perform’d the crime,
When his lightsaber struck Kenobi’s robe—
The Jedi’s body vanish’d from the globe.
Not slain, precisely, nay, but disappear’d,
Which is enough to make e’en me afeard.
Then, too, there are the final words of his,
Which Vader hath convey’d as ’twere a quiz:
“If thou dost strike me down, e’en now, e�
�en here,
I shall more great and powerful appear
Than e’er thou hast imagin’d possible”—
These words are each like needles in my skull.
Is this a simple lie, or Jedi trick?
Is this the Force’s might? Have I been thick?
Is there aught that can make Kenobi live?
Is there relief that logic yet can give?
And even if Kenobi’s dead and gone,
Another worry still comes hard upon:
Although this wretched Jedi is destroy’d,
By Yoda is mine intellect annoy’d:
Where hath the errant, verdant coward fled?
Somewhere within the galaxy his head
Doth wait to meet an Emperor’s dark rage—
Unless the weakling hath expir’d from age.
If Yoda and Kenobi were alive,
And somehow did our Jedi purge survive,
What else exists of which we’re unaware?
What threat shall come, by land or sea or air?
I would be certain of our dominance,
I would have proof of mine own prominence.
For surety I’d give the universe,
Yet questions dog me, like a witch’s curse.
The answers to these things are still unknown,
And doubts within my brain make endless drone
With mocking voice that speaketh, “Palpatine,
Couldst thou not wipe thy rivals from the scene?”
Kenobi’s death, then, gives but poor release,
Since worries do pursue me sans surcease.
These matters shake me, though I should rejoice,
Thus, hear the proclamation of my voice:
This moment marks a time that I shall savor—
From now, the Empire’s power ne’er shall waver,
Today begins an era of resolve,
As fully unto darkness we evolve.
No slip of our foul purpose shall we know,
No misstep shall e’er threaten to o’erthrow,
No hidden Jedi plot shall give us pause,
No vile uncertainty shall stay our cause,
No mercy tolerated in our ranks,
No weakness found within our data banks:
Henceforth the Empire shall not be assail’d,
Impervious we’ll be, no fault unveil’d.
A vulnerable realm’s a dying breed;
This shall not be the Empire’s fate, indeed.
I shall have full control, whatever come,
And strike mine enemies both deaf and dumb.
It starteth with the end of the Rebellion,
Wherein I am the reaper, Darth my hellion.
The Death Star, fully operational,
Shall wallop with a might sensational.
Lord Vader’s cunning found the rebel base;
Anon he’ll bring destruction on the place.
By th’Death Star shall the rogues be apprehended,
Its list of massacres shall be extended:
’Twas Jedha, Scarif, and then Alderaan,
Next Yavin 4, with rebels found thereon.
This triumph cannot happen soon enow—
Brought to its knees, the galaxy shall bow.
Come, Death, and let the rebels know thy might:
Thou ever wert our ally in a fight,
Thou art the rider, th’Empire is thy horse,
Thou showest all the dark side of the Force,
Thou art our strength, our talisman, our sign,
Thou art supreme, and thy full strength is mine.
I’ll wield thee swiftly on the rebel gang,
And bring on them their life-concluding pang.
This news of Vader’s spurs me onward still:
Kenobi first, and by my iron will
The rebels and the galaxy entire
Shall call me Emperor or see their pyre.
Go, Palpatine, release thine awful dread,
Until each filthy rebel knave is dead.
Exit.
Dex sat on the side of his bunk, elbows on his knees, staring at nothing, but thinking about everything. His past stretched out behind him, a line of events much longer than the future he saw remaining before him.
The Empire was coming, its power projected by way of a moon-sized battle station that had already destroyed more than one planet and murdered billions. Billions. Everyone knew someone who knew someone who’d been on Alderaan, or Scarif, or Jedha. Dex had even been to Alderaan once with his parents, years before the Republic had transformed into the Empire.
Thinking of the people there, their lives obliterated in an instant of fire and pain, at once enraged and afflicted him. It was an atrocity, and he wanted the Empire to answer for it.
But he wasn’t naïve. Whatever answer the Rebel Alliance would force from the Empire in just a few hours would be…likely futile. He knew how things would probably end. Seemed to him their choices were to run from Yavin’s moon and live—maybe—or to stay and fight and die.
And no one was running.
Not one person. Not anymore.
Alderaan had put a fierce resolve in everyone, from support troops to pilots. They were done running.
True, rumors swirled among the flight crews that Princess Organa had returned with some kind of secret intelligence about the Empire, but Dex didn’t see how mere intelligence could help. The battle with the Death Star would come down to a test of flesh and metal. And the Empire had much more of both. The remaining Alliance forces on Yavin 4 were a ragtag collection of starfighters and light cruisers—almost no capital ships had survived the battle at Scarif. Together, all their soldiers couldn’t even operate a fraction of the Death Star.
But even so, no one was running. Not one person.
You fly your run and hit what you can—that was Gold Squadron’s credo. Dex had internalized it long ago. He’d fly his damn run, come what may.
And he had his own credo, too, one based on something his mother had often said. “Small sparks can start big fires.”
Thinking of his mom chased his inner darkness and made him smile. In his mind’s eye, he could see her in one of the simple dresses she favored, gray hair in a bun, her crooked front teeth exposed in a smile.
He took a deep breath, blew it out, fiddled with his flight suit, and tried to square away his mental state. He checked the chrono. They had hours, a bit less, and then he’d fly his Y-wing at an enormous sphere of steel and weapons and do what he could.
You fly your run.
Small sparks.
An interrogatory chirp brought him back to the present. He smiled at the battle-scarred R5 unit that had been with him since his run over Corellia. He’d nicknamed the droid Sparks.
“I was just thinking, Sparks. That’s all.”
A sympathetic purr from Sparks. More beeps with a question mark at the end.
“Oh, about lots of things. Mostly about my mom and dad and Onderon. I haven’t seen them in…a long time. And my little sister, she’d be twelve now. Twelve.” He shook his head. Time had passed so quickly, and now he had so little left.
Sparks wheeled closer, hummed in sympathy.
“Did I ever tell you what my mom used to say about small sparks? That’s why I named you Sparks. Well, that and the fire you started on Utapau’s moon. Remember?”
An embarrassed moan and shudder from Sparks.
Dex smiled, patted the droid on his head, and lied. “Listen, things are gonna be fine.”
Spark’s ambivalent beeps suggested that he saw through the words to the truth.
“We’ll do what we can, right? We make our run.”
Sparks perked up, beeped enthusiastically.
“And hit what we can,” Dex said. “Right.”
In hindsight, he realized that his mother’s phrase was the through-line of his life. It had played through his mind when he’d joined the Rebellion, had sustained him through dark times. He’d joined knowing that things looked bleak, but he’d
always fancied himself a spark, always imagined himself starting the big fire.
But it appeared not. Instead it looked like things would end on a backwater moon.
A voice carried over the station’s intercom.
“The Imperial space station has entered the system. Report to your stations. Flight crews to the—”
A long pause. The usual end to that sentence would have been…to the launch bay. After all, they’d already had their mission briefing.
A crackle on the intercom. “All flight crews report immediately to the main briefing room.”
Sparks whirred an observation.
Dex stood. “Agreed that it’s odd. I’ll go see what’s what. See you at the ship.”
—
The briefing room, filled with pilots and flight crew, fell silent as General Dodonna spoke, his tone as somber as a eulogist’s.
Dex leaned in closer as the schematics of the Death Star appeared on the briefing room screen. General Dodonna explained its weakness—a tiny exhaust port at the end of a narrow trench. Someone would have to put a proton torpedo directly in it at precisely the right angle of approach.
A few audible gasps answered the declaration, several head shakes, a pervading sense of despondency. Someone across the room said the shot couldn’t be made. Someone else—a voice Dex did not recognize—responded by saying something about shooting womp rats on Tatooine.
Dex filtered it out. He’d already committed the details of the briefing to memory. He knew the shot could be made. And he figured he was just the pilot to make it.
He could see the exhaust in his mind, as vivid as a picture. Dodonna’s words hadn’t increased his despondency; they’d dispelled it. He felt hopeful for the first time in several days.
Small sparks, he thought. And big fires.
They filed out of the briefing room and hustled for the flight deck, where ground crew and droids readied the fleet of X-wings and Y-wings. Dex hurried to his fighter. Sparks was already being lifted toward his socket. The droid chirped and whirred a melody as Dex climbed into his cockpit and started a system check. He felt like he was floating, already flying, already dropping a torpedo down the bunghole of that Imperial station and saving the Rebellion.
Davish called up from the flight deck. He was in his flight suit, his helmet in his right hand, the standard grin pasted on his timeworn face. “You gonna be a hero today, Dex?”
Dex smiled down. “Gotta be someone, Davish.”
“I suppose it does,” Davish said.