Star Wars - The New Rebellion

by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  Cole's hands were shaking. Skywalker had been right not to take this X-wing. If he had, he would have died.

  SIXTEEN

  “Skin... you will..."

  Luke thought he heard Yoda's voice. He listened very carefully, but the words kept fading in and out.

  "... lucky... are..."

  Just as his consciousness faded in and out. He was warm for the first time in what seemed like forever, but he couldn't feel anything against his skin. It was like floating in zero G, only without the movement. He was stationary and touching nothing. How very, very strange. He had never been without the sense of touch before.

  "... know you... I..."

  His eyelids were closed, but the texture of the darkness had changed. Instead of seeing nothing but blackness, he now saw that light brown color he would see when he closed his eyes in Yavin 4's bright sunlight.

  "... feeling..."

  Smells, too, were fading in and out. He thought he caught the scent of the meat stew his aunt Beru used to make when ships brought meat into Anchorhead. The meat wasn't all that fresh, so she stewed it for two days and dished it out as if it were as precious as the moisture they farmed.

  "... in time..."

  The voice had the same qualities as Yoda's, but wasn't his. The same deep, androgynous quality existed, but the twisted syntax that marked Yoda was missing here. The speaker knew the language well. Luke's ears simply weren't working. They kept skipping words like a malfunctioning droid.

  He concentrated, reached for the Force, found it, and heightened his senses.

  Bubbles.

  Sizzling.

  Pink goo against his skin.

  He forced his eyes open, his heart racing.

  A woman in her late seventies looked down at him, her wrinkled features breaking into a smile. She had been beautiful once; still was, if truth be told. Her hair was silver and her eyes were the brightest blue he had seen since—

  Since—

  The memory failed him.

  "Don't worry," she said. "You'll be all right."

  Actually he heard her say "don't,” “be," and "right" and parsed out the rest by reading her lips.

  "Not many people survive the mistmakers, and I've never seen anyone live who was as covered in their slime as you were. It was touch and go for a while there." Her smile softened. "You're lucky I have a bacta tank."

  He came fully awake then. The bacta tank was across the room, its water still holding traces of the pink slime. That stuff had to be really potent for it to last in a bacta tank.

  The room had other medical equipment from several different cultures. Through an open door, he saw a regular living area, complete with kitchen. Another door led into still another room that he couldn't see.

  All of this he noticed without turning his head. He still could feel nothing around him. With an incredible effort, he twisted his neck slightly and saw that he floated several feet above the bed. Air cushions. He had seen them in Imperial medical centers, but had never really been on one. They were reserved for burn patients who had lost most of their skin.

  Luke shuddered. He tried to raise his hand to see if he had any skin left, but the woman shook her head.

  "The more you try, the longer it will take you to recover. You can't feel anything because mistmakers numb their victims before eating them. The numbness will wear off soon. An hour, maybe less. Then we can eat. I've been afraid to feed you like this. Didn't know if you'd drown in food or not."

  It was an odd way to listen, hearing half the words and deciphering the rest.

  "I know you have questions. It's better if you don't say anything." The woman grabbed a chair, pumped its base so that the chair rose to Luke's height, and then she climbed in. "I'll answer what I can."

  He blinked, conveying, he hoped, his gratitude.

  "You're lucky I heard you land. I was hoping—" She caught herself, shook her head as if she were self-censoring, then said, "Never mind what I was hoping. I came to investigate and saw the mistmakers floating around the ship. I was about to turn around when that mistmaker exploded."

  Her eyes widened with the memory. Luke heard the sound, reverberating in his head, the amazing pop! that had saved his life.

  "Nice work, that," she said. "You'll have to tell me how you did it. Those things are even resistant to blaster fire."

  His hearing was slowly coming back. He could make out more words. He also thought he could feel the air currents blowing on his back.

  "I ducked. Slime went everywhere. Good thing I was far away, or I might have gotten covered. When I stood again, I saw you."

  "Thank you," he whispered, or tried to. His lips didn't work.

  "Shush," she said. "I'd've left you there if I weren't already wearing my protective gear. Would've been nothing I could've done. By the time I'd've gotten my gear and come back, you'd've been dead. Luck. That's all it was."

  And she was trying very hard not to take any credit. He would ask her about that later.

  "Lessee. What else would you want to know?" She frowned and tugged at a silver ring on her right hand. "You've been here the better part of a day, and your X-wing is fine. Some small stains on the hull where the slime hit it. Nothing more."

  He cleared his throat. Feeling definitely was coming back. He felt as well as heard the sound.

  She shrugged. "And me, I suppose. You'll want to know about me." She waved her left hand at the room. "Stole most of this stuff when the Imperials left. I should've left a long time ago myself, but—" Her pause was too long. That self-editing thing again. "—it's home. No matter how terrible, there's no place like home, right?"

  He didn't know. He was glad he didn't have to answer that. Tatooine was home, but he would never live there again. Although he wasn't certain if his answer would have been the same if Aunt Beru and Uncle Owen had lived.

  "All this stuff has come in handy," she said. "I can take care of myself, for the most part. Never had a run-in with the mistmakers like yours, though. Never seen anyone else do that and survive."

  The air currents were warm. That was what he had felt as he had first woken up. Because he wasn't wearing anything else. Not pants, not a blanket, nothing. He tried to cover himself, but his hands just flopped beside him.

  She laughed. "Don't worry, son. I've seen it all and more. I had to uncover you to get you in the tank. And I thought it might be better if we waited for modesty until we were sure you were healed."

  His mouth was dry. Parched, as if he had been in the desert instead of in the mist. He licked his lips. "Water?" he whispered.

  This time the word came out. And, he realized, he had feeling in his mouth, of all places.

  "Nope." She sounded positively cheerful as she denied him sustenance. "Worst thing you could have until all the feeling comes back."

  He licked his lips to ask again, and she waved a hand.

  "Trust me on this," she said. "It interacts with the poison the mistmaker put in your system. You don't want any."

  Although he did. Desperately, now that he had feeling back in his mouth. He strained his mind, reached through the Force again. Strengthened himself as much as he could.

  Pain shot through his toes, up his legs, and into his hips. Feeling, he reminded himself. He was feeling things.

  And his lips could move.

  "I came here—" he said slowly.

  "Oh, I know," she said. "And it wasn't the brightest thing you've done, now is it? When you get your feeling back, you crawl into your X-wing and fly away home. Back to your family. You'll be better off."

  "I'm looking for someone." His voice wheezed out of him, like an old man's voice.

  "Well, you found someone." She lowered the chair, got off it, and turned up the knobs on the bacta tank. "Sometimes," she said, as if she were speaking so that he couldn't, "I miss droids. But only sometimes. Won't have them anywhere near me now."

  She had said that to provoke him, because in this galaxy, avoiding droids was not only odd, it was di
fficult. You had to live on a planet as far away as Msst even to attempt it.

  "I'm looking for a man who was here when the Empire was."

  The pink slime had faded from the tank. She shut off some of the other equipment, then walked into the main room as if he hadn't spoken at all.

  Luke sighed and concentrated. Feeling in his back, in his legs, in his face. He worked on his chest and his arms. If he closed his eyes, he could make his hands tingle as if he had slept on them wrong. The tingle spread along his skin into his shoulders.

  Slowly, cautiously, he raised his right arm. Except for slime trails that shimmered under the glow panels, his skin looked normal. He knew better than to sit up on an air cushion. He would have to float off or find the switch.

  The switch was below him. Using the Force, he turned the knob so that the air cushion died gradually. He landed on the regular cushion and suppressed a scream as pain, sharp as needles, shimmered through his back.

  He could stand it. He had to stand it.

  He sat up. The pain shifted with the pressure points. He eased his legs off the bed and saw his clothes, stacked neatly in a pile on a nearby chair.

  His lightsaber was on top of them.

  He dressed. Even the light touch of fabric against his skin caused him agony. But he could endure it. She had said it would only be temporary.

  Then he hobbled into the main room.

  She was seated on a pile of cushions, her back to the door. A cup of liquid steamed beside her. The room blazed with light, but none of it was natural. Heavy black sheets blocked the windows, almost as if she didn't want to see outside.

  "I can walk," Luke said, his voice breaking like a teenager's. "Does that mean I can drink?"

  He had hoped for a laugh. Instead she whirled, her face filled with shock.

  "You shouldn't be up," she said.

  He managed a small smile. "The pain is an amazing experience, but I assume it will fade soon. I'm not making anything worse, am I?"

  She hesitated a moment, then shook her head. Then she sighed and got up. "Sit, Luke Skywalker. Let me make you a meal."

  He started at her knowledge of his name. A thousand rationalizations came to mind—she might have probed his X-wing; she might have recognized him from long-ago news holes—but he suspected none of those reasons was right.

  "You know why I'm here."

  She nodded, her expression miserable. "My son told me you'd come."

  This time Luke did sit down, ignoring the pain that shot from his thighs to his chest. She was Brakiss's mother.

  And she had saved Luke's life.

  "He wasn't a bad boy once, Luke Skywalker. Really he wasn't. He was this bright, wonderful baby. He fairly glowed with life." She stepped into the kitchen, her hands busy as she spoke. It was as if talking about her son made her restless. "Then they came."

  "The Empire."

  She nodded. "They came into my home, looked at my boy, and they could use him. Him. A baby. And they took him from me.”

  Luke stood, about to go comfort her, when she started moving again.

  "They let him come back for visits. But he never smiled after that. Not really. Not the kind that reached his eyes." She turned on the hydroprocessor. It made a quiet whirring sound. "They took something from him." She turned, leaned on the counter, and looked at Luke. "You tried to give it back to him, didn't you? At that academy. You tried to bring my baby back."

  Luke was chilled. The Empire had taken Brakiss away as a baby, knowing that he was Force-sensitive. No wonder Brakiss couldn't face himself. The loss of self, of goodness, of warmth, was deeper than Luke could ever have guessed.

  "I tried," Luke said. "I failed."

  "He came here after that, but he didn't stay." The wrinkles on her face seemed to have grown deeper. "He told them at the Imperial site all that you did, and it ate at him. I'd never seen him have a conscience before. It angered him."

  She spoke the last softly. Angering a man like Brakiss could be deadly. "And then they had no more use for him here. So he left. He said he had skills he could sell. I didn't hear from him for a long time after that. Until recently. When he said you would come here, looking for him."

  The pain was subsiding. So was the thirst. Luke stood.

  "He wants you to find him, Luke Skywalker." She twisted her hands in front of her. "I think you should go home. Forget him. Nothing good can come of this. Whatever was good in my boy died a long, long time ago."

  "No," Luke said. "It didn't die. It's just buried real deep." And would be harder to get to than it would be with almost anyone else, because Brakiss's foundation in the dark side was never his choice, as it had been with Anakin Skywalker. The choice had been made for him, before he even had conscious thought. "You know where he is, don't you?"

  She nodded. "He told me. He wants you to come. But you're a nice man, Luke Skywalker. I can't send you there. My son wants to kill you."

  "I know," Luke said. "I've been in danger before."

  "Not like this," she said. "Oh, Luke Skywalker. Not like this."

  There were always abandoned sleeping quarters on Skip 1. But they were abandoned for a reason, and the reason was never a good one.

  Han shoved the door open for the room he would share with Chewie. Chewie roared.

  "Stop complaining, you big furball. There's nothing I can do about the stench." Han put his traveling duffel on the mildewy cot. The greenish-yellow ooze slid down the walls in this chamber and went through a drain in the floor. The main floor was flat and untouched by the ooze.

  Blue had assured him that this was the best room available.

  If it was the best, he didn't want to see the worst.

  Chewbacca growled and moaned, then wailed.

  "So sleep on the Falcon if it'll make you feel better. You know that's the best way to get beat up and have the ship tossed." Han lifted the blanket. The mildew went all the way down to the mattress. Maybe Chewie's idea about the Falcon wasn't a bad one.

  Chewie yerled.

  "Yeah, I know you've slept on the Falcon before. But that was on Skip 8. And do you remember how I found you?"

  Chewie shook his shaggy head and mumbled.

  "If you could've gotten out of it, you would have done it long before I showed up. You don't need false bravado with me." Han sighed. "You got your sleeping bag? I wouldn't lie on that mattress otherwise."

  Chewie nodded and pulled his bag from his pack. He laid the bag on the mattress and it fell off both sides. Chewie growled softly, but didn't address his remarks to Han. Han ignored him anyway. On principle. One night, maybe two, in this place. Then they could leave.

  But he didn't want to stay on the ship, partly because other smugglers believed that a guarded ship was a valuable one, and partly because no one would approach him on the Falcon. Now that his presence was known on Skip 1, he might see some interesting visitors.

  "Okay, Chewie, let's settle in," Han said. He loudly pulled his bag out of his duffel while Chewie searched beneath the cots for listening devices. He collected three before looking at the walls.

  Pitifully.

  His fur would get coated with the ooze. Han would have to help him clean it off. Either way, Han would have to touch the stuff.

  "All right, you big baby," Han said. He tossed his bag at Chewie, who folded and unfolded it, making the plastic rustle noisily.

  Han stood on the nearest cot, half-closed his eyes, and stuck his fingers in the ooze. It felt as disgusting as touching the evil Waru on Crseih Station. The ooze was warm and viscous. He knew it would take days to get the stench off his fingers. As he carefully searched the walls and ceilings, he found four more listening devices, some of them rusted.

  He still pulled them free. Then he made Chewie hand him the other three. Chewie mimed stomping on them, but Han shook his head.

  He took the devices into the hallway, and threw them into the next room. That way, the devices would get some ambient sound, and Han wouldn't have to search through the ooze
again before they left.

  He washed his hands in the well down the hall, paying particular attention to his fingernails.

  As he went back to the room, he was startled to see the door still open. He pulled his blaster before going inside.

  There, Chewie had his bowcaster pointed at Seluss. The little Sullustan had his gloved hands in the air. He was quiet. His wide eyes were shiny with fear, and his big ears were bent forward in defensive position.

  "Nice work," Han said to Chewie as he came in and closed the door. "You know, Seluss, it's easier to assassinate someone after he's fallen asleep."

  Seluss chittered pathetically.

  "Yeah, right. I'll believe you're on a peaceful mission when my butt stops hurting." Han kept his gaze on Seluss, and leaned against the door. "Want to tell us why you're here?"

  Seluss nodded. His chittering was rapid, and Han hadn't had much use for Sullust since the Battle of Endor. He glanced at Chewie and saw that Chewie wasn't getting it all either.

  "I'm not going to kill you until you're finished," Han said. "It's in your best interest to slow down."

  The folded flesh above Seluss's mouth wiggled. His lower lip protruded. He continued to speak, but much slower.

  Much slower.

  This time, Han caught it. Or he thought he did. "Let me get this straight," he said. "Jarril told you to shoot me when I arrived so that everyone would think we're enemies? That way, no one would follow you, and no one would notice that you were talking to me? Do you buy this, Chewie?"

  Chewie growled for some time.

  "The language is a bit harsh, but his meaning is clear, I think." Han nodded. "It was a stupid idea. Try again, Seluss."

  Seluss took a step forward, chittering as he moved. Han's blaster whipped into place, his finger very tempted against the trigger.

  "Stay where you are, pal. I'm short-tempered today."

  Seluss froze, then raised his hands again. He chittered— slowly—and Han began to listen.