by James Kahn
He had the power; the choice was his.
And then another thought emerged, slowly compulsive as an ardent lover: he could destroy the Emperor, too. Destroy them both, and rule the galaxy. Avenge and conquer.
It was a profound moment for Luke. Dizzying. Yet he did not swoon. Nor did he recoil.
He took one step forward.
For the first time, the thought entered Vader’s consciousness that his son might best him. He was astounded by the strength Luke had acquired since their last duel, in the Cloud City—not to mention the boy’s timing, which was honed to a thought’s-breadth. This was an unexpected circumstance. Unexpected and unwelcome. Vader felt humiliation crawling in on the tail of his first reaction, which was surprise, and his second, which was fear. And then the edge of the humiliation curled up, to reveal bald anger. And now he wanted revenge.
These things were mirrored, each facet, by the young Jedi who now towered above him. The Emperor, watching joyously, saw this, and goaded Luke on to revel in his Darkness. “Use your aggressive feelings, boy! Yes! Let the hate flow through you! Become one with it, let it nourish you!”
Luke faltered a moment—then realized what was happening. He was suddenly confused again. What did he want? What should he do? His brief exultation, his microsecond of dark clarity—gone, now, in a wash of indecision, veiled enigma. Cold awakening from a passionate flirtation.
He took a step back, lowered his sword, relaxed, and tried to drive the hatred from his being.
In that instant, Vader attacked. He lunged half up the stairs, forcing Luke to reverse defensively. He bound the boy’s blade with his own, but Luke disengaged and leaped to the safety of an overhead gantry. Vader jumped over the railing to the floor beneath the platform on which Luke stood.
“I will not fight you, Father,” Luke stated.
“You are unwise to lower your defenses,” Vader warned. His anger was layered, now—he did not want to win if the boy was not battling to the fullest. But if winning meant he had to kill a boy who wouldn’t fight... then he could do that, too. Only he wanted Luke to be aware of those consequences. He wanted Luke to know this was no longer just a game. This was Darkness.
Luke heard something else, though. “Your thoughts betray you, Father. I feel the good in you... the conflict. You could not bring yourself to kill me before—and you won’t destroy me now.” Twice before, in fact—to Luke’s recollection—Vader could have killed him, but didn’t. In the dogfight over the first Death Star, and later in the lightsaber duel on Bespin. He thought of Leia, briefly now, too—of how Vader had had her in his clutches once, had even tortured her... but didn’t kill her. He winced to think of her agony, but quickly pushed that from his mind. The point was clear to him, now, though so often so murky: there was still good in his father.
This accusation really made Vader angry. He could tolerate much from the insolent child, but this was insufferable. He must teach this boy a lesson he would never forget, or die learning. “Once again, you underestimate the power of the dark side...”
Vader threw his scintillating blade—it sliced through the supports holding up the gantry on which Luke was perched, then swept around and flew back into Vader’s hand. Luke tumbled to the ground, then rolled down another level, under the tilting platform. In the shadow of the darkened overhang, he was out of sight. Vader paced the area like a cat, seeking the boy; but he wouldn’t enter the shadows of the overhang.
“You cannot hide forever, Luke.”
“You’ll have to come in and get me,” replied the disembodied voice.
“I will not give you the advantage that easily.” Vader felt his intentions increasingly ambiguous in this conflict; the purity of his evil was being compromised. The boy was clever indeed—Vader knew he must move with extreme caution now.
“I wish no advantage, Father. I will not fight you. Here... take my weapon.” Luke knew full well this might be his end, but so be it. He would not use Darkness to fight Darkness. Perhaps it would be left to Leia, after all, to carry on the struggle, without him. Perhaps she would know a way he didn’t know; perhaps she could find a path. For now, though, he could see only two paths, and one was into Darkness; and one was not.
Luke put his lightsaber on the ground, and rolled it along the floor toward Vader. It stopped halfway between them, in the middle of the low overhead area. The Dark Lord reached out his hand--Luke’s lightsaber jumped into it. He hooked it to his belt and, with grave uncertainty, entered the shadowy overhang.
He was picking up additional feelings from Luke, now, new crosscurrents of doubt. Remorse, regret, abandonment. Shades of pain. But somehow not directly related to Vader. To others, to... Endor. Ah, that was it—the Sanctuary Moon where his friends would soon die. Luke would learn soon enough: friendship was different on the dark side. A different thing altogether.
“Give yourself to the dark side, Luke,” he entreated. “It is the only way you can save your friends. Yes, your thoughts betray you, son. Your feelings for them are strong, especially for—”
Vader stopped. He sensed something.
Luke withdrew further into shadow. He tried to hide, but there was no way to hide what was in his mind—Leia was in pain. Her agony cried to him now, and his spirit cried with her. He tried to shut it out, to shut it up, but the cry was loud, and he couldn’t stifle it, couldn’t leave it alone, had to cradle it openly, to give it solace.
Vader’s consciousness invaded that private place.
“No!” screamed Luke.
Vader was incredulous. “Sister? Sister!” he bellowed. “Your feelings have now betrayed her, too... Twins!” he roared triumphantly. “Obi-Wan was wise to hide her, but now his failure is complete.” His smile was clear to Luke, through the mask, through the shadows, through all the realms of Darkness. “If you will not turn to the Dark Side, perhaps she will.”
This, then, was Luke’s breaking point. For Leia was everyone’s last unflagging hope. If Vader turned his twisted, misguided cravings on her...
“Never!” he screamed. His lightsaber flew off Vader’s belt into his own hand, igniting as it came to him.
He rushed to his father with a frenzy he’d never known. Nor had Vader. The gladiators battled fiercely, sparks flying from the clash of their radiant weapons, but it was soon evident that the advantage was all Luke’s. And he was pressing it. They locked swords, body to body. When Luke pushed Vader back to break the clinch, the Dark Lord hit his head on an over-hanging beam in the cramped space. He stumbled backward even farther, out of the low-hanging area. Luke pursued him relentlessly.
Blow upon blow, Luke forced Vader to retreat—back, onto the bridge that crossed the vast, seemingly bottomless shaft to the power core. Each stroke of Luke’s saber pummeled Vader, like accusations, like screams, like shards of hate.
The Dark Lord was driven to his knees. He raised his blade to block yet another onslaught—and Luke slashed Vader’s right hand off at the wrist.
The hand, along with bits of metal, wires, and electronic devices, clattered uselessly away while Vader’s lightsaber tumbled over the edge of the span, into the endless shaft below, without a trace.
Luke stared at his father’s twitching, severed, mechanical hand—and then at his own black-gloved artificial part—and realized suddenly just how much he’d become like his father. Like the man he hated.
Trembling, he stood above Vader, the point of his glowing blade at the Dark Lord’s throat. He wanted to destroy this thing of Darkness, this thing that was once his father, this thing that was... him.
Suddenly the Emperor was there, looking on, chuckling with uncontrollable, pleased agitation. “Good! Kill him! Your hate has made you powerful! Now, fulfill your destiny and take your father’s place at my side!”
Luke stared at his father beneath him, then at the Emperor, then back at Vader. This was Darkness—and it was the Darkness he hated. Not his father, not even the Emperor. But the Darkness in them. In them, and in himself.
&nb
sp; And the only way to destroy the Darkness was to renounce it. For good and all. He stood suddenly erect, and made the decision for which he’d spent his life in preparation.
He hurled his lightsaber away. “Never! Never will I turn to the dark side! You have failed, Palpatine. I am a Jedi, as my father was before me.”
The Emperor’s glee turned to a sullen rage. “So be it, Jedi. If you will not be turned, you will be destroyed.”
Palpatine raised his spidery arms toward Luke: blinding white bolts of energy coruscated from his fingers, shot across the room like sorcerous lightning, and tore through the boy’s insides, looking for ground. The young Jedi was at once confounded and in agony --he’d never heard of such a power, such a corruption of the Force, let alone experienced it.
But if it was Force-generated, it could be Force-repelled. Luke raised his arms to deflect the bolts. Initially, he was successful—the lightning rebounded from his touch, harmlessly into the walls. Soon, though, the shocks came with such speed and power, they coursed over and into him, and he could only shrink before them, convulsed with pain, his knees buckling, his powers at ebb.
Vader crawled, like a wounded animal, to his Emperor’s side.
On Endor, the battle of the bunker continued. Stormtroopers kept irradiating Ewoks with sophisticated weaponry, while the fuzzy little warriors bashed away at the Imperial troops with clubs, tumbled walkers with logpiles and vine trip-wires, lassoed speeder bikes with vine-ropes and net-traps.
They felled trees on their foes. They dug pits which they covered with branches, and then lured the walkers to chase them until the clumsy armored vehicles toppled into the dug-outs. They started rockslides. They dammed a small, nearby stream, and then opened the floodgates, deluging a host of troops and two more walkers. They ganged up, and then ran away. They jumped on top of walkers from high branches, and poured pouches of burning lizard-oil in the gun-slits. They used knives, and spears, and slings, and made scary war-shrieks to confound and dismay the enemy. They were fearless opponents.
Their example made even Chewie bolder than was his wont. He started having so much fun swinging on vines and bashing heads, he nearly forgot about his laser pistol.
He swung onto the roof of a walker at one point, with Teebo and Wicket clinging to his back. They landed with a thud atop the lurching contraption, then made such a banging racket trying to hang on, one of the Stormtroopers inside opened the top hatch to see what was happening. Before he could fire his gun, Chewie plucked him out and dashed him to the ground—Wicket and Teebo immediately dove into the hatch and subdued the other trooper.
Ewoks drive an Imperial Walker much the way they drive speeder bikes—terribly, but with exhilaration. Chewie was almost thrown off the top several times, but even barking angrily down into the cockpit didn’t seem to have much effect—the Ewoks just giggled, squealed, and careened into another speeder bike.
Chewie climbed down inside. It took him half a minute to master the controls—Imperial technology was pretty standardized. And then, methodically, one by one, he began approaching the other, unsuspecting, Imperial Walkers, and blasting them to dust. Most had no idea what was happening.
As the giant war-machines began going up in flames, the Ewoks were reinspired. They rallied behind Chewie’s walker. The Wookiee was turning the tide of battle.
Han, meanwhile, was still working furiously at the control panel. Wires sparked each time he refastened another connection, but the door kept not opening. Leia crouched at his back, firing her laser pistol, giving him cover.
He motioned her at last. “Give me a hand, I think I’ve got it figured out. Hold this.”
He handed her one of the wires. She holstered her weapon, took the wire he gave her, and held it in position as he brought two others over from opposite ends of the panel.
“Here goes nothing,” he said.
The three wires sparked; the connection was made. There was a sudden loud WHUMP, as a second blast door crashed down in front of the first, doubling the impregnable barrier.
“Great. Now we have two doors to get through,” Leia muttered.
At that moment, she was hit in the arm by a laser bolt, and knocked to the ground.
Han rushed over to her. “Leia, no!” he cried, trying to stop the bleeding.
“Princess Leia, are you all right?” Threepio fretted.
“It’s not bad,” she shook her head. “It’s—”
“Hold it!” shouted a voice. “One move and you’re both dead!”
They froze, looked up. Two stormtroopers stood before them, weapons leveled, unwavering.
“Stand up,” one ordered. “Hands raised.”
Han and Leia looked at each other, fixed their gazes deep in each other’s eyes, swam there in the wells of their souls for a suspended, eternal moment, during which all was felt, understood, touched, shared.
Solo’s gaze was drawn down to Leia’s holster—she’d surreptitiously eased out her gun, and was holding it now at the ready. The action was hidden from the troopers, because Han was standing in front of Leia, half-blocking their view.
He looked again into her eyes, comprehending. With a last, heartfelt smile, he whispered, “I love you.”
“I know,” she answered simply.
Then the moment was over; and at an unspoken, instantaneous signal, Han whirled out of the line of fire as Leia blasted at the stormtroopers.
The air was filled with laser fire—a glinting orange-pink haze, like an electron storm, buffeted the area, sheared by intense flares.
As the smoke cleared, a giant Imperial Walker approached, stood before him, and stopped. Han looked up to see its laser cannons aimed directly in his face. He raised his arms, and took a tentative step forward. He wasn’t really sure what he was going to do. “Stay back,” he said quietly to Leia, measuring the distance to the machine, in his mind.
That was when the hatch on top of the walker popped open and Chewbacca stuck his head out with an ingratiating smile.
“Ahr Rahr!” barked the Wookiee.
Solo could have kissed him. “Chewie! Get down here! She’s wounded!” He started forward to greet his partner, then stopped in mid-stride. “No, wait. I’ve got an idea.”
= IX =
THE two space armadas, like their sea-bound counterparts of another time and galaxy, sat floating, ship to ship, trading broadsides with each other in point-blank confrontation.
Heroic, sometimes suicidal, maneuvers marked the day. A Rebel Cruiser, its back alive with fires and explosions, limped into direct contact with an Imperial Star Destroyer before exploding completely—taking the Star Destroyer with it. Cargo ships loaded with charge were set on collision courses with fortress-vessels, their crews abandoning ships to fates that were uncertain, at best.
Lando, Wedge, Blue Leader, and Green Wing went in to take out one of the larger destroyers—the Empire’s main communications ship. It had already been disabled by direct cannonade from the Rebel Cruiser it had subsequently destroyed; but its damages were reparable—so the Rebels had to strike while it was still licking its wounds.
Lando’s squadron went in low—rock-throwing low—this prevented the destroyer from using its bigger guns. It also made the fighters invisible until they were directly visualized.
“Increase power on the front deflector shields,” Lando radioed his group. “We’re going in.”
“I’m right with you,” answered Wedge. “Close up formations, team.”
They went into a high-speed power-dive, perpendicular to the long axis of the Imperial vessel—vertical drops were hard to track. Fifty feet from the surface, they pulled out at ninety degrees, and raced along the gunmetal hull, taking laserfire from every port.
“Starting attack run on the main power tree,” Lando advised.
“I copy,” answered Green Wing. “Moving into position.”
“Stay clear of their front batteries,” warned Blue Leader.
“It’s a heavy fire zone down there.”
“I’m in range.”
“She’s hurt bad on the left of the tower,” Wedge noted. “Concentrate on that side.”
“Right with you.”
Green Wing was hit. “I’m losing power!”
“Get clear, you’re going to blow!”
Green Wing took it down like riding a rocket, into the destroyer’s front batteries. Tremendous explosions rumbled the port bow.
“Thanks,” Blue Leader said quietly to the conflagration.
“That opens it up for us!” yelled Wedge. “Cut over. The power reactors are just inside that cargo bay.”
“Follow me!” Lando called, pulling the Falcon into a sharp bank that caught the horrified reactor personnel by surprise. Wedge and Blue followed suit. They all did their worst.
“Direct hit!” Lando shouted.
“There she goes!”
“Pull up, pull up!”
They pulled up hard and fast, as the destroyer was enveloped in a series of ever-increasing explosions, until it looked finally just like one more small star. Blue Leader was caught by the shock wave, and thrown horribly against the side of a smaller Imperial ship, which also exploded. Lando and Wedge escaped.
On the Rebel command ship bridge, smoke and shouts filled the air.
Ackbar reached Calrissian on the comlink. “The jamming has stopped. We have a reading on the shield.”
“Is it still up?” Lando responded with desperate anticipation in his voice.
“I’m afraid so. It looks like General Solo’s unit didn’t make it.”
“Until they’ve destroyed our last ship, there’s still hope,” replied Lando. Han wouldn’t fail. He couldn’t—they still had to pick off that annoying Death Star.
On the Death Star, Luke was nearly unconscious beneath the continuing assault of the Emperor’s lightning. Tormented beyond reason, betaken of a weakness that drained his very essence, he hoped for nothing more than to submit to the nothingness toward which he was drifting.