The Legends of Luke Skywalker

by Ken Liu

  Luke, despite his lazy boyhood, was a good hustler, and frauds always seem to have an uncanny instinct for picking out other frauds. He must have figured out that the Empire never had a Death Star to begin with and that the destruction of Alderaan by the superweapon was just a bit of smoke and mirrors intended to strike fear into the hearts of the rebels.

  Luke, however, was going to turn the Empire’s lies against it.

  The rebels staged the entire Battle of Yavin.

  Now, now, you can pick your jaws off the floor. This wasn’t quite as difficult to pull off as you might imagine. The rebel base on Yavin 4 was tiny, which meant that controlling information was easy. The Yavin system was out of the way of most hyperspace trade routes, and there would be few unexpected, neutral observers. The only people who would be in a position to view the imaginary Death Star up close were a dozen or so X-wing pilots, and the promise of making them heroes through the media was enough to secure their cooperation.

  Since everything was happening in space, all the conspirators had to do was project some holograms onto the command center displays to give everyone on Yavin 4 the illusion that a big battle was taking place far above them. You could tell that they didn’t have much time to work up the whole thing, because the propaganda holos showed only flickering displays and simple graphics, which they blamed on primitive equipment at the base. Everyone who had a role in the plot said their lines as the graphics changed, and whoever wasn’t in on the conspiracy believed it was all real.

  But evidence that it was faked showed up everywhere to a trained eye. I’ve studied the leaked “schematics” from the Death Star, and they make no sense. Think about the exhaust port vulnerability that ended the Death Star: even a second-year engineering student at the Imperial Academy wouldn’t have made that kind of mistake. And even if the mistake somehow had been made, it couldn’t have survived the layers of bureaucratic assessments and simulations. Even the design for a latrine on a starship was subjected, by Imperial regulation, to seventeen rounds of engineering reviews!

  I know I’m not the first to raise questions about this implausible vulnerability, and I’ve heard the theory that maybe it was the result of deliberate sabotage. But if you believe the ragtag Rebel Alliance was capable of infiltrating the highest echelons of the disciplined Imperial military research labs, I’ve got a few choice plots of beachfront property I’d like to sell you on Tatooine.

  Regardless of how sloppy the faked destruction of the Death Star was, the rebels did make up a perfect story to go with the victory. It didn’t matter if the story wasn’t true. It felt true. The crowd wanted it to be true.

  It was an old-fashioned, nail-biting drama of the scrappy underdog overcoming impossible odds. Luke’s “miracle shot” was the result of his Jedi Force sense and incredible piloting skills. Solo and Chewie played supporting roles with a last-minute change of heart. And the victory, of course, only happened because of the bravery and wise leadership of Princess Leia, the greatest spy and military strategist in the whole galaxy—incidentally laying the foundation for her future rise to the rank of general. It was exactly the kind of story the despairing rebels needed, and Luke and Leia delivered.

  They filmed a model exploding in a dark room for the finale. And by piling up a few derelict space barges and junk station modules around Yavin 4 and having the X-wings blow them to smithereens, the Rebel Alliance generated whatever debris was needed to round out the lie.

  The Battle of Yavin was a propaganda disaster for the Empire. Their fake battle station was destroyed in an imaginary battle, but what could the Empire do? Admit that they had been lying about all of it? Conjure an actual Death Star out of thin air? They had to swallow the defeat and admit that they were conned by a smarter crook.

  (They did respond by trying to build an actual, for-real Death Star later, but that also didn’t happen quite the way it’s been told. I’ll save that story for another time.)

  Yavin was also the beginning of the legend of Luke Skywalker, Jedi Knight. The Rebel Alliance milked it for every bit it was worth. He became a hero in just about every major battle of the Rebellion, and they showed his handsome mug every chance they got. Soon people began to tell stories about this chosen one, the farm-boy hero, and the Skywalker myth took on a life of its own.

  More and more systems rebelled to join the Alliance after the staged battle. The Empire reeled from a shrinking tax base, and tons of Imperial support staff had to be let go. I was one of the casualties of that bureaucratic shrinkage. And I’ve made it my mission since then to find out the truth of what happened.

  Redy drained the last mouthful of her spice tea and ate the last Naboo sardine fritter, a satisfied twinkle in her eyes.

  We were all a bit too shocked to speak. Eventually, I ventured, “Did you…did you ever try to publish your findings?”

  Redy shook her head. “How could I? This conspiracy goes to the highest levels of the New Republic government. Even Mon Mothma must be in on it. No one will believe me. And what would be the point? The New Republic has turned out to be better for just about everyone, and no one wants to know that their heroes aren’t real. All I can do is share the truth with my fellow spacers who prefer to live outside the reach of the long arm of the law.”

  “Do you know what happened to Luke Skywalker later?” the hooded man asked. “I heard that he disappeared.”

  “That he did,” said Redy. “My guess is that he got bored with living as a hero and decided to go back to practicing his old tricks. I’ve heard tales from all over the galaxy of a stranger who wields a lightsaber and performs miracles for the downtrodden. That’s probably him conning unsophisticated villagers again.”

  The hooded man laughed, a deep, sincere-sounding expression of mirth. “I think that is one of the most interesting stories I’ve ever heard, and that is really saying something, given my life. Thank you.”

  Redy nodded, clearly pleased.

  The hooded man turned to the droid bartender. “Could I trouble you to recharge this portable energy block at the highest power setting? I’m in a hurry to get back to my droid.” He handed a small cube and a credit chip to the droid, who scurried behind the bar.

  “I think I’m still a little hungry,” said Redy.

  We in the circle looked at one another and smiled. Some cons are fun to fall for.

  “I’ll buy you another plate of fritters,” said the Togruta.

  “But you have to tell another story,” said the woman with the monkey-lizards on her boots.

  “Oh, I’ve got plenty of stories!” said a grinning Redy. She turned to the droid bartender. “A quadruple shot, extra-extra bubbles, all your blue milk powder—and get me another plate of Naboo sardine fritters…but up the heat with magma sauce. These other two are paying.” She turned back to the rest of us. “Speaking of Naboo sardine fritters, did you know that Senator Jar Jar Binks and Lord Vader were the same person?”

  As Redy’s audience gasped and whistled appreciatively, the bartender wheeled back to deliver Redy her food and drink.

  The man got up and reached for the power cube in its charging cradle behind the bar.

  “Not yet!” The bartender’s head spun around as the droid chided the man. “The hyperload charger has to cool off.”

  Having touched a quick-charged energy cube once by mistake, I knew the bartender wasn’t just being fussy. Those things could burn the skin off your hand if they hadn’t cooled down. That’s why typically only droids handled them.

  The man wrapped his fingers around the cube, as though he hadn’t heard.

  “Wait!” I jumped up to stop him. But I knew it was already too late.

  Instead of screaming in pain, however, he simply thanked the droid and turned to me with a smile, holding up the energy block.

  He was wearing a plain black glove over his right hand, but I couldn’t imagine how such thin material could afford him enough protection.

  The man nodded at the circle of patrons and turned to leav
e the Dande Donjon. The rest of the customers, already absorbed in Redy’s latest tale, barely glanced up. I, on the other hand, left my seat and followed.

  He was already halfway across the broad expanse of green, heading toward the line of spaceships parked at the shore. “Wait!” I shouted. He stopped, turned around, and waited for me to catch up.

  He removed his hood, and his face seemed familiar to me somehow. I stared at his scruffy, travel-worn face and twinkling eyes. “Do you…do you know something about the events in Redy’s story?”

  He gazed at me placidly. “Let’s say that I do.”

  “Was any of what she said true?”

  He chuckled. “Let’s say that some of my friends would not agree with that particular version.”

  “Then why didn’t you correct her?”

  His gaze was so intense that it seemed as if he were looking into my soul. “Why would I have done that?”

  “To defend the reputations of the heroes of the New Republic! Of…Luke Skywalker.”

  “The heroes of the New Republic didn’t think of themselves as heroes. They thought of themselves as ordinary men and women who did what had to be done to restore freedom and justice to the galaxy. For me to challenge her would have been giving in to fear, fear that their reputations, rather than their deeds, were what mattered. It would have led to anger, anger that they were not worshipped by everyone who benefited from their sacrifices. It would have led to hate, hate that the truth was not enough by itself. But that would have been giving in to the dark side.”

  I thought about his words and my life, the moments when I had given in to fear, anger, hate. I didn’t know what to say. I wanted to ask him for more.

  But he raised his hand in a gesture of benediction and said, “You will go back now to enjoy another story and refreshing spice tea.”

  The wind by the shore was chilly, and nothing in the world seemed more wonderful than wrapping my hands around a warm mug and hearing Redy tell another outrageous tale.

  “I will go back now to enjoy another story and refreshing spice tea,” I said.

  The man smiled, put up his hood, and walked away.

  THE SPECIES-SPECIFIC EXPRESSIONS OF DISBELIEF had been growing steadily on the faces of the deckhands as they watched Dwoogan efficiently wipe up the galley counter while recounting her tale. When she was finally done, a wave of riotous shouts broke out.

  “Oh, come on! That’s ridiculous!”

  “Redy doesn’t know what she’s talking about!”

  “TWWWWEEEEE! THPFFFFTTTT WEEEEE!”

  “Who was that man in the hood?”

  Dwoogan rinsed out the washcloth in the sink, chuckling the whole while.

  “You asked for a story,” she said. “Don’t blame the teller if the story isn’t quite what you were expecting.”

  “But…but…” Teal, who had made it back in time to catch most of Dwoogan’s story, struggled to find words. “Redy thinks everything the New Republic has been saying is a lie!”

  “Every story is true to the teller,” said Dwoogan. “That doesn’t mean they’re all equally true in the larger sense. The only way to tell what is true in the grand scheme of things is to listen to lots of stories.”

  “Hearing stories you don’t like can be a good thing. It reminds you that not everyone thinks alike,” said Ulina. “The Empire wanted everyone to think alike, remember? In fact, Luke and the heroes of the New Republic fought so that people like Redy can tell their stories without fearing for their lives. She might be fined for being an unlicensed engineer, but the authorities won’t ever jail her for her stories. That’s a good thing.”

  The deckhands pondered this.

  Ulina was about to tell everyone to head to their bunks when G’kolu piped up: “I wonder what an Imperial soldier would think of Luke Skywalker.”

  Tyra looked uncomfortable at this. She had always seemed to be extra wary of New Republic customs officials and safety inspectors whenever the Wayward Current was in dock, preferring to stay out of sight. Though it was the rule among the deckhands not to pry into each other’s pasts, a few suspected that her family had some kind of connection with the Empire. Several deckhands glanced at Tyra curiously, but the girl avoided their eyes.

  Dwoogan broke in smoothly. “Ha, they’ve got some fun tales. You just have to get them real drunk first. They’re not all bad sorts. Some of them fought for the Empire because they weren’t told any other stories.”

  Tyra said nothing, but she gave Dwoogan a grateful smile as the other deckhands seized on the opening the cook had provided.

  “Tell us a story from an Imperial!”

  “Tell us!”

  “Yeah!”

  Dwoogan nodded at Ulina. “Ask your third mate. She used to help Imperials who wanted to get out of that life find jobs with smuggling crews.”

  The deckhands turned to Ulina with even more awe and admiration in their eyes.

  Ulina’s glowing eye patch shifted through a range of hues, from deep turquoise to brilliant vermillion, as she pondered the request. “Uniforms can be deceiving—both to the wearers and to those looking at them. Many of the stories I know aren’t safe to share. The New Republic may have forgiven those who took off their Imperial uniforms, but there are still some who have not.”

  The deckhands looked thoughtful. Certainly they all had secrets that they didn’t want the others to know; it was why they had chosen or been swept into this life beyond the law. Tyra bit her bottom lip and nodded almost imperceptibly.

  Ulina looked at Tyra. Abruptly, she asked, “You’ve been to Jakku, right?”

  Surprised, Tyra locked eyes with Ulina. “My family are scavengers, and I was there with them for a while.” She swallowed. “We…we couldn’t get other jobs.”

  “Did you see the starship graveyard?” asked Ulina.

  Tyra’s eyes lit up. “Oh, yes. The wrecks were magnificent. My grandmother used to take me to where she—to explore the officers’ quarters on some of the big destroyers.”

  “So let me tell you a story about Luke Skywalker and the starship graveyard.”

  “I didn’t know he was on Jakku!”

  “Well, you’ll see. The story I’m about to tell you has been passed from teller to teller across many smuggling crews. The original teller was someone who fought for the Emperor….”

  Ulina’s voice changed, and even her face seemed to take on the appearance of another as she began to recount the tale from the perspective of its first teller.

  ALWAYS REMEMBER: YOUR FOCUS

  DETERMINES YOUR REALITY.

  —QUI-GON JINN

  I LIVED UNDER THE GLORIOUS reign of Emperor Palpatine. I lived to see the New Republic’s petty leaders squabble over the ashes of a once-great galaxy. I lived, but my comrades died.

  The Battle of Jakku is celebrated today as the final defeat of the Galactic Empire, but for me, it was both my first and last tour of duty as a gunner aboard a Star Destroyer in the Imperial Navy. I was a young man of twenty, dedicated to the Emperor’s cause of bringing order to the galaxy.

  The life of a gunner is one of endless waiting punctuated by flashes of terror.

  Waiting…waiting…waiting…my fingers tense over the console, heart pounding, sweat dripping…there, flashing streaks over the starboard bow! Target, track, fire! Waiting…waiting…waiting…the voice of the computer echoing around the vast bridge as banks of consoles blinked in the semidarkness under the stars, illuminating terrified faces, each as young as mine.

  Green as I was, even I knew the battle wasn’t going well.

  The Empire had gathered practically every capital ship into orbit around Jakku, and the rebels, bent on chaos and disruption, had converged to the same corner of space with their ragtag fleet. This was to be a textbook grand battle, a confrontation between the good of order and the evil of anarchy.

  True to our commitment to discipline, the Imperial ships fell into neat ranks and tight formations. True to their despicable worship of chaos,
the rebels followed no code of tactics or rules of engagement. They swept around our flanks, skimmed over our blind spots, refused to engage us head-on.

  A series of explosions against the bridge. Bright lights blinded us momentarily. We were hit. Hard.

  The deck lurched, men and women spilled out of their chairs, the viewscreens and windows tilted and jumped crazily, showing glimpses of wildly spinning stars and the long glowing arc of the desert planet below us.

  “Losing altitude,” intoned the computer. Klaxons blared. “Velocity vectors incompatible with stable orbit.”

  We were falling toward the planet, unable to climb out of the deadly trap of its gravity well.

  My crewmates and I struggled up as the deck stabilized and officers barked orders. Outside the windows, we could see the massive bow start to glow orange from friction against the upper reaches of the atmosphere.

  The deck buckled again, and we screamed and tumbled back down.

  My head struck a console as I fell, and blood streamed down my face, blurring my vision. Through the haze of blood and sweat and terror, I saw a glowing hologram rotating over the console.

  MOST WANTED: LUKE SKYWALKER, JEDI WAR CRIMINAL, EXTREMELY DANGEROUS

  The internal channel broadcasting the holo was dedicated to showing the likenesses and crimes of the most dangerous rebels. In regular operation, the channel had the effect of raising our alertness against rebel infiltration. But now, as I lay on the ground, it was terrifying to see the image of this hooded Jedi terrorist slowly spinning against the stars, looming over me like a sneering monster.

  My heart skipped a beat as the deck lurched again. Amid the screams and a shower of sparks, peering through the hologram, I focused on the main windows of the bridge. A powerful bolt of energy arced across space to strike an Imperial Star Destroyer. The angle of the spinning Skywalker made it seem as if the hologram were floating in space, and the dazzling bolt had shot out of his fingertips.

  I was not a superstitious man, but I shuddered at that horrid image.