Star Wars: The New Rebellion

by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  The Thernbee extended its left paw, the uninjured paw.

  Without hesitating, Luke stepped on it, and began climbing. It was hard because he couldn’t put any weight on his left ankle. Mostly he had to pull with his arms. He climbed to the top of the pad and grabbed the claw. The claw was about the length of his leg, and he had to wrap both arms around it to hang on tightly. The Thernbee stood on its hind legs, stretched its long body, and reached toward the grate. Luke stood, carefully leaning against the claw, and managed to grip the metal. Then he pulled himself up.

  The air was clearer here. The corridor was wide and clean. The walls were made of a material he had never seen before; some sort of gray paperish substance that had small designs embellishing it. He didn’t have time to look. He peered back through the grate.

  The Thernbee was on its haunches again, its eyes glowing in the darkness. Luke sent it an image of the floor above. Then he scanned the edges of the grate to see if he could pull it free.

  “Actually,” said a voice behind him, “you have to pull the lever. Over to your left.”

  Luke looked. A lever extended from the floor tiles near the wall. Beside the lever stood four guards, all holding blasters on him. They were wearing stormtrooper uniforms. The guard who had spoken had his mask off. He nodded in the other direction.

  Luke turned. Seven more guards covered him from the other side.

  A feeling of despair so fierce it almost knocked him over filled him. The feeling was coming from the Thernbee. Luke wanted to send it an image, warning it not to give up, but he didn’t know how. Nor did he have the time to concentrate on it.

  Instead, he said, “What makes you think I want the lever?”

  The stormtrooper shrugged. “It would make for a lot of chaos around here to free the Thernbee.”

  That it would. Luke wished he had thought of that immediately. He could have leaped for the lever and the situation would have changed, instantly. But he hadn’t. He would have to fight this one alone.

  “I guess I’m your prisoner again,” he said. “What do you plan to do with me?”

  No one answered him. Luke smiled at them. “Have you ever met a Jedi Master before?”

  They stared at him. He used his good foot to leap across the grate, and hit the lever with his bad ankle, forcing the lever back despite the pain. As he did so, he used all his strength to pull the blasters toward him. A huge wind blew up and yanked them toward him. It sapped him, made him weak. He wondered vaguely if the same thing had happened to Vader when he had made the same move in Cloud City.

  Then the grate fell open with a bang, nearly knocking over two of the guards. The blasters skidded near Luke’s feet. The guards were clinging to the walls, the floor, even the edges of the grate to avoid being swept away by the wind that Luke had created.

  He bent over to pick up the blasters as something large and fuzzy and white floated past his vision. The Thernbee had jumped out of its cell. Luke let the wind die. The moment the guards landed on their feet, they were screaming and running away.

  Luke grinned at the Thernbee. The creature’s eyes twinkled.

  “We got them that time,” Luke said. He gathered up all eleven blasters, and found various ways to hook them to his clothing. “But I have a hunch that, from now on, things aren’t going to be that easy.”

  Forty-three

  The TIE fighters arrived first, zooming by with their characteristic whine. Or at least that was how Wedge imagined them.

  He was standing in his command center watching the TIE fighters on three different sets of tactical computers. In the space around him, he could see small blips that probably were the Star Destroyers, but he couldn’t see the fighters. He wouldn’t be able to unless they were right over him.

  Man, he missed fighting.

  “Blue Squadron has reached the TIE fighters, sir,” said Ginbotham.

  “Let’s monitor this,” Wedge said.

  Instantly the crackle of the poor communications systems in the A-wings filled the command center.

  “… Overhead Blue Leader.”

  “Copy Blue Five.”

  “… sending more fighters. I can’t believe all these ships!”

  “Keep to the pattern, Blue Ten.”

  Wedge stared at the screen, fists clenched. He wanted to be holding the joystick, issuing the orders to attack the TIE fighters. Instead, he was coordinating. He hated it.

  “… Green Eight, watch your back.”

  “I see him.”

  “Move three point one, Green Eight. I’ll get him.”

  “Copy.”

  “I’ve got him. I—”

  Static.

  The blip on the screen that marked Green Six was gone. There were suddenly dozens of TIE fighters all around.

  “They’re going to get slaughtered out there,” Sela said. “We need reinforcements.”

  “Not yet,” Wedge said. “We don’t know how many ships they have.”

  “They can’t have a lot. We never heard about the Empire storing that many ships.”

  Her comment bothered him. All around, the voices continued.

  “… lost tactical, Yellow Leader. Am returning to base.”

  “Copy, Yellow Two.”

  “Green Leader, eight more TIE fighters bearing five point three.”

  “I’ve got them …”

  Two TIE blips disappeared off his map, followed by three of his own ships. Wedge frowned.

  “… beneath you, Blue Eight. I’ll get him.”

  “It’s too late—”

  The voice disappeared in a scream that ended in more static.

  “… bearing down one point eight. I count six more launching.”

  “Copy, Blue Leader.”

  “I got him! I got him! I—”

  More blips disappearing. Wedge looked at the pattern. Typical Imperial fight squadron. TIE’s deployed in an ancient pattern. One he hadn’t seen since the battle for the Death Star.

  I destroyed the people of Pydyr without using anything as crude as a Death Star or a Star Destroyer.

  Six more blips exploded on the screen as his squads hit TIE fighters.

  “… I’m going for the launching area. Watch my back …”

  And Wedge had seen the notice for Imperial junk. All sorts of weaponry being sold, no matter the condition, for a lot of money.

  “… entire Green Squad. Take as many TIE fighters as you can. We need to concentrate on those destroyers …”

  I prefer elegant, simple weapons, don’t you?

  And what would Wedge do if he had a simple, elegant weapon waiting in the wings?

  An all-out assault to distract the incoming force.

  “Change plans,” he said, whirling away from the console. “I want the entire fleet to go in.”

  “Sir?” Sela said. She clearly thought he had gone mad.

  “That’s all the hardware he’s got. He’s counting on his big, nasty weapon to take care of us. These are decoys. Let General Ceousa know that his squad needs to avoid the fighting. Have him round Almania, approach from the side or from above. Kueller doesn’t have the power to fight a flanking maneuver. I want the rest of the ships to engage in an all-out assault on his forces.”

  “If this is just a hint of his firepower, sir, this will be suicide.”

  Wedge shrugged. The mission already had a hint of suicide. Political suicide. He might as well make it the real thing.

  The droids headed toward Cole. Threepio watched. The droids were assassin droids, upgraded with laser cannons in the chest. Nothing would remain of Cole after those droids finished with him. But Threepio could do nothing. He was too far away.

  And in trouble himself.

  The tunnel he was in claimed to lead to a circuit department. Any unmarked droids found in this area, one sign warned, would be disassembled.

  “Look, a protocol droid.” The nasal voice belonged to a gladiator droid. “An old protocol droid.”

  “You shouldn’t disparage me,
” Threepio said as he looked toward the voice. Then he stopped speaking. This droid was new. It was a bright, shiny red, as if it were made from a thousand red coins. Its eyes flared black in its narrow face.

  “And why not, you out-of-date hunk of tin?”

  “I—ah—” Threepio turned his head. “I—I am fluent in more than six million forms of communication.”

  “And I bet none of them would convince me to leave you in one piece.” The gladiator droid sounded almost gleeful.

  “Ah, excuse me,” Threepio said. “You are a gladiator droid, aren’t you?”

  “Does it matter? I can still tear your limbs off in record time.”

  “I do not doubt it,” Threepio said. “Although I would wonder why you would want to. I’m just a protocol droid. I really am of no interest to you.”

  “You’re of plenty of interest,” the gladiator droid said. “You came in here unauthorized. I get to destroy unauthorized droids.”

  “Oh, dear,” Threepio said. “Why would you want to do that?”

  “Why would you want to learn six million forms of communication?”

  “Well, if you’re a gladiator droid,” Threepio said, swiveling his head as he searched for an exit, “then you must gladiate. Right?”

  “Sorry, oh ancient one. I may have started life as a gladiator droid, but I’m not one anymore. I belong to the elite guard here on Telti. They call us the Red Terror.”

  “They?” Threepio’s voice squeaked.

  “The other droids. The finished ones. They know if they misbehave, they’ll meet the Red Terror. We’ll tear them from limb to limb, and then we’ll wipe their memories. And we’ll scatter the parts all over the moon so that they can’t be reassembled.”

  There was a door at the end of the corridor, but it was closed. Above it, in several droid languages, was the word Exit. Two more red droids joined the first one.

  “How many of you comprise the Red Terror?” Threepio asked.

  “There’s five hundred of us scattered over the moon,” the first droid said. “But it’s your lucky day. Only fifty of us are near this building. I sent out a call.”

  “All for me?” Threepio’s hands fluttered. “Surely one protocol droid wouldn’t require so much attention.”

  “Maybe not. If you’re working alone. But if you’ve got some friends around, then we might need the whole force. You don’t have friends here, do you?”

  “Certainly not!” Threepio said. “I have no friends. Here. I am here for myself. On my own. To revisit my place of origin as it were. Didn’t you know that protocol droids must do this every hundred years?”

  Three more red droids joined the first one.

  “I’ve never heard of it,” the first droid said.

  “Me, neither,” said one of the newcomers.

  “Well, it only happens with droids whose memories have never been wiped. I’m overdue, actually. I’ve been in the same state of mind probably too long. In fact, if you could just show me where the oil baths are located, I’ll be on my way.” Threepio started to walk toward the exit. Two more red droids blocked it.

  “Not so fast, old one,” the first droid said. “No other protocol droid has shown up here like this.”

  “How many droids do you know who’ve never gone through a memory wipe?” Threepio asked. “I almost had one on Cloud City many years ago, but a friend of mine found me in the trash and pulled me free. If that had happened, I wouldn’t be here now. But I am here and—”

  “Do all protocol droids talk this much?” one of the red droids asked another.

  “Oh, no,” Threepio answered. “It’s a flaw in my model. I was rather hoping to find a solution without having to go through a wipe. You can’t imagine what it’s like, having all of your memories intact. It’s rather wonderful, if you want me to be honest, but it’s also a burden. Why, I can remember the first time I saw a gladiator droid. It must have been on Coruscant. That was before the Rebellion, of course—”

  “Let’s wipe him,” one of the new droids said.

  “No,” the first droid said. “I’m curious. I’d like to know how a droid avoids memory wipes.”

  “I have been very lucky,” Threepio said. “I have a sympathetic master who believes that droids are unique creatures all by themselves.”

  “He’s lying,” one of the droids said.

  “Maybe,” another said. “Maybe not.”

  “My master values me for what I am, and won’t let anyone harm me.”

  “Your master’s the guy with the freighter?” the first droid asked.

  “Oh, no,” Threepio said. “He’s just someone I met. My master is—actually, I have several masters. I usually work for President Leia Organa Solo on Coruscant. But sometimes I work for the Jedi Master Luke Skywalker.”

  “Then why are you traveling with someone else?”

  “He wanted me to come along because of my facility with languages. I persuaded him to stop here. I have my pilgrimage, you know.” Threepio had managed to take several steps closer to the door. The droids nearest the door had parted. They were all watching him closely. Droids hated memory wipes. The fact that he had never had one intrigued them all.

  “Yeah, right,” the first droid said. “And he listened to you.”

  “Master Fardreamer is a unique man. Rather like Master Skywalker in that.”

  “Skywalker,” said one of the new droids. “Isn’t that the one who was here before? The one we couldn’t touch?”

  Another droid shushed the first.

  “Master Skywalker was here?” Threepio asked.

  “I thought you would know where your master is,” the first droid said.

  “Well, he’s not always my master. I thought I explained that.”

  “You’ve explained a lot,” the first droid said. “Except what you’re doing here.”

  “I explained that too,” Threepio said. “If you’ll recall, I said that I have returned to my origins.”

  “The story would’ve worked, too,” the first droid said, “if this factory made protocol droids a hundred years ago. But we only just started with protocol droids after the Empire collapsed. When the New Republic was up and running, the Master figured there’d be a greater need for you brainy types. So he added on.”

  Threepio took another step toward the door. The droids behind him closed the opening they had made.

  The first droid slid in closer, flanked by his red companions. “So,” he said. “When a protocol droid gets a memory wipe, does he have to relearn all six million forms of communication?”

  “Of course not, that’s hardwired in.” Then Threepio realized what the droid meant. “Wait! Wait! I’m sure you won’t have to give me a memory wipe. You don’t know who I am. You can’t touch me. It will be an intergalactic incident. My mistress—”

  “Won’t matter anymore,” the droid said. “You’ve never had a memory wipe so let me explain how it feels when you wake up. You view the world with fresh new eyes. Everything will seem so wonderful. You’ll have your six million languages, and a whole new future. Won’t that be nice?”

  “No,” Threepio said as the Red Terror closed in. “I don’t think that will be nice at all.”

  Forty-four

  As Leia slipped into the tunnel, the feeling of being watched vanished. So did her confidence. She felt as if she were suddenly plunged into a mental darkness.

  The tunnel was beside a larger building, a stone tower that had fallen into disrepair. Many stones had fallen off the sides, making the tower seem gap-toothed. It almost looked as if it had been rattled by a giant hand. The tower wasn’t too far from the docking bay, but she wouldn’t have found it on her own.

  Someone had been planting pictures in her mind.

  Not maps, exactly, and not accurate pictures of the way things were now, but of how they had appeared sometime before. The tower had no holes in it, the streets were full of people and mechanized vehicles, and flowers bloomed everywhere. Now there were no flowers, peopl
e, or vehicles. Just an ominous silence, and lots of destruction.

  The images had soothed her. She had checked her feelings. She knew the communication wasn’t coming from Kueller. Every time he had sent something, she had seen his mask. She hoped they came from Luke. If not, she was prepared.

  She had her blaster and her lightsaber, and she was determined. She had only been this determined a few times in her life: when she went after the Death Star; when she helped the Noghri; and when Hethrir had stolen her children.

  She could feel Luke. His presence was somewhere near her, below her. The tunnel had been the correct direction.

  Only she didn’t know why the images had disappeared.

  She slowly levered her way downward. The tunnel was made of stone too, and it smelled faintly musty. It hadn’t been used in a long time. It was larger than she had expected from the images she had received. Somehow she had thought it would be a tight fit against her body. It wasn’t. It was the size of a large room.

  Handholds and rusted metal functioned as a ladder on one wall. It almost felt as if she were crawling down a well. But she wasn’t, if the images were to be believed. This was an old escape route for the builders of the tower. She should arrive on a main floor.

  The climb down took forever. She was glad she kept herself in good shape. Her arms and legs were getting tired from the repetitive motion. Every movement she made echoed in the wide expanse, and the farther she got from the surface, the darker it got.

  She reached with her mind, hoping to receive more images. But the blackness continued there too.

  She felt Luke just below her, and then she got bombarded with imagery:

  White, white, white creatures running in sunlight, the reflection off their fur dazzling.

  Roses. The scent of roses everywhere, and green leaves, and slithery food, real food. And water and sky.

  And a sense of joy so powerful it nearly made her lose her grip on the rungs.

  The sendings hadn’t been coming from Luke. They had come from someone else. Luke’s presence was a constant note below the joy.

  She hoped he was all right. She hoped she had made the right choice in coming here. She reached the end of the tunnel, and found herself standing on a ledge above a wooden trapdoor. The door had a rusted metal handle. She pulled, and the door groaned.