From a Certain Point of View (Star Wars) Page 29

  Have I been robbed? No, this is how the hut looked in the early days of my exile, when I still etched a calendar of sorts into the wall above my bed to mark the passage of time. I run my hand across the pitted surface. Three years scored into the stone.

  I’d found the old prospector’s hut perched high on a windswept bluff, it was empty, long since abandoned, but I knew immediately that it would serve me well. The walls were solid, the roof sound, and the caves beneath the cellar an ideal place for meditation and training. Most important, it was remote, surrounded by a vast sea of dunes. I would be left alone.

  I swing my legs onto the rough stone floor. That’s when I realize. I don’t ache. For the first time in years, my body doesn’t complain when I push myself from the bed. I look down at my hands. They’re the hands of a much younger man. They don’t shake, they don’t tremble. The skin is supple, tanned but not yet discolored by the twin suns’ constant glare. I flex my fingers, expecting to hear the creak of rheumatic joints. Nothing. The fingers are strong. One might even suggest, dexterous.

  I run them through my beard, a thought occurring to me. I rush through to the back of the modest dwelling, past the stove and pantry, to the tarnished mirror hanging on the far wall. The face in the glass is largely free of lines, the skin smooth. The tousled shock of hair is thick, only the beard betraying a smattering of gray.

  The world lurches. I throw a hand against the wall to steady myself. This is the past. The mattress, the chair, the bowls, and the humidifier; they’re not missing. They just haven’t arrived yet.

  I pitch forward, falling into the swirling cycle of my death.

  Eyes. Scream. Saber. Pain.

  Eyes. Scream. Saber. Pain.

  Eyes. Scream. Saber. Pain.

  But this time, there’s more. So much more.

  A newborn baby, cradled in my arms, wailing as his mother breathes her last.

  Qui-Gon sinking to his knees, smoke rising from the jagged hole in his gut.

  Eyes that once looked on me as a brother corrupted by the dark side, burning yellow with hate.

  Maul’s pyre raging beneath the desert sky.

  A severed arm twitching by the light of my saber.

  Empty robes tumbling to the floor.

  A voice calling my name.

  Eyes. Scream. Saber. Pain.

  Eyes. Scream. Saber—

  I sit up, gasping for air. I’m back on the bed, dust motes dancing in the light that streams through the hut’s narrow windows.

  My vision blurs and I am in the Temple on Coruscant, the way it was, long before Palpatine made a mockery of those hallowed halls. Yoda stares at me across the chamber, a wry smile creasing that ancient face.

  “For everything, a reason there is.”

  “But why here?” I yell as I slide back to the sun-beaten hut. “Why now?”

  There is no answer.

  I sit on the edge of the bed, trying to remember what happened when I first lived this morning.

  I look down, seeing a ghost of my younger self twisting and turning on the slab, caught in a nightmare. He moans, he whimpers, he sits bolt-upright, a single word on his lips as he wakes.

  A single name.

  “Luke!”

  And then I am alone again.

  I know what day this is. I recognize the knot in the pit of my stomach, the sense of foreboding that makes my skin crawl. Luke is in danger. Something is about to happen that will change everything.

  “Go to him,” urges a voice inside my head.

  “Yes, Master,” I reply, shielding my eyes as I barrel out into the sunlight. Neda is waiting for me, lounging beneath a makeshift shelter, animal skins stretched taut across a rickety frame. The structure will remain long after the poor thing dies of old age, the tattered cover keeping me awake at night as it flaps incessantly in the wind. Then one morning it will be gone, ripped from the side of the house by a desert storm.

  But that hasn’t happened yet. My trusty, if cantankerous, eopie is alive and well, snuffling around in the dirt, foraging for roots in the scorched ground. I have an overwhelming urge to throw my arms around her, but Neda regards me with her usual disdain, a surly snort her only greeting before she resumes the fruitless search for sustenance.

  Quite right. Just as it should be; but for now, her breakfast needs to wait.

  She doesn’t complain as I tighten the cracked leather straps around her middle, ignoring me completely as I hoist myself onto the saddle.

  “Come on, old girl. Let’s go.”

  I pull on the reins, gently jabbing my heels into her flank when she still doesn’t respond. Finally, she grunts and begrudgingly obliges, picking up the pace as we trot down the winding path to the valley beneath.

  Soon, we are charging across the salt flats, Neda snorting as I push her harder than ever before. Her broad feet pound the sand, rushing past bone-white skeletons picked clean by the claw-condors. I imagine a cavalcade of scenarios, each more terrible than the last.

  Is it the Sand People? Owen can handle Tusken Raiders as well as anyone on the wastes, but the nomads have a special reason to hate his family, a grudge still not forgotten and far from forgiven. Have they finally taken their revenge? The sins of the father visited upon the son.

  I tighten my grip on Neda’s reins, urging her on. Of course, there are other terrors on Tatooine; the loathsome clump of blubber that is Jabba the Hutt for one. Owen is a proud man. He’s likely to fight rather than pay the protection money Jabba demands of his neighbors. Surely Owen wouldn’t be that stupid, after what he’s promised?

  No, Owen knows when to fight his battles. But what if the threat comes not from Tatooine at all, but from the stars above? Gangsters and raiders are one thing, but the Empire is another. Owen wouldn’t stand a chance against a crack squad of Imperial troopers. Is a drop ship already plummeting through Tatooine’s thin atmosphere? Are my worst fears about to be realized?

  I imagine sand crunching beneath heavy black boots, a dark cape billowing in a desert squall, the mechanical wheeze of a respirator.

  And then I am back on the battle station. Vader is waiting for me in the corridor ahead, standing in silence, his lightsaber already pulsing red. He knew I was coming, that I was on board his engine of destruction. Does he know what I’ve done? Have all my efforts been for naught?

  Why won’t he say anything, as motionless as a statue? Nineteen years. Nineteen years since I left him to die. Nineteen years of reliving his corruption every night in my dreams.

  What does he look like under that mask? What does he see through those ruby lenses?

  A friend? An enemy?

  A relic?

  He appears so calm, so controlled, but I can feel his rage, seething like the perdition nebula beneath that heartless faceplate. His fury threatens to overwhelm him, just as it always did, but he keeps it in check. I can’t help but be impressed. The Emperor has taught my former Padawan well. I can only imagine the poison that has spilled from Palpatine’s lips since Mustafar.

  Savor your hatred, my apprentice. Nurture it. Let it empower you. Let it bring you strength.

  I always knew this day would come. I just didn’t know where, or when. I certainly never imagined it would be in a place like this, on a planet killer the like of which the galaxy has never seen.

  A million voices cry out as one, washing over me, their pain my own.

  Finally, Vader steps forward to meet me. My lightsaber ignites, the vibration of the power cell rising up my arm.

  “I’ve been waiting for you, Obi-Wan. We meet again, at last.”

  The voice is unrecognizable. How little of my friend is left?

  Another memory assaults me. A woman lying on a bed, her breath shallow. “There’s good in him…” Did she really believe that, after everything he had done? If she did, wouldn’t she still be here? Wouldn’t she have lived? What would she think of him now?

  No. My friend is dead, of that I am certain. The thing is front of me is not Anakin Skywalker.
>
  “The circle is now complete,” the usurper declares, his arrogance the final betrayal. “When I left you, I was but the learner.”

  When I left you.

  Every word is a trigger, dragging me back and forth through the years. I’m standing on loose scree, a river of molten lava churning below. Is this where you left me, Darth? Or was it even earlier: when you leapt onto a speeder bike and raced into the night, or when you held Padmé by the throat?

  I feel my own anger rising, my years of training, of discipline, ebbing away. I barely hear what he’s saying.

  “Now I am the Master.”

  His image flickers, like a disrupted holofeed. One second, he is the armored giant I see before me, the next a charred husk reaching out on a carbonized shore. One face impassive and angular, the other blackened and screaming in agony. Then there are more, joining the fluctuating cycle. A fresh-faced teen, eager to take up the mantle of a Jedi. A spirited slave boy, pulling grime-ridden goggles over innocent eyes. A limbless wreck hanging in a bacta tank, necrotic skin pallid and scarred. I see them all at once, everything he was and everything he has become.

  “Only a master of evil, Darth.”

  I cannot use his real name. It would undo me, even after all this time, catching in my throat. The time for talk is at an end. This must be decided once and for all.

  I strike first, our lightsabers flaring as they clash. The sudden illumination draws another shadow of Coruscant, Anakin railing against the wooden sticks I force him to use rather than energy weapons.

  “I am not a child anymore, Obi-Wan. Why must we use toys?”

  “You must be patient, my young Padawan. This is but the first step. We have time.”

  Not anymore. I sweep down and he blocks, anticipating the attack. Our blades hold, energy fields discharging as they grind against each other. I see my face distorted in the reflective surface of his helmet. Old. Tired. Nearing the end.

  He’s holding back, testing my limits. He wants to know how time has diminished my abilities. I’m doing the same with him, exploring whether cybernetic joints move as smoothly as muscle honed from years of training. Perhaps we are more alike than I care to think.

  Now he takes control, the blows coming faster and harder. I’m forced to duck, his lightsaber tracing a gleaming line down the metal wall.

  Sparks rain down and I blink, long enough for the torment to begin anew. Eyes. Scream. Saber. Pain. Anakin. Padmé. Qui-Gon. Maul.

  I’m back on Tatooine, Neda wheezing after her exertion. It’s taken so long to cross the flats, the suns now high in the sky. Not for the first time, I curse my decision to settle so far from the moisture farm. What was I thinking?

  Another shift, another memory: standing at Owen’s door, explaining what has happened, asking for the strangers’ help.

  He makes his terms abundantly clear: “We’ll take him in, but you’ll play no part in his upbringing. If you have to stay on Tatooine, you keep your distance, do you hear? You neither see the boy nor speak to him. He must know nothing about his father.”

  Neda grunts as I pull her to a stop. The farm is ahead, its dome the only landmark for kilometers around. All is as it should be. There is no evidence of blasterfire, no dark plumes of smoke billowing into the air. I allow my shoulders to relax. Perhaps I was mistaken. Perhaps Luke isn’t in danger at all.

  Neda grumbles, tossing her head to dislodge the sandflies that have settled in her long eyelashes. I pat her neck, calming her, scanning my eyes along the ring of environmental sensors and motion detectors that form a protective border around the boy’s adopted home.

  There he is, sitting cross-legged next to a moisture vaporator. He’s hunched over in the sand, playing with a toy that I can’t quite make out at this distance. I smile. I can guess what it is: the latest in a long line of model spaceships. I wonder if Owen knows where they come from, who it is that leaves them next to Shmi’s sandblasted tombstone, for Beru to find. As I sit here, watching Luke sweep the wooden fighter through the air, I think of the toy corvette I am building in my workshop. It is almost complete. I am particularly pleased with the ion engines. My finest work yet.

  Even now, at just three years old, it is obvious that Luke longs to fly. It is like seeing Anakin all over again. The mop of unruly blond hair, the bright-blue eyes, the hands permanently tinkering. Luke isn’t content to just play with his toys. He’s constantly at work modifying them, making improvements.

  So much like his father.

  “Your powers are weak, old man.”

  Our lightsabers clash. I try to push forward, only to be thrust violently back. It’s like striking iron. There’s no give in Vader’s arms, and far too much in mine.

  “You can’t win, Darth.” He barely reacts to the jibe, knowing all too well that I am aiming to provoke him, to turn his anger against himself. “If you strike me down, I shall become more powerful than you can possibly imagine.”

  Eyes. Scream. Saber. Pain.

  Eyes. Scream. Saber. Pain.

  Eyes. Scream. Saber. Pain.

  Is this power? This torture? I am like a leaf tossed in a storm. The present and the past crashing together. I can no longer tell what is real, and what is a distant memory brought into sharp relief.

  Luke is safe.

  Luke is in danger.

  I am on Tatooine.

  I am on the battle station.

  It shouldn’t be like this. This is not what Yoda promised me. I am being overwhelmed. The past, the present, even the future. I see things that are not yet to be. Leia slumped beside a console, her heart breaking, Captain Solo falling so very far. Evil triumphant, and then vanquished, and then rising again.

  And worst of all, Luke, as I am now, an old man, his face creased, his eyes haunted. He’s cut off from those who love him, consumed by regret and sorrow. It is too much to bear, a future I never want to see.

  The raucous wail of a siren snaps me back to the past. My eyes dart from Luke to the invaders who have tripped the motion detectors. They wear a hodgepodge of body armor and animal skins, their band comprising at least half a dozen different species. There has been talk of bandits operating from Mos Eisley, plundering farms and settlements in the area, leaving only devastation and grief. Why hadn’t I listened to the rumors? Why didn’t I intervene before it was too late?

  I am a Jedi. Was a Jedi. Will be again.

  Beru calls for her nephew, but there is nowhere for Luke to run. If he tries to return to the dome, he will die. If he makes for the caverns across the flats, he will die.

  My other lives are forgotten in an instant; the betrayal of the past, the fight that is to come. All that matters is the here and now. Neda charges forward, my hand snatching for the lightsaber on my belt. The blade ignites even as I launch myself from Neda’s back, flipping over to land between the startled child and a towering brute wearing rancor hide.

  “Run, Luke! Run!”

  I can’t tell if the boy heeds my words. The brute in front of me raises his blaster and I swing, easily deflecting the bolt. The farm is overrun in seconds, the marauders taking up positions both left and right. I spin, blocking blasterfire from all directions. At least I’m not alone in the defense of the farm. Owen joins the fray, battered rifle in hand. There is no time to think, only react.

  A sinewy hand grabs my shoulder. I whirl, relieving my would-be attacker of his life. My lightsaber dances through the air, my surroundings changing, flickering back and forth as Vader’s form shifted before. Is sand beneath my feet or the metallic deck of the battle station? The bandits advance, and Vader gains ground. I am young and I am old, I am here and I am there. I block and parry, attack and retreat. Vader is too strong, the bandits too numerous. The fight is against me twice over.

  Vader feints to the left, and I turn, only to receive a vibro-mace to my chest. I skid along the sand as a gigantic Gamorrean boar lumbers toward me, his blunt weapon raised and ready to strike.

  Before I can even respond, something small and f
ragile smacks against the Gamorrean’s flattened snout. The bemused thug hesitates, long enough for my blade to separate his feet from his ankles. I roll out of the way as the squealing boar crashes down where I lay, something sharp jabbing into my side. It is the fragments of the toy starfighter that had been tossed at the Gamorrean’s head. Luke grabs my hand, attempting to haul me up. He has saved my life, this remarkable child.

  “Luke!” Owen yells from across the settlement. “Get away!”

  I leap back to my feet, rejoining the fight, which is now ours to win. The tide has turned and the bandits are diminished one by one, decimated by blasterfire and plasma blade. As my last opponent cools at my feet, Luke cries out a warning. A Devaronian has reared up behind Owen, ready to bring the butt of his blaster down on the unsuspecting farmer’s head. I pull back my arm and throw my lightsaber with all my might. The blade pinwheels through the air, finding its mark. The Devaronian drops, his body split in two. I reach out with the Force, extinguishing the lightsaber before drawing the hilt back to my open palm.

  Luke cheers, running full pelt toward me, arms as wide as his smile. There is a crunch behind me and I turn, Owen’s fist burying itself in my nose. I slam down hard onto the ground, the lightsaber skittering from my hand. All my training, all my experience, and a humble moisture farmer has achieved what neither battle droid nor Sith has achieved, knocking me flat on my back.

  “Uncle Owen!” Luke cries in confusion as his uncle manhandles the boy toward his aunt before turning to glower at me.

  “Go,” he all but spits, an accusatory finger punctuating the furious decree. “Get away from here. Haven’t you people done enough to this family?”

  “Done enough?” I splutter, gingerly inspecting my throbbing nose for signs of blood. “I’m not sure if you noticed, but I was trying to protect you.”

  “We don’t need your protection. We don’t need you at all. I could have handled this alone. I always have, and I always will.”

  “Owen, please…”

  And I’m staring down the barrel of his rifle. I have no idea how much energy remains in the power pack, and have no urge to find out.