Star Wars_ Episode VI_ Return of the Jedi - James Kahn [75]
And this memory brought a wave of other memories with it. Memories of brotherhood, and home. His dear wife. The freedom of deep space. Obi-Wan.
Obi-Wan, his friend … and how that friendship had turned. Turned, he knew not how—but got injected, nonetheless, with some uncaring virulence that festered, until … hold. These were memories he wanted none of, not now. Memories of molten lava, crawling up his back … no.
This boy had pulled him from that pit—here, now, with this act. This boy was good.
The boy was good, and the boy had come from him—so there must have been good in him, too. He smiled up again at his son, and for the first time, loved him. And for the first time in many long years, loved himself again, as well.
Suddenly he smelled something—flared his nostrils, sniffed once more. Wildflowers, that was what it was. Just blooming; it must be spring.
And there was thunder—he cocked his head, strained his ears. Yes, spring thunder, for a spring rain. To make the flowers bloom.
Yes, there … he felt a raindrop on his lips. He licked the delicate droplet … but wait, it wasn’t sweetwater, it was salty, it was … a teardrop.
He focused on Luke once again, and saw his son was crying. Yes that was it, he was tasting his boy’s grief—because he looked so horrible; because he was so horrible.
But he wanted to make it all right for Luke, he wanted Luke to know he wasn’t really ugly like this, not deep inside, not all together. With a little self-deprecatory smile, he shook his head at Luke, explaining away the unsightly beast his son saw. “Luminous beings are we, Luke—not this crude matter.”
Luke shook his head, too—to tell his father it was all right, to dismiss the old man’s shame, to tell him nothing mattered now. And everything—but he couldn’t talk.
Vader spoke again, even weaker—almost inaudible. “Go, my son. Leave me.”
At that, Luke found his voice. “No. You’re coming with me. I’ll not leave you here. I’ve got to save you.”
“You already have, Luke,” he whispered. He wished, briefly, he’d met Yoda, to thank the old Jedi for the training he’d given Luke … but perhaps he’d be with Yoda soon, now, in the ethereal oneness of the Force. And with Obi-Wan.
“Father, I won’t leave you,” Luke protested. Explosions jarred the docking bay in earnest, crumbling one entire wall, splitting the ceiling. A jet of blue flame shot from a gas nozzle nearby. Just beneath it the floor began to melt.
Vader pulled Luke very close, spoke into his ear. “Luke, you were right … and you were right about me … Tell your sister … you were right.”
With that, he closed his eyes, and Darth Vader—Anakin Skywalker—died.
A tremendous explosion filled the back of the bay with fire, knocking Luke flat to the ground. Slowly, he rose again; and like an automaton, stumbled toward one of the last remaining shuttles.
The Millennium Falcon continued its swerving race through the labyrinth of power channels, inching ever-closer to the hub of the giant sphere—the main reactor. The Rebel cruisers were unloading a continuous bombardment on the exposed, unfinished superstructure of the Death Star, now, each hit causing a resonating shudder in the immense battle station, and a new series of catastrophic events within.
Commander Jerjerrod sat, brooding, in the control room of the Death Star, watching all about him crumble. Half of his crew were dead, wounded, or run off—where they hoped to find sanctuary was unclear, if not insane. The rest wandered ineffectually, or railed at the enemy ships, or fired all their guns at all sectors, or shouted orders, or focused desperately on a single task, as if that would save them. Or, like Jerjerrod, simply brooded.
He couldn’t fathom what he’d done wrong. He’d been patient, he’d been loyal, he’d been clever, he’d been hard. He was the