Star Wars_ Planet of Twilight - Barbara Hambly [17]
“Well, it can’t really be called civilized,” said Threepio judiciously. “The local Warlords have taken on so-called advisers—ex-smugglers, Imperial renegades, Corporate sector mercenaries, fugitives from both Imperial and Republican justice. I shudder to think what would happen to us if we went there, or to Her Excellency if anyone there discovered the predicament she was in.”
Marcopius nodded, and made another adjustment. “It has to be the fleet orbital base at Durren, then.” He paused, trying to draw breath, his face gray around the lips. “Are either of you programmed to handle one of these once we get out of hyperspace?”
Artoo, who had released himself from his takeoff cradle, let out an optimistic trill, and Threepio said firmly, “Oh, no, sir. Upon the single occasion that we tried any sort of piloting at all, the results were most unsatisfactory. Certainly the more modern craft are entirely beyond our programming capacity. I’m a protocol droid, as you know, and though Artoo is quite a competent astromech, I’m afraid he has his limitations in other areas.”
The young man nodded again, leaning his forehead on his fist, his breath going out in a long sigh. Threepio could see he was still shivering: With shock or exertion, the droid supposed sympathetically. Some humans were simply not as resilient as others.
Encouragingly, Threepio ventured, “It isn’t that far to Durren, sir. The ship should run well enough until we have to make orbit. If you wish to lie down and rest, I can certainly wake you when you’re required to pilot the ship into base.”
For a long time Yeoman Marcopius didn’t answer. Then he murmured, “Yeah. I guess that’s how it’ll have to be.”
He got to his feet, staggering and catching himself on Artoo’s stubby bulk. The astromech rolled beside him, to help him to the narrow bunk in an alcove just beyond the control room door. The young man groped blindly for the blanket—Artoo extended his gripper arm and pulled it up over him, and emitted a gentle trill of comfort and farewell as he rolled from the room.
Thirty minutes later, when Threepio returned to ask the youth how long it would be before they could subspace the Durren base, he found Marcopius dead.
3
The Force was everywhere, palpable, warming her like sunlight.
Lying—on a divan? On the toothed, fist-size crystals that carpeted the old sea floor plains as far as vision could descry?—Leia Organa Solo basked in the warmth of the Force. So much warmer than the heatless fingernail of the sun, she absorbed it through her skin, as if her body had been rendered transparent like the amoebic Plasmars of dark Y’nybeth.
Someone was saying something to her, but she was deeply asleep and could not make out the words.
She dreamed.
She was in her father’s palace in Aldera. His study was a garden room, looking through a double line of smooth, snow-white pillars to a small lawn beyond whose curved railing the blue waters of the lake could be seen, the endless plains of wind-combed grass beyond. The intoxicating smell of the grass blew through on the warm winds, and she could hear the muted whisper of the wind chimes among the pillars and the soft cooing and twittering of the cairokas, the sounds of her childhood. Her father was there. She was presenting her children to him, Jacen and Jaina and Anakin grown to teenagers, wearing the faces she knew they would one day wear.
“You’ve done well, daughter.” Bail Organa extended a hand to touch Jaina’s heavy chestnut hair. The gold ring on his finger gleamed like a fragment of the world’s final sunset. “What have you taught them, these young Jedi of the House of Organa?”
“I’ve taught them to love justice, as you loved justice, Father.” Leia’s own voice sounded deep and quiet in the chamber’s gentle twilight. “I’ve taught them to respect the rights of all living things. I’ve taught them that the Law is above any single being’s will.”
“But we know better.