Journey to Star Wars: The Force Awakens the Weapon of a Jedi: A Luke Skywalker Adventure (11 page)

K
IVAS HEARD the incoming ship before he saw it, and knew immediately what it was—a
Sentinel
-class Imperial landing craft. There was something wrong with
one of the fuel pumps—a clog, by the sound of it. It wasn’t bad yet—the pilot probably hadn’t noticed anything except a slight pull to one side on takeoff—but it would
ground the ship within a week or two if not serviced.

Somehow I
don’t think they’re here to get it fixed,
Kivas thought.

Kivas knew he had a few minutes—Imperial ships coming to Tikaroo from the capital always followed the valley up from the south, then curled in to touch down on the landing field. He picked
up his toolbox, pulled down the shutters on the hangar behind him, and locked the door. Then he strolled across the landing field and popped the
access hatch on the starboard engine of a Mark V
Struthimer star yacht that had landed yesterday.

The
Sentinel
’s engines were louder now. Kivas scattered a few tools beneath the star yacht, picked up his smallest hydrospanner, and reached up into the access hatch as the landing
craft roared in over the trees and fired its retrorockets, touching down with a bump and a rattle of landing
gear. The Imperial craft’s fuel pump was in worse shape than he’d
thought.

Kivas glanced over at the landing craft, then put his gloved hands back into the engine he was pretending to service. The sound of the
Sentinel
’s engines died away, and a minute
later he heard the tramp of boot heels approaching. He looked over with what he hoped would seem like mild curiosity and saw an olive-green-clad
officer approaching with a squad of stormtroopers
behind him.

Kivas stripped off his dirty work gloves and stepped away from the star yacht.

“What can I do for you, Lieutenant?” he asked after eyeing the rank badge on the officer’s uniform. Some Imperials reacted badly if you addressed them by the wrong rank.

“We’re looking for a starfighter that was spotted in this area three days
ago,” the lieutenant said, hands behind his back. “It belongs to a suspected fugitive from
Imperial justice.”

“Oh?” Kivas asked. “Lots of places a starfighter might have set down around here. But we’re pretty remote—odds are the pilot would have followed the river to
Assarda or Ton-biri.”

“And if he did another squad will find him,” the lieutenant said. “This area is our responsibility.
Do you have anything to report?”

Kivas saw the lieutenant’s eyes lingering on the star yachts.

“As the governor knows, the only traffic we get is from hunters going into the jungle,” he said carefully, hoping the officer was familiar with the governor’s orders to let the
hunts go on without interference. “But our customers don’t typically show up in starfighters.”

“Then you won’t
mind if we take a look in the hangar?”

“Of course not,” Kivas said, fighting down a sense of dread. “But first, you should know your starboard fuel pump is clogged. It could cut out any minute. I’d be happy to
fix it. As a favor to the Empire.”

“How considerate. You can do so after we look in the hangar.”

The lieutenant turned and indicated two of his troopers. “You two stay here.”

Kivas led the officer and the other stormtroopers across the landing field to the hangar. He knew there was nothing to be done—trying to delay them further would only make things worse in
the end.

At least Farnay was safe. Kivas had been angry to discover their pack beast gone, and frightened when he realized his daughter had followed Sarco into the jungle. Worry had woken him before
dawn
that morning, and he’d headed to the landing field because he’d known he wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep. But now he found himself relieved that his daughter had made the
choice she did. It was a foolish decision, but Farnay knew the jungle, and at least her rash act had taken her far from Tikaroo.

He unlocked the hangar, raised the shutters with a rattle, and turned on the
overhead lights. The officer looked at the Y-wing and raised an eyebrow.

“And you said you had nothing to report,” he said.

“I’m just trying to make a living,” Kivas stammered. “I wanted the starfighter as salvage.”

“I see. And where did it come from?”

Kivas paused, and the officer put his hands on his hips.

“The truth, please,” he said. “It would be a shame to have to take
you in for interrogation.”

“The owner isn’t here,” Kivas said. “He went into the woods and hasn’t returned.”

And probably won’t,
Kivas thought, looking guiltily at the Y-wing.

“Into the jungle? Did he go alone?”

“No. Two droids were with him. And he had a guide.”

“And where is this guide?”

“I don’t know.”

The officer raised an eyebrow.

“I really don’t. I spend most
of my time here, not in town. Last I knew, the guide hadn’t come back, either.”

The two troopers who’d been left to guard the landing field strode into the hangar, holding someone between them by the upper arms.

Kivas tried to keep his face expressionless.

“I’m sorry, Dad,” Farnay said.

The Imperial lieutenant looked from the frightened girl to Kivas.

“Your daughter?”

Kivas nodded grimly.

“Was she the pilot’s guide?”

Farnay looked at him in surprise, still struggling in the troopers’ grip.

“No,” Kivas said. “It wasn’t her.”

The officer studied Farnay for a long moment.

“But you know where the pilot went, don’t you?” he asked her.

Farnay’s eyes jumped beseechingly to her father. But the lieutenant’s gaze had turned his way, too.

“You
better tell them,” Kivas told his daughter.

“Dad, no!”

“Your father’s a wise man,” the officer said. “I’d listen to him.”

“Not unless these two Ferijian apes let go of me,” Farnay said, kicking at one of the stormtroopers.

The officer nodded at his men, who relaxed their grip. Farnay stood for a moment with her eyes downcast, rubbing each arm in turn.

“They went to Eedit,”
she muttered.

“The old temple?” the officer asked, eyebrows raised. “Are you sure? There’s been no intrusion alarm.”

“I’m sure.”

“Very well,” the officer said. “We can depart after I verify your story in town—and after you fix the fuel pump you’re so concerned about. But we could use a guide
ourselves. This young lady will do nicely.”

“She’s answered your questions,” Kivas objected.
“Leave her alone.”

“If she does her duty no harm will come to her. I find using someone local encourages good behavior.”

The lieutenant’s eyes lingered on the Y-wing. Then he turned to Kivas with a smile.

“And as loyal Imperial citizens, I’m sure you welcome the chance to help the Empire maintain peace and order,” he said.

The sun was burning off the dew, the birds were
singing, and the pikhrons were nibbling at fruit in the branches of the trees.

Time to get to work,
Luke thought.

He had dreamt all night of lightsaber combat, of repositioning his feet, bending his knees, and angling his blade according to each of the four defensive postures, then switching to downward
slashes and side cuts when attacking. His shoulders and arms hurt, but it was a good
ache, the kind that followed hard work.

“I detest those dreadful remotes,” Threepio said as he followed Artoo out of the way. “I swear they enjoy inflicting pain.”

The previous morning Luke might have agreed with Threepio. Now, he just approached the pillar and ignited his saber. The remotes rose from their compartment as soon as he assumed the ready
position, spiraling around each other
and then spreading out to flank him.

The one on the right darted in, and Luke snapped his saber to stop its laser bolt, then whipped the blade back to the left, deflecting another. Then he stepped forward, forcing the remote in the
center to give way before it could fire.

“Master Luke! You’re doing it!” Threepio called.

Luke grinned—and one of the remotes dove and shot him in the
thigh. Artoo beeped his concern.

“How is it
my
fault?” Threepio asked Artoo. “Everyone needs a little encouragement.”

Luke’s leg felt like it was asleep. He rubbed the circulation back into it, grimacing, and turned to face the remotes again, willing the Force to give him the speed and stamina he needed
to fight three enemies at once.

Left and right, up and down, forward and back.
Luke’s saber was a whirling disc of energy, scattering laser bolts like rain. He could hear his heart hammering in his chest, his breath loud
in his ears.

One of the remotes used another for cover, slipping a beam of energy through Luke’s defenses and catching him in the shoulder. He bent over, breathing hard.

That was a scoot and shoot,
he thought.
Wedge would be proud.

“How long
since the last time I was hit?” he asked Threepio.

“Thirty-two minutes and twenty-four seconds.”

Luke nodded. He waited a moment, breathing hard, then got back in the ready position. The remotes swarmed him and he lifted the lightsaber, scattering their bolts and dancing across the
courtyard. He skirted the pits and splashed through the pool left by the spring bubbling up through the
broken fountain, while the birds zipped from tree to tree and the pikhrons watched
quietly.

A laser beam caught him in the calf and he shouted in surprise, the lightsaber spinning out of his hands and shutting off in the air. He plucked it out of the grass with a grimace.

“How long that time?”

“Fourteen minutes and two seconds,” Threepio said.

Luke’s hair was dark with sweat.
He ignited the lightsaber, noticing to his dismay that his hands were shaking.

Six minutes and thirty-three seconds later two remotes got him at once, catching him in the back of the thigh.

Luke reminded himself to push the anger and anxiety out of his mind, taking several calming breaths. His palms were sweaty where they gripped his father’s lightsaber. He felt the negative
emotions
draining away and nodded. But he still felt tired—arms heavy, feet sluggish, his eyes and ears a beat behind the movements of the remotes as they waited for him to resume the
exercise.

He lasted less than two minutes before one of the remotes got him in the side of the head, making his ears ring.

Then he was hit after forty-two seconds.

And then after eight.

Luke hurled his lightsaber
aside, gasping for breath. Artoo whistled urgently.

“I quite agree with Artoo,” Threepio said. “Master Luke, you must rest. You’re only human, after all.”

Luke flopped down on the grassy flagstones, his chest rising and falling as the remotes retreated to wait inside the pillar.

“I haven’t done enough,” he said raggedly. “Haven’t completed the exercise.”

“Surely a rest isn’t against
the rules.”

“No, probably not,” Luke gasped.

He sat in the grass until he was no longer short of breath and the sweat had stopped running down his face. He got to his feet and walked slowly to where his lightsaber lay, bending to pick it
up. His legs ached, and the ancient weapon felt heavy in his hand.

“Master Luke, are you quite sure you’re recovered?” Threepio asked. “I’d hate
to see you damaged.”

“I’m fine,” Luke said, though he was pretty sure that wasn’t true.

“Next you’ll tell me you have to fight again without being able to see,” Threepio said. “If you don’t mind my saying so, that seemed terribly reckless.”

Luke smiled, remembering standing in the hold of the
Falcon
and trying to track the remote by the hiss of its jets, with the blast shield of Han’s
old bucket of a flight helmet
covering his eyes. He’d thought Ben was crazy—he could barely control a lightsaber, let alone use it without being able to see. Only his loyalty to the old Jedi had kept him from
protesting more vigorously in front of Han and Chewbacca.

But he’d done it. He’d stopped the remote, without being able to use his eyes. It had been his first lesson in how the Force
could enhance one’s senses.

Luke raised his lightsaber, and the remotes advanced immediately. He parried one strike, then another, listening for each hiss of a remote’s changing direction, eyes tracking each tiny
repositioning.

A laser beam caught him in the thigh.

“Twenty-six seconds, Master Luke.”

I can’t do this,
Luke thought.
Honestly, I’d be better off blind.

And then
he realized.

The point of fighting with the blast shield covering his eyes hadn’t been to enhance his other senses. It had been to give him no choice but to trust in the Force. He’d done it
then—and again in the Death Star trench, when he’d shut off his targeting computer and let the Force tell him when to fire the proton torpedoes that had destroyed the battle
station.

Let go,
Ben’s
voice had said. That had been the key—the simple instruction that had saved the Alliance and his own life.

He hadn’t understood his own training there at Eedit. He’d thought he’d been commanding the Force, using it to amplify his senses and speed up his reflexes. But that
hadn’t been it at all. When he’d succeeded, it was because he was letting the Force guide him—and when he’d failed, it
was because he was trying to guide it. He’d
thought that he was learning to make the Force obey his commands, but really it was the other way around.

Let go,
Luke thought, breathing out.

He couldn’t track three remotes at once—it was hard enough keeping up with one. And all the practice in the galaxy wouldn’t help him. That wasn’t the point of the
exercise any more than whether or
not he could see.

“Are you all right, Master Luke?” Threepio asked.

“I’m fine,” Luke said. “Threepio, you’re a genius.”

“I like to think I’m programmed for insights,” Threepio said, to which Artoo offered a disgusted blat.

Luke raised his blade to ready position, ignoring the ache in his shoulders and the sweat stinging his eyes.