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May 24 - July 21, 2018
He’d had a bad feeling about this mission from the beginning. Hastily improvised, orders rewritten at the last minute, and now here they were: barreling headlong in a broken ship toward the edge of the galaxy, carrying the last best hope for the survival of the Rebellion, and the entire Empire searching for them. He would write three letters, one for his beloved wife, the other two for her to give to each of their young daughters when they were old enough to understand. He had so much he wanted to tell them. More than anything, he wanted them to know that even though they would grow up never
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Every step of this long, unfulfilling journey is one Obi-Wan had to take alone…and yet he never faltered. As the rest of the galaxy burned, his path remained true. It is the kind of victory that most people never recognize and yet the bedrock all goodness is built upon.
I may be a country girl who’s never been offplanet, but even I’m aware that when a Jedi walks up to you and says, “Here, have a baby,” it’s not going to end well.
I honestly didn’t expect him to let us go at all. So, thanks Jabba. I’ll buy you a cup of slime the next time we see you. [Ed. Note: Since the writing of this memoir, Jabba the Hutt has been murdered by an unknown assassin within his palace. Jabba the Hutt cannot be thanked anymore. Still, the author requested we leave this entreaty in the text.]
He pushed by D’an rudely, shouting that no one fires Doda Bodonawieedo.
What a name!
Ironically, they blended right in once they were challenged by a huge brute, and the hairier of the men brought out a laser sword and cut the arm off their attacker. The arm smoked slightly on the floor, and its former owner shrieked. We stopped playing, of course. But then Wuher glared at us and we hastily started up again. So we were supposed to just keep on with the music while people were losing limbs? And here I’d thought this place was better than Jabba’s. (Say what you will about the slug, he didn’t mind if we were startled out of tune when he murdered someone.)
“Orrp-orrp-orrp-orrp,” orrps the Walrus-Faced Man.
Location of Incident (Settlement, Planet, Region): Mos Eisley, Tatooine, Outer Rim Were any other members of your detachment involved in this incident? Oh yes. Very much so. Which ones? (Be specific!) Literally all of them.
He caught a disapproving look from one of the senior advisers, but he disregarded it. It wasn’t weapons that kept people obedient, despite what Motti, what Krennic, what Tarkin himself believed. Weapons riled people up, reminded them that they could fight. It was bureaucratic mediocrity that made them accept their fate. Show a man a blaster, and he looked for a way to take it for himself and turn it on you. Tell a man he can fight in court, and nine times out of ten he’ll disappear just to avoid the tediousness.
The point is, whatever conclusions you ultimately draw about the incident taking place between myself and Lord Vader during yesterday morning’s briefing, he was wrong, and trying to crush someone else’s windpipe doesn’t make you any less wrong, if you’re wrong to begin with. Which he was. I do not concede the argument.
This felt, frankly, like an act of workplace proselytization. Again, I have no objection whatever to Lord Vader’s private faith. It must, however, be pointed out that at present the number of planets destroyed solely by the unaided power of the Force is zero. The number of planets destroyed by the power of the Death Star is one. The number of days the Death Star has been fully operational is also one.
The second thing you will notice, gentlemen, while watching the tape, is that Lord Vader is forced to take several steps in my direction before—to use a colloquialism, and for lack of a more accurate term—Force-choking me. For all his claims that the power of the Force is greater than the destructive capabilities of this Death Star, it strikes me as more than a little disingenuous if he cannot even remotely choke a single individual from across the room.
My name is Obi-Wan Kenobi, and I am dead. I know how that sounds. Crazy old Ben with his crazy old stories.
“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.
Obi-Wan tucked the blanket under Yoda’s chin. “And Obi-Wan?” “Yes, Master.” “Sorry about the pot, I am.” “It was old and ugly.” Yoda opened his eyes. “So am I.” “No, Master.” “Look, Master Kenobi. Look. Old and ugly. What see you?” Obi-Wan leaned down close. “A luminous being,” he said. “Humph,” said Yoda, and closed his eyes again. “Annoying, one’s own words to use against him. A bad feeling I have about that.” But Obi-Wan was already gone.
“That’s a big risk,” Col said, which drew a bark of laughter from Quersey. “Look around, Col. We’re all part of the biggest risk in the history of the galaxy.”
A couple of droids idled, duties completed, lost in electronic standby dreams.
If victory comes (and it may not, it may still all prove pointless; she may even go through this a second time, with a second space station) it will take many more years. But Mon believes in victory again.
Lando Calrissian loved heroes. They thought the galaxy owed them something. Like they mattered, somehow, in some bizarre way that meant the fundamental rules of reality were tilted in their favor. Heroes believed, honestly believed that things would just…work out for them. Heroes were Lando’s favorite opponents at the gambling table. The worse the odds got, the bigger they bet. Because heroes were suckers.
Lando gave his best smile, the very best one, the one he reserved for extremely special occasions. The smile that promised whatever the recipient might want or need—credits, friendship, protection, short-term or long-term love, the wonders of the galaxy itself—if only they would do what the owner of the smile wanted. The Calrissian Special.
Well…I guess I could always go back and tell their stories later. Out of order? That’s just going to confuse everybody!
