"If we have to burn, let's take a few more with us."—Ray Bradbury
"You really think we have a chance, then?"
Because honestly, I don't think we do. Not in this ship, anyway, or with this motley crowd. Even with a Jedi—with Ben—we'll be no match for the might of this beast, for this hulking, all-consuming inferno: we'll just crumble under its shadow, wilt beneath it like a lily in a wasteland. Will all fall, plummet, with not even a smoke trail to witness our demise.
In the end, we'll all succumb to the Empire.
Beside me, Ben's seems to mulling over what I've said. The thought's crossed his mind more than once, I bet—after all, he's seen the destruction the Empire can bring, has been witness to all the death and scourge trailing behind its placid mask. Has seen it murder all his friends, including my father. Has seen all light fade from the galaxy as its inky shape drifts past, seeking to rid the galaxy of Jedi—and just about anything that reeks of hope.
But Ben—last of the Jedi, for all I know—isn't shaking his head. Isn't telling me no, Luke. We've never had one—not even the faint glimmer of it. Instead, he's watching me, considering me with a pair of clear, clear eyes…and nods. "I do, actually. But it's not me who really needs to believe it."
I give him a wry look. "And here's where you leave me to wonder over the meaning of that, hoping that I'll somehow come to the right conclusion. That I'll say 'you're right, Ben: we do have some hope. And we can beat the Empire!'"
A ghost-smile touches the old Jedi's lips, but it fails to the reach his eyes. "You sound like your father, Luke. He's the only other man I knew who could hold fast to sarcasm in the face of impossible odds."
"Well, maybe it was because he was a realist, too."
Ben shrugs, fingers his beard. "Just because he saw defeat as a possible outcome didn't make him disbelieve any hope of victory. He always clung to it, to that slim chance that whispered 'there's still a way'." He shoots me an even look. "That's anyone ever has, Luke, but few choose to see that faint chance in the midst of eminent failure—and even fewer opt to fight for it."
"A 'can' doesn't make a will," I point out.
"True. But it doesn't equate a 'can't', either." He straightens, eyes suddenly warming around their crinkled edge. "I recognize that you're much, much too old for stories, Luke—but I believe I have one that might just tickle your fancy."
Intrigued, I sit up as well. "About…?"
"About one of my old adventures, Luke. Back when I was Jedi Knight."
I can't help but smile at that. Ben—the doting, crazy old wizard—on an adventure? That's a pretty ridiculous notion to swallow, even though his eyes are telling me it's completely true, that he's going to be entirely honest. "Then shoot away, Ben: there's enough time before we reach Alderaan."
Twenty-One Years Earlier
There weren't a lot of things that drew emotion of General Grievous, that stole his breath away and gave him pause. That made him take a second, lingering glance. But as the Kaleesh warrior gazed into Bakura's not-so-distant horizon, cape flapping violently in the torrid wind, he found himself reacting physically.
His heart hammered at the sight of consummate war.
A few klicks west, battle was raging through Bakura's verdant forest, transforming it into a single, flaring torch. Blastfire darted from directions, creating web of dazzling, crisscrossing light; missiles streaked past, briefly lighting the world like lightning. Mortars went off, flinging shrapnel in fatal rings, filling the air with sounds that would've had an ordinary being clutching his ears in pain. Probably would render someone deaf, too, he suspected—even from here, the warrior felt the concussive aftershock rip through his body, shaking his sturdy metal as if it were mere glass.
Steadying himself, Grievous smiled inwardly as the final wave roiled over him. He'd laid siege to Bakura because he'd been ordered to, yes—he'd received the command from Dooku about two standards weeks prior, in fact. But for him, it was much more than that. Much, much more: watching the world burn, its smoking pyre darkening the skies with its own smoke, was what he was built for. What he'd been made for.
He'd been born to dominate, to decimate, and—ultimately—to destroy.
Grievous hadn't always been like that, however. Once, he'd been an ordinary being, a man who could feel and receive and give. A man who'd dreamed of beginning his own family with the woman of his dreams, who'd battled everyday in her name. He'd had a future, a sure, fixed point blazing on a not-so-distant horizon—and he'd had a chance at life. Had had a hope to cling to when all else went dim.
But that had been another time, before he'd been Grievous. Before the Huks had taken not only his homeworld, but his everything he'd held dear. Before they'd stolen everything that was left fighting for—including the woman he'd loved.
And now he wasn't even certain who that other man had been. He just wasn't. All he knew for certain was that he had once been whole, with limbs and skin and lungs that breathed on their own, and that he'd once had a face. Or something other than the nightmarish skull-mask he now hid behind, his eyes dancing with the light of distant fire.
Try as he might, Grievous really couldn't recall much of the accident, either—and he didn't care to. It didn't matter all that much, anyway. Remembering—that wouldn't change the fact he was now barely alive, his hulking, durasteel exoskeleton housing a mere handful of what had once formed his body.
He still had his mind, though. And his eyes, their amber depths watching coldly as Bakura burnt on, blackening beyond recall or memory. Twisting to its knees in one final, desperate plea for life.
Grievous was determined to remain to deaf to that cry.
Present Day
Comprehension stroking the back of my mind, I give Ben startled look. I know this story—sort of. I mean, I've read about it in my studies at home, have watched holo-news reports that reference it like it was nothing. Like it was mundane, ordinary. Normal—but from what I've heard of it, it was anything but. "This is about the Battle of Bakura, isn't it?"
Ben nods absently. "It is. But I doubt you've ever heard anything of it that the Empire didn't want you to. The General in this story—General Grievous—had a hand in bringing this new regime about, after all."
"This 'Grievous' wasn't in any of the account I heard," I admit, shaking my head. "Actually, I don't think I've ever heard of him at all, which is kinda weird. I mean, if he had such an influence on the Empire, then why isn't ever mentioned in history?"
"Because the Imperials would rather wash their hands of Grievous. He was…well, he was monster, Luke. Perhaps more so than Vader."
Hearing that name…it makes me shudder. Makes me wish I could've been there when that faceless dread decided to turn his back on the light, when he nearly extinguished hope from the galaxy. When he brought his blade through flesh and bone and meat, sizzling, burning through the father I never met. "I hope you're right, then."
Ben's go distant, flicker with some nameless emotion. "So do I, Luke. So do I."
Twenty-One Years Earlier
"Call in the Hyena bombs," the Kalleesh shouted, addressing a nearby battle droid. "If we press our attack now, then Bakura will be ours."
The battle droid—an ungainly, spindly thing that Grievous utterly despised—hesitated. "Sir…won't that leave our command center vulnerable to attack? The Republic—"
"Will burn," he cut in, whirling on the witless machine. His crescent pupils shrunk to thin, dangerous slits. "If the Republic had possessed the resources necessary to call in an airstrike, they would've done it weeks ago. And since our blockade of the planet, nothing has been able to get through—not supply ships, and certainly not bombers. No one—and I do mean no one, droid—can challenge our position." A hand strayed into his robes, lingering there. "Or do you care to debate my tactics further?"
If it'd been able to, the droid would've swallowed. "Y-y-es, General. I mean, n-no, General. I mean—"
A low, feral growl rose from Grievous' vocalizer.
"Sorry, General. I'll, er, send out the Hyena bombers."
Quelling the urge to strangle the idiot right then and there, Grievous sent the droid's retreating back an acidic glare. "See to it that you do, droid. Or else, I might be forced to 'replace' you."
"Or you could surrender."
At the sound of the voice, Grievous straightened, craning his alabaster head. It'd sounded as though it had heralded from just ahead, amid swath of waving trees. As though a shadow perched there, whispering death toward the ground-only it wasn't. The trees were empty, their swaying, reaching branches heavy with leaves and nothing more as a faint rustling sounded behind him.
Hands reaching for his set of lightsabers, Grievous whirled toward the sound. And, once again, was greeted with nothing. No faces, no forms. Just the downy, emerald of grass, chilled and shivering in the timid night breeze.
And then something leapt from the shadows, all brilliant light and wild, streaking movement.
On instinct, Grievous ignited two of his blades, crossing them before his body. An instant later, another set of sabers rained down, attempting to break through his roaring barrier in a powerful downward thrust. Tried to cleave through some part of him, but was sent plowing through black, empty earth as he sprung to the side, blades held at his sides in reverse grips.
The blade's wielder only remained on the ground for a moment, his saber burning and chewing through dowdy ground—but for Grievous, it was more than enough time to finish the act. To deliver the coup de grace, blades plunged through vulnerable back. To listen as pure, humming plasma bit through bone and muscle and soft, soft skin.
The body went slack, eyes forever fixed on the near-starless sky.
And more blades flew from the shadows.
Retracting his blades from the fallen being's spine, Grievous spun to face them. No, not just them. Not simply flesh and blood and blades, but something more—because these beings, when it came down to it, were all extraordinary. They lifted objects with mere thoughts, hurled them without the lifting and grasping of hands; they could sing, sing loud with inferno blades that would maim most users, and they weren't afraid to let them sing through those opposed him. Through creatures like him, who loathed every microfiber of their oh-so-holy being.
These were Jedi.
Present Day
Eyes widening, I cut in. "Was my father—was he there?"
My question seems to startled Ben out some reverie—or wherever he goes when his gaze defocuses—and he takes a moment to respond. To gather his thoughts. To drag in a long, long breath. "No, Luke. Ana—your father doesn't come in yet."
"But he does come in at some time, right?"
He smiles, all melancholy and dim skies. "Depends on your definition of the word 'yet', my friend. In the grand story of the universe, we've all come in at some point or another and played our role."
"You know what I mean."
"I do, actually. I really do. But it's all in good time, Luke. You'll just have to be patient, wait and watch to see what part your father will play."
And somehow, I almost believe he's referring to the here-and-now, too.
Twenty-One Years Earlier
Eyes narrowing to flaring amber points, Grievous took them all in. Minus the one he'd slain, there were four of the robed figures, blades humming before them in childish ready-stances. Three were males—only one of which was human, the Kalleesh warrior realized—and one was female. Sephi, too, judging by her slanted, cattish features and tapering, pointed ears, which made her the oldest of the group. After all, the near-humanoids were renowned for aging slowly, their countenances frozen in timeless youth as centuries sped by.
Her clear, silver gaze—so closely mirroring the hue of her blade, he noted—scintillated pure fury. "I've said it once, and I'll say it again: surrender. It's only a matter of time till this system slips through your fingers; release it now, before we have to wrest it from your corpse."
He grinned with his eyes. "I could demand the same of you, Jedi. Seeing as I've just slain your comrade, it might be feasible that I could do the same to any of you—or all of you, depending on my mood."
A tiny smile tugged at the edges of the Sephi's violet lips. "I'd like to see you try."
"Very well."
With that, the Jedi were springing toward him in a blue-green-silver blur, their blades hacking wildly at his defenses. One Jedi—a wan, cadaverous-looking Muun—fell in the first twenty seconds of the onslaught, impaled on one of Grievous' furiously working sabers; another lasted for a whole minute before he finally slumped to the earth, his slight, Twi'Lek sliced through by his own weapon. Which served him right, in a way; as powerful as they were, all Jedi were bound to fall at the expense of their own errors. And when they did, not a molecule of air would bend with the sound.
Their coda would fill with silence.
Except the other two Jedi didn't appear to be the ones to go down without raising a shout. These Jedi were quick, their bodies twisting and ducking and side-stepping his attacks, and they could make their lightsabers sing faster. They slashed, parried, and attacked in a kaleidoscope of silver and ocean blue, blades flashing like skittish lightning; they thrust, blocked, counter-attacked in a mounting crescendo, one that would soon rise to deafening levels.
If he didn't cut the voices short, that is.
Drawing his blades high, Grievous feigned a downward strike, then grabbed for the Sephi Jedi with one of his sickle-feet. Her eyes widened as his talons closed around her delicate throat, their once-livid depths sparking with sudden panic; it would be childishly simple, after all, to snap her prism bones. To splinter them and grind them to mortal chalk—but he didn't. That would be too clean, too neat. Instead, he locked gazes with the other Jedi—a human male with copper hair and beard—and decided to make him speechless.
He extended his leg, flinging the Sephi into the other Jedi's blade.
Present Day
Envisioning the woman's tiny, glass frame colliding with a lightsaber, I quell the urge to retch. And retch, and retch. I know these weapons (well, sort of), saw one in action in the cantina, watched it shred arm as if it were air. Know the damage it can do, that it can truly wreak havoc on flesh and blood.
I see the awful reality of I'm imagining play out on Ben's face, too—and it's unsettling. Haunting, even. And so, so real, so tangible that I know he was more than a witness.
"That was you, Ben."
Pinching the bridge of his nose, he nods.
I lean forward a little, search his eyes. "Why were you there, then? To stop the airstrike?"
He shoots me a weary. "There's no way any of us could've known about the airstrike beforehand, Luke; in fact, our original mission was to simply tail Grievous, take him out." He leans back in his seat, plucking once more at his silver beard. "If we hadn't revealed ourselves then, I don't believe we would've ever known that there were any Jedi on-world."
"Why's that?"
"Because we weren't involved in the original campaign. The Senate…well, I'm not entirely certain they were all that concerned over Bakura, and they didn't want us Jedi risking our skins on what they thought to be fool's errand. They simply wanted us to make sure Grievous didn't plunder the planet's natural resources—but even if he hadn't, they still wanted his head."
I blink, nonplussed. The Senate's always been praised by my history texts, has been built up in my mind as if it's the love-child of the powers that be. As if it's somehow divine, a thing to deified. But Ben's story—it's not painting a very appealing picture of them, honestly. Not with that bit about natural resources—and the woman who was impaled over it.
"The Sephi…" My voice trails off, lingers through the air. "Was she your friend?"
"No, but she was the mentor of one of my dearest friends. In fact, her former padawan—Taria Damsin—was responsible for acquiring intel on Grievous, so without her…" He shakes his head. "Without Taria, I don't believe we would've found Grievous."
"And without her, none of those other Jedi would've died."
Ben can only meet my gaze, eyes offering a thousand answers.
Twenty-One Years Earlier
Mouth frozen in a glass scream, the other Jedi never moved. He didn't retract his blade, didn't sweep it aside at the last moment before spine met light; blast it, the fool never even blinked. All he could do was simply gape at the Kaleesh warrior, eyes nothing but shards of fear and sudden, searing comprehension:
He can kill.
He.
Can.
Kill.
And maybe the Sephi thought that, too. Thought it as she hung there, impaled by humming, azure brilliance—but he could be sure. Her expression…it wasn't all that readable. At least, not in a way that made sense; after all, you normally didn't see beings smile when they were on death's threshold.
Death's face was too much like his, now that he thought of it. It, too, was featureless, all indefinite lines and forms. All lost, forgotten. Torn from the past. And white—so hideously, alluringly colorless.
As her eyes finally drifted closed, the other Jedi finally had the mind to react, extinguishing the blade that'd melted through her delicate spine. Then he bent low, caught her limber, waxing form, and lowered her onto his lap. Let her rest, hang, float there for what seemed like a lifetime before he wordlessly set her on the smutty ground.
Drawing in a thin breath, the Jedi looked up, met his gaze. And what was there, what Grievous could pick out with his hungry, alien eyes—it wasn't normal, either. Wasn't the anger or shock he'd expected to find there, but something different. Paler. Devoid of color, and startlingly here.
He was terrified.
But then again, so were all Jedi. That's why they perched there, up in that ivory, sky-kissing Temple where the galaxy could only try to peer in. Why they hardly ever showed their faces to Kaleesh, balking at his world's plea for help and abandoning them to the Huk's wrath. To the burning of a world not too unlike Bakura, where the forests would soon be ever-streaming pillars of ebony smoke.
In the end, they all cowered in the shadow of the same thing: caring.
Grievous took a measured step forward, still-lit blades singing at his sides. The Jedi's eyes flashed—maybe he was expecting some sort of attack, was even hoping for it—but he still didn't move. Just crouched there, leaning protectively over his slain comrade's quiet body.
The Kaleesh's eyes narrowed to winnowing slits. "You and your Jedi friends—you overhead what I said about the airstrike, didn't you?"
The Jedi breathed, soundless. Blinked. Breathed again. "We did."
"Good. Then you'll know before I kill you what's about to befall this world."
"You're going to burn it," the Jedi said, so matter-of-fact. So distant that he could've been referring to bolo-ball match instead of this. "Everything—it's going to go to fire."
Raising his blade for the final coup de grace of the night, Grievous took another step forward. "And so will you, Jedi. You've lost."
"So have you."
That made Grievous pause a moment, blade still cocked for the kill. Made him hesitate, consider the possibility that maybe—just maybe—the Jedi was right. That he had already lost, and that defeat was simply hanging above his head, irrevocable and inevitable.
Then he plunged the blade downward, and the night erupted into flame.
A heartbeat before his blade met its mark, a bellowing, concussive blow racked through Bakura, sending both himself and the Jedi reeling. Grievous pitched to the side, his hulking torso briefly knocking him off-kilter, but he somehow kept his feet. Didn't go sprawling across the ground like the Jedi, who'd managed to deftly roll out of reach. Had the time to gather his bearing and assess the situation—and Bakura's hellish sky.
The airstrike…
That's when it sunk in: the Jedi had been right. He hadn't been bluffing, hadn't been playing for a precious few seconds of life. Hadn't been trying to intimidate Grievous with empty bravado, with words and threats and null promises, and had been expecting the sky to bloom red and orange at any time. He'd known it, planned for it. Banked on it with what he'd thought were his last few minutes in this lifetime.
Somehow—someway—that karking Jedi had ordered a counter-strike.
If he'd still possessed a heart, it would've been sinking. Because this entire skirmish-this crossing of blades and light, of fire and water- had all been for not. More than that, it'd been a ruse, a distraction—a way to keep him from seeing the eminent inferno until it was too late. Till his airstrike had been shot from the sky, the fiery entrails transforming the Bakuran night into stark, brilliant day.
And in the split second it'd taken for Grievous to come to that realization, the Jedi had already faded into the shadows.
Present Day
"You ran."
Beside me, Ben opens his mouth to respond, then immediately clamps it shut. Bits his lip, draws in a silent breath. Tries again. "Yes, Luke—I'm afraid I did. And no matter how I try to justify in my mind, I still see all the beings he killed after that, all that planets torched and reduced to ash." Another sigh. "But whenever I recall that counterstrike, the one I ordered, all those of those atrocities seem to pale."
I shoot him a quizzical look. "But you weren't killing living things, right? The Seps—didn't they used to use droid armies?"
"They did, but our counter-strike didn't just damage them: there was a city nearby, and it hadn't fully evacuated when our missiles went off." He leans back, fold his arms over his chest. "But since we'd been tailing Grievous for so long, none of us were aware of that. So when we overheard him ordering the aistrike…I made the decision to contact your father."
I sit up a little. "So he is in this story.
"He was," Ben corrects, a tiny, troubled frown hinting his mouth. "He happened to be a few klicks back, taking refuge in the Republic base; that's how he was able to relay my message so quickly, and why the counter-strike shortly followed."
"And…?"
Ben twists in his chair, facing me. "'And' what? That's all there is to it, Luke: I called a misinformed counter-strike, I allowed a lot of innocents beings to die, and I ran. Simple as that."
I pull a dour face. "No, no. I meant that…weren't you trying to inspire me or something with this story? Make me believe that we have a fighting chance against the Empire?"
The old man blinks, expression aggravatingly neutral. "Was I?"
"Yeah, you were. And pardon me for saying this, but I don't see how your story was supposed to offer me any encouragement."
"How's that?" he asks, canting his head. Feigning ignorance.
"Well, let's face it, Ben: your story was depressing. Except for that part about you escaping with your, it was all a failure. A sham, really."
A grin starts to form under Ben's beard, and this time it touches his eyes. And it's…it's mixed with something else, mingled with some emotion I can pin-point. With something unreadable, inscrutable—but somehow, that's ok. Reality, after all, is often veiled, shrouded from view till we crest the final peak and all is awash with light.
"I may've missed my chance to kill Grievous," Ben admits, "but only on that day. Two and a half-years later—about a week or so before you were born, Luke—I was finally able to kill him. Because there was, in the end, still a chance left—and because after Bakura, I'd made my decision. I'd set my course, planned my way. And though none—few, really—went with me, I decided to fight for that chance." Smiling warmly, he claps me over the shoulder. "As can you, Luke. As can you."
And somehow, a fool's hope whispers in my ear. Makes me begin to believe it. Or to believe that someday—someway—I can start to.