The Artist II – Dreamweaver
Kenya Starflight
AUTHOR'S NOTE – Due to popular demand, I've paused work on my other fics to write the second installment of "The Artist." It's both prequel and sequel to the first, giving the back-story of "The Artist" while telling the further story of Devon and Mr. Makatzo. It also explains, I hope, why Darth Vader acted rather out of character in the original story.
Corusant.
It was dangerous for any member of the Alliance to venture anywhere near the capitol world. The city-planet was understandably the most heavily secured planet in the galaxy. But today, Mon Mothma and a handful of other Alliance military leaders had risked the journey. For a Rebel cell hidden deep in the low-level slums of Corusant claimed to have captured one of the highest-ranking men in the Empire – Darth Vader.
Their meeting-place had been carefully chosen. A dim lobby at the bottom level of an abandoned office building in the Dead Sector, its only light was a portable glow panel hastily bolted to the wall. Its sickly yellow illumination only just revealed the jagged cracks in the ferrocrete walls, the mysterious stains on the bare floor, the chipped rickety furniture, and three generations worth of graffiti. It was a lowly place, but it was safe, for few patrols came this deep into the Dead Sector.
Fate had an odd sense of humor, Mothma decided as she tried to make herself comfortable in the broken armchair. If her memory served her, and it usually did, this was the same room where, over twenty years ago, she and a handful of senators had covertly met with Jedi Knight Obi-wan Kenobi. Here they had learned of the destruction of the Chosen One, the rise of Vader, and the inception of the Jedi Purges.
A young Zabrak soldier, looking exhausted but jubilant, skidded into the room, saluting hastily.
"Report," Mothma told him.
"We've got Vader!" he gushed excitedly, as if this would be breaking news. "And the Emperor's dead! Gone for good!"
Astonished silence met his statement. That the Rebellion had managed to take Vader into custody was incredible enough; that the Emperor could be dead was almost unthinkable.
"How did you manage to kill the Emperor and apprehend his right-hand man at the same time?" asked Admiral Ackbar.
"We didn't kill him," corrected the soldier. "Someone reported a big rumble in the Crimson Corridor Sector – something about Imp troops fighting each other and Vader and the Emperor going at it like rabid acklays. By the time we got there, it was all over. Dead stormies all over the place. The Emperor was in the middle of the mess. Had a saber run through his heart, if he ever had one. Just sorry I didn't see it happen."
"Sounds to me like his right-hand man was plotting a takeover all along," noted General Madine. "What about Vader?"
Here his enthusiasm faltered. "It was weird. He was just sitting there, all hunched over with his head in his arms. Didn't resist at all when we put him under arrest. But we tranqued him up good before we brought him in just to be on the safe side."
"Thank you, sir. Bring him in."
Tensions skyrocketed instantly as over a dozen guards escorted the Dark Lord into the lobby. But puzzlement quickly replaced anxiety. For where was the tall, proud, confident Sith, resplendent and terrifying in glossy black battle armor, that had haunted the Alliance's nightmares for years? This man walked with a limp, his armor dulled and cracked and charred, his cloak ragged and torn, his head bowed and shoulders slumped. Lightsaber and electrical burns streaked his armor, and an awful stench of hot metal and singed cloth and flesh followed him.
Despite herself, Mothma felt a great surge of pity for Vader. Something had obviously cut him deeply. Had his master rejected him? Did he regret killing the dictator? Or was he simply depressed because his revolution had been thwarted by the Alliance?
"Your coup appears to have failed, my Lord," she told him.
He raised his head to look her in the eye. "A coup never took place, Madam."
"That's a laugh," an Admiral smirked.
"You're out of order, sir," Mothma told him sternly. To Vader she said, "Then what was the battle in the Crimson Corridor about? What led you to battle your master?"
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," he murmured. "But the story must be told, for it concerns the fate of the galaxy."
"Go on," she urged. If Vader was willing to ally himself with their cause to save the galaxy, it was worth keeping him out of the cell blocks.
Vader kept his gaze leveled at the Alliance leaders as he spoke, his customary bass voice oddly flat. Amusement, then disbelief, and finally horror came over everyone's faces as he related how his sadistic master had studied the ancient secrets of the dark side in the Sith Archives. How he had learned the arcane arts of destruction – and decided to use them against the rebellious galaxy that refused to subject itself to his rule. How Vader had attempted – too late – to curtail the deadly plan by destroying his master.
And he repeated the Emperor's terrifying last words before Vader had run him through:
"One world under my rule, or no world."
---------
Earth.
Devon woke up. He blinked cloudy eyes and kicked off the blankets. Another one of those weird dreams – he'd have to tell Mr. Makatzo about it.
He made his way to the closet to change his clothes, only to trip over a model of an AT-AT walker and almost kill himself. Last night's dream had been pretty tame, actually. Now the dream from the night before… wow! Troopers at war, red lightsabers clashing, lightning and smoke everywhere…
He stopped to grab a donut on his way out to catch the bus. As he washed it down with a glass of chocolate milk, he could hear his older sister Britney griping about something-or-other. He just rolled his eyes. Britney was always complaining.
"It's just unfair," she whined through her pierced nose. "Devon gets to stay out late, and he's only ten! How come I have to have a curfew?"
"Devon has a job, that's why," Mom replied evenly. "If you had an after-school job..."
"And that's another thing!" she spat. "Why do you let him work at that geek store? He's only working there because that weird old geezer's a Star Wars freak too. Hasn't he heard of child labor laws?"
"He's not a weird old geezer," Devon defended. "He's my friend."
"We know, dear," Mom replied sweetly, kissing his forehead as he tried to worm his way past her and out the door.
"Mo-om!" he yowled. Why did she have to subject him to mush all the time?
School was an average day, complete with a lecture from his teacher for bringing a Jango Fett action figure to school, a D on his social studies paper, and an impromptu track meet as he outran Steel to Mr. Makatzo's store. As a self-proclaimed geek, he couldn't expect much else out of a day. Besides, it was after school he was looking forward to.
He took a deep breath as he entered the Mos Espa Street Market, the Star Wars-themed novelty store Mr. Makatzo ran. It wasn't an especially profitable business – in fact, Devon suspected the old man actually lost money on the shop every month. But profit didn't matter to him; running the store was a labor of love.
But only Devon knew Mr. Makatzo's secret – that he was a Jedi Knight and the last hope of a lost galaxy.
"Mr. Makatzo!" he shouted, running for the back room. He knew the storekeeper would want to know of his dream. Dreams, he'd told Devon, were often windows to the past or future.
"Hey Mr. Makatzo!" he shouted, bursting into the apartment at the back of the store.
"Devon!" the familiar warbly voice of Jedi Knight Akri Makatzo greeted warmly. The old man gave him an affectionate hug. He was wearing a Florida Marlin's baseball cap, a Disney/MGM Studios Star Wars Weekends T-shirt, Bermuda shorts, and his trademark beaded sandals.
"Sit down, lad, and I'll get y' somethin' to drink. Been busy lately?"
"I've got something to tell you…" he began, sitting down at the table. His voice trailed off. Someone else was sitting at the table, chewing thoughtfully on a celery stick, a stack of encyclopedias underneath him to keep him above the tabletop.
"Good to see you it is, Devon," the dwarven Jedi said with a smile that made his wrinkled green face light up.
"Hi Yoda!" Devon replied. Though this was his first time meeting Yoda, Mr. Makatzo's interesting visitors didn't bother him anymore. It was fairly common to come back here and find the old man having a philosophical discussion with Luke Skywalker, playing Podracer on the Playstation with Artoo Detoo, or talking politics with Princess Leia. Though he had to admit it had scared him the time he'd entered the room to find Boba Fett using a life-sized statue of Jar Jar Binks for target practice.
"Ah, you've met my Jedi Master," Mr. Makatzo noted, setting a plate of coconut cookies and a glass of tea next to the veggie platter. "Yoda comes out of his painting once a year to inspect your world and see if it's ready for our people."
Yoda nodded. "Decided to accompany Devon in his travels I have. Be able to view this world better I will."
Devon grinned. "I'd be glad to show him around."
"Ah, splendid!" Mr. Makatzo said with a huge smile. "I think you'll be pleased with this young man, Master Yoda. He's a good boy."
Yoda gazed thoughtfully at him, tapping his chin with a clawed finger. "How feel you?"
"Excited," Devon said truthfully. Come on, how many kids ever got the opportunity to play tour guide to Yoda?
But the ancient Jedi's green eyes seemed to probe further into Devon's emotions. "Something to tell Master Makatzo you have."
"Oh yeah," he recalled. In his excitement he'd totally forgotten about the dream. "Last night – last two nights actually – I've been having really weird dreams."
"Ah, dreams," said Mr. Makatzo. "Portals to th' Force, lad. Tell us 'bout them."
"Well, in the first dream, Darth Vader was fighting Emperor Palpatine…" he began, absently crumbling a cookie as he spoke.
At first Mr. Makatzo and Yoda merely looked amused as Devon described the fight and Mothma's meeting with Vader. But as he kept talking, their expressions changed. Mr. Makatzo looked astonished, but Yoda's face went unexpectedly grim.
"Is this bad?" asked Devon in conclusion.
Yoda ignored the question. "Saw the beginning of the end of our world you did."
"You mean that's how it happened?"
He nodded.
"But what does it mean? Why did I dream it?"
Mr. Makatzo shot Yoda a "let-me-explain-this" look before answering. "Devon, y' are th' only one on this planet that knows of our comin'. It's only logical that y' know th' whole story. Th' Force is ensurin' that."
"But why don't you just tell me?" asked Devon, puzzled.
Yoda opened his mouth to say something, but thought better of it and revised it. "Painful it is to discuss it, Devon."
"Oh." He stared at the cookie bits that now littered the table. "Sorry."
"Don't be, lad," Mr. Makatzo told him gently. "It ain't your fault you're dreamin'."
Yoda's long pointed ears twitched once. "Entered the store someone has."
"Devon, will y' go help our customer, please?" asked Mr. Makatzo.
It was a dismissal, and Devon knew it. All the same, he didn't complain but went straight to the cash register. He understood that grownups needed to talk privately sometimes.
While Devon rang up the sale, Yoda finished his celery stick, and then addressed his fellow Jedi.
"Told him the truth you should have, Akri."
He snorted and took Devon's untouched cup, draining it in one gulp. "Th' lad's got 'nough problems to chew on, Master Yoda. He's havin' problems at school, he has to put up with bullies and that spoiled older sister of his, and he's seen as little more than a geek even by his family. He doesn't need this on top of it."
"Need you to leave him unexpectedly he does not," Yoda retorted. His features and voice softened with concern. "Your heart. Still bothers you does it?" He raised his cane and tapped Mr. Makatzo's sternum.
"Th' chest pains aren't gettin' any worse, Master," he insisted.
"But getting better they are not, hmmm?" He shook his head. "Doing Devon any favors you are not, Akri, by hiding that from him."
"Oh honestly, Yoda!" Mr. Makatzo swept the crumbs off the table with a leathery hand. "Just 'cause th' lad's havin' Force-spawned nightmares doesn't mean I'm fixin' t' go one with th' Force!"
"Knew of this you did when gave Devon this responsibility you did." Yoda unexpectedly smiled. "Remind me of a certain youngling he does, though. Very bright, but awkward, given to fetishes."
Mr. Makatzo gazed in the direction of the shop. "Y' think he's that much like me?"
"Indeed. And suspect I do that why you love the boy you do. Wish to hurt him you do not. But hurt him far more your death will if unexpected it is."
The old shopkeeper nodded, tears in his eyes. "Then it's soon."
"Suggest that these dreams do. Preparing him for this responsibility they are." He gave his comrade a penetrating stare. "Tell him you must, Akri. Soon."
He sighed deeply. "Tomorrow. When he comes to work in th' afternoon. I'll plan what t' say t' him tonight."
--------
Corusant.
For two years the Stardestroyer Executor had served the Imperial Navy as a harbinger of doom. Now, however, she was a vessel of mercy, a last hope for thousands of desperate refugees.
The infamous starship hung in Corusant's evening sky, its shuttles landing to unload the first of over thirteen thousand refugees that Vader and his men had managed to gather from dozens of now-vanished worlds. Admiral Piett watched all this from the bridge, face grim. Hundreds of Outer-Rim worlds and their stars had simply disappeared into oblivion – Kamino, Geonosis, Bakura, Tatooine, Endor, Bespin, and others. And for every life they managed to save, a million more perished.
The Alliance High Command had been quite skeptical of Vader's tale at first – who wouldn't be? – and imprisoned him. But Mothma, knowing even Vader wouldn't lie about something of this magnitude, had sent scout teams to various parts of the galaxy to verify the story. She found, of course, that he had been perfectly correct, and had reluctantly recruited him to the Rebellion's cause – which had gone from liberating the galaxy to salvaging what they could of it before it was gone.
"More refugees are on their way via the Devastator and Avenger, my Lord," Piett reported to his superior.
Vader nodded slightly in acknowledgement, his gaze fixed on the planet's surface.
"My Lord," Piett told him, "there was nothing you could do to stop this once the Emperor made up his mind. This isn't your fault."
Vader's gaze never wavered. "If I had never helped the madman further his plans for dominion in the first place, it never would have come to this," he said quietly. "My blindness has doomed our entire galaxy."
Piett felt a stab of empathy for the man – his battle with his master had totally broken his spirit. He would never again be the same intimidating warlord he had been a mere six months ago. And for the rest of his life he would never stop blaming himself for this black apocalypse.
"Is this evacuation even going to help anything?" demanded Boba Fett, barging onto the bridge as if he owned the place. "If the galaxy's going to chaos, what good will rounding up the survivors do but postpone the inevitable?"
"Mothma's orders," Piett replied. He really didn't know why Mothma was insisting on saving as many as possible either. Perhaps being a Rebel had instilled a permanent drive to fight for life in her. "Did anyone else from Jabba's palace accompany you off Tatooine?"
Fett snorted. "The slug wouldn't come. Vowed to go down with the ship. And his entourage was too frightened to leave him. He did give up Solo, though." He idly toyed with a vibroblade. "Why did you drag Tuskens back with you? The savages don't have any idea what's going on and are raising havoc."
"A personal debt of mine," Vader replied, turning to face the hunter. "And to answer your first question, we have a reason for saving as many lives as possible."
"What do you mean?" asked Piett.
"Many years ago," Vader explained, "a scouting party discovered a rift in the fabric of space. No one knew what had caused it. But when we investigated further, we found it was a gateway to an alternate universe."
"Okay, now I know you're spinning tales," Fett growled.
"I have no cause to lie, Fett," Vader replied. "It is Mothma's belief that this reality will be spared from our galaxy's collapse, and that we can perhaps begin a new life there."
"But what of the natives of this other world?" asked Piett. "Will they accept us?"
"There is only one way to find out," Vader replied cryptically.
-------
Earth.
Devon wriggled out of bed. "Not again."
Yoda looked up from contemplating the cover of a Jedi Apprentice book. "Another dream you had."
"How did you know?"
"Forget you do that a Jedi I am?" he inquired with a smile. "Besides, talk in your sleep you do."
"They're so real," Devon mumbled, pulling on his Anakin Skywalker T-shirt. "It felt like I was Piett, that I was in his skin, talking like him."
Yoda nodded. "Talk to Master Makatzo about that you should."
"I will today after school," Devon vowed. He stuffed a few clonetrooper figures and his book report on Vector Prime into his backpack. "All right, I'm off for school. I'll be back to pick you up before we go to the store…"
"Accompany you I will, Devon."
He looked skeptically down at the Jedi. Yesterday he had smuggled Yoda into the house with his backpack. But today there was no chance of that, for his books took up too much room.
"In your bag, on top of your books, put me. Worry about the rest I will."
"Okay," Devon said unsurely. Was Yoda going to do a Force trick to make himself invisible?
Yoda was much lighter than he looked, thought Devon as he tromped downstairs and sat down for breakfast. But his head, shoulders, and arms stuck out of the bag. Would anyone notice…
"Devon, stop dragging your stupid toys to school if you want to keep getting picked on for being a geek," snapped Britney, flouncing into the kitchen.
"What do you care?" Devon shot back. "Besides, what toys?"
"That stupid Yoda doll," she replied, kicking the backpack as she walked by. "That thing's so ugly. Why's the weird elf so popular anyway?"
"'Cuz he's smarter than you and all your friends put together," Devon retorted, looking down. Yoda held perfectly still, looking for all the world like a life-sized doll. Devon grinned. Despite being from another galaxy, he sure knew how to survive in this one.
"Will you two please stop fighting?" demanded Dad from behind the morning paper. He sounded as if he hadn't slept well.
"Dad, he's so embarrassing," complained Britney. "All my friends have normal little brothers that play soccer and Playstation and Pokemon. Mine's just a geek! Can't you make him…"
"You can't make me do anything," Devon told her, sneaking a banana and a blueberry waffle under the table. From what Mr. Makatzo had told him, Yoda was a confirmed vegetarian – maybe that would come in handy at dinner, especially if they were having okra or brussel sprouts again.
"Britney, Devon, please," moaned Dad.
Devon crammed half of a maple-syrup-soaked waffle in his mouth before picking up his backpack and heading for the door. Yoda had managed to turn himself around in the bag so his feet stuck out, humming contentedly as he enjoyed his breakfast.
Though school was walking distance away, he always tried to take the bus to avoid tangling with Steel's gang. As a geek, he was a popular target of theirs, and at their hands he'd suffered everything from trips into the dumpster to spending half-hour stretches in his locker. And despite his best efforts, he still occasionally crossed paths with them.
"Hey geek!"
He spotted Steel and two of his henchmen – the scrawny but generally nasty nerd known as Sticks and the ball of fat everyone tagged Stones – getting off the next bus down. He ran into the building and tried to get to class as fast as he could, but they caught up with him in the halls.
"If it ain't Darth Weirdo," sneered Sticks. Sticks made Devon look tough in comparison, but his main weapon was his cruel wit, and when it did come to blows he could fight dirty. "Got any lunch money or did you blow it on action figures?"
"Let's pound him," grunted Stones. Stones gave the appearance of being slightly dimmer than a sack of potting soil, but no one told that to a kid who could pass off as the spawn of Jabba the Hutt. Whether his nickname referred to his brawn or his brains, who could say?
Devon tried to duck past Sticks to get to class, but Steel grabbed him by the backpack and dragged him back.
"What's the hurry, geek-freak?" he demanded. "We ain't properly said hello yet. What's this? Santa's elf?"
"Isn't that Yoda?" asked Stones, looking interested.
"Give that back!" shouted Devon, suddenly terrified, as Sticks yanked Yoda from the pack by his robe front.
"Why should I?" Sticks demanded. "Always wanted a Yoda doll. He'd look good hanging from my bedroom ceiling… ow!"
Yoda fell to the floor. Devon scooped him up and stuffed him back into the bag.
"It bit me!" Sticks shouted, nursing his hand.
"Dolls don't bite," Stones pointed out, which was the most intelligent thing Devon had heard him say all year.
"Something wrong, boys?"
The four of them whirled to see the principal, Mr. Harvey, watching them.
"Uh… the geek… I mean David here… was just showing us his Yoda doll…" stammered Steel.
"It's Devon," Devon corrected, "and they were trying to steal him." Normally have ratted on any of Steel's cronies for fear of retaliation, but they'd gone too far this time in trying to hurt Yoda.
"I see," Mr. Harvey noted. His gaze moved to Steel, Sticks, and Stones. "Jedidiah, Neville, Buzz, please come to my office. Devon, please leave your toys at home from now on. It'd be a shame for that nice Yoda doll to be broken on the playground."
Devon received three venomous glowers as Steel and his gang followed Mr. Harvey. He groaned as he entered Ms. Gingham's classroom. Boy, was he in for it after school!
"The bullies those are?" Yoda inquired softly as Devon set his backpack under his chair.
"Some of them," Devon whispered. "Sticks and Stones follow Steel around constantly, but he's got others in his gang too – Bubba, Spike, the Hulk, Two-Ton Trevor, Jackhammer, the Cyborg. They pick on everyone, but I'm their favorite punching bag."
"Hmmm," mused Yoda. "Unusual names those are."
"They're not their real names," Devon replied. "They use 'wrestling names.' Makes them feel tougher, I guess."
"Unsatisfied with themselves they are," Yoda noted. "See themselves highly they do not. So raise themselves higher by beating others down they do."
"Never thought of it that way before. Hey, can you hand me my book report?"
Ms. Gingham was a patient woman and knew of Devon's obsession, so she only smiled when she spotted Yoda under his desk and collected his Vector Prime book report.
"All right, clear your desks, students," she told them. "It's time for your math test."
There was a universal groan as she handed out the papers. Devon slid his closer. Multiplying double-digit numbers – oh brother. He hated double digits.
As the rest of class bent industriously over their papers, he carefully toed his backpack. "Hey, what's twenty-four times fifteen?"
"Help you cheat I will not."
"Please? If I flunk the test Mom'll ground me!"
"If pass by dishonest means you do, the worse it will be."
Devon huffed. Why did Yoda have to be difficult?
"Four times five."
"Huh?"
"Four times five," Yoda repeated.
"Easy. Twenty."
"Devon, no talking please," Ms. Gingham chided.
"Sorry." He stared at the problem. How was four times five going to help…
/Trust me./
He nearly jumped out of his chair. Yoda was speaking to him through the Force!
/Listen carefully. Four times five twenty makes. Below the line the zero put and over the two in twenty-four the two put…/
With Yoda's gentle coaching, Devon was able to solve the problem. And with a few reminders he was able to make it through the test. When the tests came back after lunch, Devon's was the only 100 percent in the class.
"I thought you said you couldn't help me," Devon whispered once the final bell had rung.
"Said I did that help you cheat I would not," Yoda replied through a mouthful of the chef's salad Devon had slipped into his pack. "Helped you cheat I did not. Only gave advice I did."
"Hey geek!"
Devon cringed. "Steel!"
"Behind there," ordered Yoda.
He ran behind the dumpster and crouched down. "Hope they didn't see us."
"Saw us they did."
"Dang! I'm in trouble!"
"Not if help it I can." Yoda grinned slyly. "Have a plan I do."
"Hey Darth Wimpy," sneered Sticks, strutting leisurely up to Devon.
"Not smart to rat on the principal, geek," growled Steel, clamping a giant hand on his shoulder. "You know that only leads to trouble."
"Hey, let's rip up the doll," Sticks suggested, yanking Yoda out of the pack by his ear. "Teach freak-boy here a lesson."
"Give him back!" Devon cried, reaching out for him.
Sticks laughed derisively and threw Yoda to Stones. Stones grinned and tossed him to Steel. Steel held him over his head and laughed nastily at Devon's efforts to grab him.
"What comes off first?" asked Steel. "The head? The arms?"
"How 'bout the ears?" suggested Sticks.
"Come off nothing does, boys," Yoda said firmly.
There was a moment of silence. Then Steel dropped Yoda and backed away as if he were a rattlesnake, screaming all the while.
"It talks!" shrieked Stones.
Yoda got to his feet. He leaned on his cane and fixed each boy in turn with a studious stare. Devon couldn't keep a smirk off his face. Steel, Sticks, and Stones quailed under the Jedi Master's gaze.
"Rather disrespectful toward a Jedi Master you younglings are."
Sticks was the first to recover. "Oh yeah? What's it to you, Big Ears?"
"Yeah," sneered Steel, scraping together his bruised ego. "Bring it on, Shorty."
Stones wasn't as dumb as he looked, Devon thought. In fact, he might well have been the most intelligent one of the bunch. He was backing away, looking more and more terrified by the second. No doubt he'd seen Attack of the Clones and the Yoda/Dooku fight scene had made an impression.
"I'm warning you, you don't want to mess with him," Devon said casually.
"Shut up, geek-face," Steel snarled. "You're next, you know." And he charged with a feral yell.
Yoda waited patiently until there was no way Steel could stop himself in time, then stepped aside with a swiftness at odds with his age. There was a satisfying clang as Steel's thick skull met the side of the dumpster. With a pained yowl he danced around clutching his head.
"Why you little green rat!" Sticks shouted, and he ran forward to grab Yoda. But a gimer-stick to the shins brought him to his knees.
"Go Yoda!" cheered Devon.
Yoda made a show of examining his cane for dents. "Gave me a better workout my younglings did."
The battle was fairly one-sided, as Steel and Sticks kept eating grass and smacking the dumpster, losing bravado with every attack. Yoda acted bored as he shrugged off each charge with a quick sidestep or a well-placed whack with his cane, but Devon was sure he was enjoying himself. Stones, meanwhile, hadn't moved in some time, paralyzed with fright.
At last Steel and Sticks gave up, Steel still rubbing his head, Sticks nursing a scrape on his elbow.
"Had enough?" asked Devon.
The two of them shot him looks of hatred laced with fear, then bolted.
Yoda chuckled. "Bother you again they will not."
Devon's elation drained with a sobering thought. "I don't think that was a good idea."
"What want you?" Yoda snorted. "A battalion of assassin droids?"
"But now that they know you exist…"
"Believe them who will?"
"Good point." He jerked his thumb toward Stones. "But what about him?"
Yoda hummed a little to himself and hobbled closer to the boy. Stones backed away with a little whimper.
"Easy, youngling," he told him. "Harm you I will not. Your name?"
"B-B-Buzz," he stammered. "T-the others call m-me Stones."
"Hello, Buzz. Met Devon have you?"
"Oh, that's the geek's name?" He offered Devon a weak smile. "Y-you're not gonna sic Yoda on me, are you?"
"No, he was only protecting me from Steel and Sticks."
"Oh." His fear was slowly dissipating, to be replaced with curiosity. "Uh… where'd he come from?"
Devon looked at Yoda. "Can we tell him?"
Yoda gave Buzz his soul-searching look. "Misguided he is, but pure his heart is. Tell him we can."
"Come with us to the Mos Espa Street Market," Devon invited. "You've got to meet Mr. Makatzo."
"That weird old man with the funny nose?" Buzz didn't look too sure.
"Trust me, he's cool." Devon leaned forward and lowered his voice. "He's a Jedi Knight."
Buzz's eyes threatened to burst out of their sockets. "Wow, cool!" But then his eagerness began to fade. "If Yoda's real… and the old man's a Jedi… is… is Darth Vader real too?"
"Yeah," Devon replied easily. "But he's not evil anymore," he added hastily.
"Cool! Can I meet him?"
Devon laughed. "I didn't know you were a Star Wars fan, Buzz."
"Well… Steel and Sticks don't like geeks. And if they knew I was one I'd get pounded too."
"So? Hang with us from now on! If Steel and Sticks give you any grief, Yoda can cream them. And I'm sure you can give Steel a run for his money…"
Before Buzz could reply, Yoda's entire dwarven body tensed visibly, his knuckles going white around his cane. His eyes and ears focused in the direction of Mr. Makatzo's store. Instantly Devon's stomach turned to lead.
"What is it?" he asked.
"In trouble Akri is," he replied simply. With a single leap he dove into Devon's bag. "To the store. Quickly!"
"What's going on?" asked Buzz as Devon slung the pack over his shoulder.
"Told him this was coming I did," was all Yoda would say.
The two boys ran down the street, their backpacks thumping into their backs with every step. The knot in Devon's stomach tightened with every breath he took. What had happened to Mr. Makatzo? Had he fallen? Had there been a robbery? Was he hurt?
"In there," ordered Yoda, pointing down a decrepit-looking alley.
"But that's gang turf!" protested Buzz.
"Go in," Yoda insisted. "Protected you are."
Buzz hesitated, then ducked into the alley. Two seconds later a horrified shriek rang from the walls.
"Buzz?!" Devon bolted in after him.
He stopped short. Towering over the three of them was a man in battered armor, gazing calculatingly at them through his T-slit visor. He had a blaster pointed in Buzz's direction, but he slowly lowered it when he realized who he'd drawn on.
"Foolish it is to walk the streets in your armor, Boba Fett," Yoda scolded.
"There wasn't time to change," Fett rasped harshly. His gaze rested on Buzz. "Who's this?"
"A friend," Devon replied. "Don't worry, Buzz. Fett's on our side."
Buzz nodded, still speechless.
Fett crouched. "Put your arms around my neck, boys."
Puzzled, they obeyed. He took each of them by the waist and lifted them easily.
"You wouldn't mind doing one of your Jedi mind tricks to make us invisible, would you, Yoda?" Fett asked.
"I will." Yoda closed his eyes in concentration.
"What are we…" began Devon.
There was a hollow roar like a propane torch, and the four of them rose into the air. Devon gulped and tightened his grip.
"Easy boys, I won't drop you," Fett assured them. "Devon, you're going to choke me."
"This is cool!" Buzz gushed as they soared over the rooftops of a city suddenly gone miniature.
"What's going on?" demanded Devon. "What's wrong with Mr. Makatzo?"
"You haven't told him?" Fett snapped at Yoda. "Jedi and their mental games!" To Devon he said, "Mr. Makatzo's just suffered a massive heart attack."
"What?!" Devon exclaimed.
"Vader and Skywalker are with him," Fett continued. "They're working to keep him stable, but he doesn't have much time. He needs to speak to you before he dies."
"He can't die!" Devon shouted. "Yoda, you can heal him! You can save him! Please!"
"Strong am I in the Force," Yoda replied gravely. "But not that strong."
Fett touched down in front of the store. Luckily, the street was deserted, this being a less-frequented area of town, so no one saw them land and run into the shop.
"Devon!" exclaimed a stormtrooper, waving him toward the back. "Back here! Quick!"
"I'll call 911," Buzz offered, running for the phone.
Devon ran past a Lego display, where the bent frames and tattered canvas of three pictures lay amidst a glittering carpet of broken glass – the paintings of Luke, Fett, and Vader and his personal guards. It looked as if Mr. Makatzo's heart attack had struck as he was carrying the pictures. Dropping them had been a stroke of luck, however, as it had freed their occupants so they might help him.
He burst into the apartment. The other five troopers clustered in a tight knot around the couch where Mr. Makatzo lay, as if to protect him from further harm. Devon kicked one in the shins to get him to move aside. The man gave a yelp and stepped back.
Vader and Luke knelt by the stricken Jedi, Luke cupping the old man's head in his hands, Vader with his hands over Mr. Makatzo's heart as if he'd been performing CPR. Devon's own heart hammered in his throat as he ran to his friend's side and took his hand. His skin was ashen and clammy, and he gasped for every breath.
"Luke, can you heal him?" pleaded Devon, staring up into Luke's eyes.
He shook his head sadly. "His heart's too old, Devon. It's his time to go."
"He can't go!" he screamed in reply.
"There's nothing more we can do, son," Vader told him gently, "except keep him alive long enough to talk to you."
"Devon?" Mr. Makatzo sounded so faint he could barely make out the words. "So good… t' see y'…"
"You can make it," urged Devon desperately. "You can fight it. There's an ambulance coming real soon! You can make it 'til then!"
"Th' dreams…" he whispered hoarsely. "Sorry I didn't… tell y' sooner… they've been… a sign… that our times… have come…"
"What do you mean?" demanded Devon.
"My time… t' join th' Force… and your time… t' be keeper… of the paintings… until th' time… is right…"
"But you can't die! Mr. Makatzo, don't leave me! I don't want you to go!"
"Oh lad…" His grip on Devon's hand tightened, as if the last of his life force was being transferred to that limb. "I'll always… be with y'… always…"
Hot tears were sliding down Devon's cheeks now. He was hardly aware of Vader's hand on his shoulder, or of Buzz bursting into the room to announce the paramedics were on their way.
"You're like… th' son I never had… Devon… I love y'…"
"No," Devon whimpered.
Mr. Makatzo's grip relaxed, and a serene expression came over his leathery face. He was gone.
"No…"
Devon buried his face in Mr. Makatzo's chest, sobbing uncontrollably, as Buzz, Luke, Vader, Fett, and the troopers looked on sympathetically.
-------
Corusant.
It was an odd crowd, thought Luke, that gathered in what used to be Emperor Palpatine's conference room in the Imperial Palace. In addition to himself and his friends Leia, Han, Chewie, and the droids, there were various Imperial and Rebel leaders including Mothma and Vader, Prime Minister Laama Su of Kamino and his advisor Taun We, Geonosian warlord Poggle the Lesser, several cowering Neimodians, Baron Administrator of Cloud City Lando Calrissian, Boba Fett and a gaggle of assorted bounty hunters that skulked in a corner, Wookie, Tusken, and Jawa chieftains, Boss Nass of the Gungans of Naboo, and many more. All were uneasily awaiting the return of the scouting party Vader had ordered to Earth three weeks ago.
Han, now several days free of the carbonite, leaned over to Luke. "Ever think it would come to this, kid?"
"No," he replied. "But it goes to show how twisted Palpatine was. And on the other hand…" He nodded at the head of the table, where Mothma and Vader stood side by side. "…It shows that, despite all that's happened, the galaxy can still pull together in a crisis."
"Yeah, it's amazing who you can call friend when someone turns the heat up," Han muttered.
The doors hissed open, and a single scouttrooper, his armor battered and filthy, entered the room.
"Where is the rest of your party, soldier?" asked Vader.
"Dead and gone," he replied in a thick Nar Shadda brogue. "Big war tearin' up th' planet, there is."
Nervous glances were exchanged. The people of this galaxy were used to fighting by now, but jumping from one war-torn world to another wasn't a comforting thought.
"Aside from the war, what is the state of Earth right now?" asked Mothma.
The trooper hesitated. "Uh… nice place… but they're not caught up with us technology-wise…"
"Don't sugar-coat it," rasped Poggle. "Spit it out."
"Okay," he replied. "They ain't even invented th' computer yet, let alone starcraft and blasters."
A collective groan filled the room.
"That decides it," moaned Rune Haako. "We're doomed."
"Wesa not doomed," boomed Boss Nass, scowling at the Trade Federation viceroy. "Wesa adapt. Yousa can learn to live like dem."
"Why not simply wait until their society has reached our state?" suggested Laama Su.
"We're rapidly running out of time, Prime Minister," Vader replied. "Thousands of systems are already gone. The destruction has reached as far into the core as Bestine and works its way deeper into the core every day we delay."
"We need not wait here," Laama Su crooned. "Why not put ourselves into suspended animation…"
"Oh, great idea," Han replied sarcastically. "For your information, sir, sitting in carbonite for who-knows-how-long isn't exactly a walk in the park."
Luke noticed that the scouttrooper had gone rather funny at the mention of suspended animation. He was shifting his weight alternately between his heels and the balls of his feet, as if waiting for a break in the argument so he could jump in and speak.
"…Not to mention that freezing people in carbonite has been known to kill them half the time," Lando was saying.
"Aren't there alternatives?" hissed Bossk from the hunters' corner of the room. "I hear Jedi can put people in Force-sleeps that can keep them alive for centuries." He glared at Yoda, whom Luke had whisked off of Dagobah mere hours before the planet had vanished forever.
"Lost those secrets were when destroyed the Order was," Yoda replied gravely.
The trooper was practically bouncing up and down now. Luke opened his mouth to speak on his behalf but was cut off.
"Well, what other choice do we have?" Threepio stated in translation as a Wookie chief went on a tirade. "If we go to this Earth now, they'll probably panic and kill us. You see what they've done to our scouts."
"We can't stay here either," snapped Fett. "It's only a matter of time before we all burn in chaos."
"I'm afraid he has a valid argument, Fett," Leia replied.
By now the trooper had apparently had enough of being ignored. He gave an exasperated sigh, drew a deep breath, and whistled piercingly. The room went quiet.
"I know a tad 'bout suspended animation," he told them. "Studied it for years 'fore becomin' a trooper."
"What do you mean?" asked Mothma.
Yoda smiled. "Help us this man can. An ordinary trooper he is not, but a Jedi. Thought he still lived I did not."
Disbelieving murmurs rippled across the room. A Jedi in the guise of a stormtrooper?
"Figured th' best place t' hide was right under his Royal Lowliness' nose," he replied, and with great relish he yanked off his helmet.
The Jedi had a tanned face with a hooked nose, dark gray eyes, and a black beard and mustache generously seasoned with gray. His jet-black hair was streaked here and there with silver and had been pulled back into a ponytail that reached between his shoulder blades. Luke immediately recognized him from a holofile containing portraits of Jedi researchers. But how had he managed to survive the Purges?
Vader offered the man a respectful bow. "We would be deeply indebted to you if you aided us, Jedi Knight Akri Makatzo."
---------
Earth.
Devon jerked awake. "Mr. Makatzo?"
But only the Mace Windu poster on the opposite wall looked back at him. For one moment – one wild, sweet moment – he thought he'd seen Mr. Makatzo again. But it had only been a dream. The younger Mr. Makatzo was only a Force-dream; his old friend had been taken away to the city morgue, gone from his life forever.
Devon yanked the covers back over his head, crying anew. Memories of him and the old man discussing the movies over tea and snacks, playing board games, laughing together, talking with Yoda or Luke or some other character, spilled unbidden into his mind. The thought of never seeing his friend again was too much to take.
/And I'm not ready/ he thought despondently. /I'm not ready to be keeper of the paintings. I can't do it by myself./
Then a voice entered his head, a voice that was familiar but totally unlike his own or Mr. Makatzo's.
/Mr. Makatzo will be with you always, Devon./
He shot upright. "Obi-wan?"
The Jedi was nowhere to be seen. But Devon had certainly heard him. He waited awhile, wondering if Obi-wan had anything else to say, but there was only silence.
He took a deep breath and blew his nose on the sheets. Hearing Kenobi speak gave him new resolve. After all, according to the Jedi Code there was no emotion, only peace. His grief would never entirely go, but he wouldn't let it interfere with his mission – to keep the paintings and those within them safe until Yoda said it was time to release them into the world.
Voices drifted up from the living room, and he could hear the front door open and shut. Wondering what was going on, he got out of bed and changed into play clothes.
I hope it's not the medical guys again. When the paramedics had shown up at the store yesterday, Buzz had fielded their questions while Devon had hurriedly repainted Yoda and the others into their frames. But the coroner had cornered him at home later for more information – more than Devon was able to give. It had been Britney, surprisingly enough, who had chased them off, screaming at them to "quit torturing my little brother! Can't you see he's been hurt enough?"
A female police officer sat in the living room, talking to Mom and Dad.
"Here's Devon," the officer smiled, holding out her hand. "I'm Detective Myers. I think you know my son."
Devon studied her face as he shook her hand. "I didn't know Buzz's mom was a cop," he said, though now he could see the family resemblance in the eyes and mouth. Buzz must have gotten his paunch from his dad, however, because Detective Myers was built a lot like Natalie Portman.
"Yes, Buzz told me you were very upset over Mr. Makatzo," she replied, linking her fingers together before her. "Which is why I'm here to talk to you."
Devon snuggled down between his parents on the couch, not minding the protective arms around his shoulders for once. He remembered Myers from the time when hoods had broken into the store and unwittingly freed Vader – she'd been the cop who'd given him a ride home. But he didn't want to point that out; thinking about Mr. Makatzo for too long hurt.
"Nobody seems to know much about Mr. Makatzo," she explained. "You seem to be his closest friend, so we were hoping you might know a little about him."
Of course he knew about Mr. Makatzo. But he wasn't about to tell anyone, even a cop who happened to be his new friend's mom. They'd never believe him.
"He wasn't born in America," he tried. Maybe he could get out of this without outright lying.
"Can you be a little more specific?"
Okay, so he would have to lie. "He's a Czechoslovakian immigrant," he said, then added "He came here during World War II." At least that last part was the truth – Earth had been at war when the Star Wars galaxy had been evacuated.
"Did he have any family?"
"He never had a wife or kids." True, since Mr. Makatzo would never breach the Jedi Code unless absolutely necessary. "If he had any other family, he never talked about them. I never saw family pictures either." Also true; Mr. Makatzo had been an orphan when the Jedi Order discovered him in a foundling home on Nar Shadda.
Detective Myers nodded, looking grim. "Do you know if he kept a will?"
"No."
She sighed. "This complicates things."
"What do you mean?"
"We'd hoped to find his next-of-kin," she explained. "But seeing as he has no family and we can't find a will anywhere, we're having trouble finding the heir of his estate."
"Heir of his estate?" repeated Dad.
"Though I wouldn't call it an estate exactly. He didn't have much but his store and some collectibles. And those paintings – thousands of them in his basement." She shook her head in wonder.
Something clicked in Devon's mind. "About six months ago… he told me I could have his paintings when he died."
"Okay," she replied. "Were there any witnesses to that conversation?"
There had been witnesses – seven of them. But who would believe Darth Vader and his guards had been there? "No, there wasn't."
She frowned. "I'm sorry, Devon, but a judge isn't going to take a boy's word as a last will or testament. I can't get you the paintings."
His stomach seemed to dissolve. "But he promised…"
"We've called every lawyer in the county," Cook explained. "None of them have had a client named Akri Makatzo. We'll keep looking, son, but I can't make any promises."
He was almost too afraid to ask. "What's going to happen to his stuff?"
"Most likely it will be auctioned off at an estate sale."
Panic gripped him. "B-but the paintings…" He turned to Dad. "Can't we get a lawyer, Dad? Mr. Makatzo promised…"
"Look, Devon, I know you'll miss him," Dad told him. "But we just don't have that kind of money. Look, we'll go to the estate sale and pick up one or two of your favorites…"
"He promised me all of them!" Devon shouted angrily.
"Devon!" Mom called as he ran off to his room.
He flung himself onto the bed and cried harder than ever. How could this happen? It wasn't supposed to happen like this. He was supposed to get the paintings... he was supposed to guard them until the time was right… he was supposed to help Mr. Makatzo…
But thanks to a huge legal glitch, the paintings were lost to him. The fate of his Star Wars friends could only be grim, for how could he guarantee that the paintings would stay safe when they were scattered the-Force-knew-where? And his parents didn't even seem to care! Granted, they didn't know Mr. Makatzo like he did, but couldn't they at least try to help him?
No one objected when he stayed home sick from school that day.
--------
Corusant.
Akri blinked moisture from his eyes as he stared up into the night sky. Even on this planet that never slept, it had once been possible to see the brighter stars of the galaxy. Now, though few lights were on as the planet bedded down and resigned itself to a final night, the sky was a blank slab of basalt. Their galaxy was totally gone – except the capitol.
And even Corusant's time was short. It was only a matter of hours before it slipped into nonexistence.
He shook his head and bent down to collect his things -- a suitcase, Earth-style, containing a few items that an Eastern-European immigrant fleeing his war-ravaged homeland might take to America, a small satchel with his U.S. citizenship papers and a claim to a bank vault where his paintings resided, and a durasteel trunk carrying his Jedi clothes, lightsaber, and severed Padawan braid, the last traces of a once-great galaxy.
Heart heavy, he looked at the horizon, dim except for a mere scattering of lights. Those who had not been selected to make the journey between realities were most likely gathering with loved ones for final goodbyes, praying to whatever gods or deities they worshiped, or otherwise preparing for death. He ached for every life he couldn't save, but there just hadn't been time or resources to rescue all of them. As it was, they had only completed the preservation of the selected five thousand just in time.
Luke and Yoda had been the first to go into the pictures, of course – the Jedi Order had to live on. After that had gone various leaders and diplomats to smooth over relations with the Earth natives once the time was right for colonization. The rest had been randomly selected from the remaining refugees and comprised beings from hundreds of cultures, races, and walks of life, from bounty hunters to religious leaders, from tribesmen to businessmen. Vader had been the last – as well as the most reluctant, for he still carried an enormous amount of guilt over this disaster. In the end he had agreed to the process that he might aid his son in re-establishing the Jedi Order.
Akri sighed and slung his bags over his shoulder. He had often wondered why he had survived the attack on the Jedi Order and the subsequent Purges. It hadn't been as if he'd hidden in an obscure spot like Yoda or Kenobi. Now he saw why he had been spared – he'd had a mission to fulfill. The galaxy had needed his knowledge in order to obtain a second chance at life. The Force had known all along. It usually did.
He didn't look back as he picked up the trunk and walked away, ready to begin a new life.
--------
Earth.
Devon didn't want to open his eyes. He didn't want to face a world gone sour, to leave what he knew was the last chapter of the dream-story. He wanted to lay in that netherworld between sleep and consciousness and bask in memories.
At last he rolled out of bed. It had been two weeks since Mr. Makatzo's death, and the police still couldn't track down his will, if he ever had one. Mom and Dad were sympathetic, but there wasn't much they could do. And they might have hired a lawyer to help Devon get the paintings, but almost all of their spare money was going toward Britney's trip to college this fall.
Though today was the first day of summer vacation, Devon felt depressed. Today was also the estate sale. Dad had taken him by yesterday to look over the paintings and decide on a favorite, and the place was already swarming with geeks who were camped out around the auction site as if it were a theater showing sneak peeks at Episode III. There was more Star Wars memorabilia here than many of them had ever seen in their lives. And Devon was sure they would snap up every scrap of it.
Devon had made a decision. He and Dad would bid on the Darth Vader painting. Then, when he got it home, he would shred it. Vader would help him track down the other paintings and destroy them as well, then they would take the refugees someplace safe and repaint their portraits. Thank the Force Mr. Makatzo had taught him the techniques for preserving someone in a picture. He'd meant it for use in an emergency – but then, this was a bona fide emergency if he ever saw one.
"Devon?" Mom called through the door.
He looked up from getting dressed. "Yeah mom?"
"Buzz just called. He wanted to know if you wanted to come over to his house."
"Maybe later." At least that had improved over the last two weeks – Buzz had become a bodyguard of sorts to him, beating off anyone who dared take potshots at the geek. Not that Steel and Sticks would come within ten feet of him anymore, thanks to Yoda.
"Oh, and someone's downstairs to see you."
Devon rolled his eyes. Probably the cops. He stomped down the stairs.
/Don't be so angry, Devon./
He froze in mid-step. What the heck was Obi-wan doing here again?
/Anger is the path to the dark side./
/I'm no Jedi, Obi-wan./
/But you are now a Force user. Please, put away your anger. None of this is anyone's fault./
/Except maybe Mr. Makatzo's./ He loved the old man like a grandfather, but that didn't keep him from being mad at him for neglecting to have a will.
/Not even his fault. And believe me, he had a will./
/Then where is it? How come the cops haven't found it yet?/
/They haven't been looking hard enough. Go downstairs, Devon. Trust me./
He paused as he reached the bottom of the steps and entered the kitchen. Mom and Dad sat at the table with a complete stranger, looking over papers. The man was tall and lanky, wearing a dark business suit, trench coat, glasses, and gray fedora. He looked so much like a detective from the old mystery movies – sans cheap cigar – that Devon wondered if Dad hadn't hired a private investigator to find Mr. Makatzo's lawyer.
"Devon," his mom said with a broad smile. "This is Mr. Porter. He's here to help you."
"Pleased to meet you, Devon," Mr. Porter greeted, holding out his hand. His voice had a pleasant English lilt to it.
Devon tentatively shook the offered hand. "Are you a private eye?"
Mr. Porter laughed. "No, son. I'm Harrison Porter, attorney-at-law. I'm Mr. Makatzo's lawyer."
His heart leaped – even as part of him thought that any friend of Mr. Makatzo's ought to have a more exotic name.
"Come sit down," Mr. Porter invited, tapping a chair beside him.
Devon took the offer. Mr. Porter did seem nice enough. On the table in front of him, among the various papers, was a business card listing an address in London as the law offices of Harrison Porter. The card showed a picture of the scales of justice with a snowy white owl perched on the fulcrum.
"No wonder the cops couldn't find his lawyer," Devon said. "You work in England. They wouldn't think to call around there."
"Frankly, I'm surprised they didn't try Europe," Mr. Porter replied. "Mr. Makatzo did a lot of traveling in Europe to promote his store – it did attract fans from all over the world."
"Yeah, he closed the store for a week in January to go to Scotland," Devon remembered. "That must have been when he filled out his will with you, huh?"
"Sharp lad," Mr. Porter said approvingly. "And when I got the news of my client's death, I got here as fast as I could. I was just in time to call a halt to the estate sale."
Relief swept through Devon.
"Perhaps your son would like to look at the will," Mr. Porter told Mom and Dad.
"Here it is," Dad told him, sliding the paper to him. "Though I don't know how it's going to work out."
Devon bent over to read the will. It was short and to the point:
"Everything goes to my dear friend Devon. My only request is that you keep the shop open."
His eyes got very misty.
"Reminded me very much of 'Secondhand Lions,'" Mr. Porter laughed.
Devon laughed too. "'The kid gets it all. Just plant us in the damn garden with that stupid lion.'"
"I don't know how we're going to manage a store," Dad lamented. "I have work, Devon's mom has a house to tend to…"
"And Mr. Makatzo has an accountant who manages all his financial affairs," Mr. Porter told him. "Devon can open and close the store and run the cash register, I'm sure. And Mr. Makatzo had a fair sum of money in the bank meant exclusively for taking care of his shop. If you need help, I'm sure you can hire extra employees."
"Honey, it's a small price to pay," Mom told Dad. "Those paintings mean a lot to Devon. And I can help him run a store."
"Still, all this fuss over a bunch of paintings…" complained Dad.
"I have to say that those paintings are far more than they seem," Mr. Porter replied, casting a knowing glance at Devon.
Devon stared at Mr. Porter. Did he know?
He could hardly wait for the adults to finish all their business and to corner the lawyer outside.
"Is there something else I can help you with?" asked Mr. Porter as they walked out to his car together.
"You know, don't you?" Devon asked. "You know about the paintings."
Mr. Porter smiled. "Akri told me you were a very perceptive young man, Devon. I see he was right."
Devon stopped and stared a moment. There was something oddly familiar about this man.
"Who are you really? You're not Mr. Porter."
He removed the fedora. "I'm a friend of Master Makatzo, Devon. A friend who came to the Jedi's aid in a desperate time of need."
Devon's eyes moved from the robe-like trench coat to the tragic-yet-mischievous green eyes, to the wild black hair, to the jagged scar down his forehead as if someone had tried to crack his skull open.
"Why did you help? Star Wars wasn't your world."
"Why did you help, Devon?" he asked. "Star Wars isn't your world either."
He hesitated. "Well… I like Star Wars. And I couldn't just sit there and do nothing…"
"You felt an obligation to help, Devon. We all should. Because like it or not, all worlds are linked. What happens in one will affect another. And it's the responsibility of all worlds to ensure these survivors find a new home." He smiled. "And don't worry. That will should be enough to convince any Muggle judge on your world."
As Devon watched, the wizard pulled his wand from a pocket of his trench coat, tapped the trunk of the car, and whispered "Alohalamora." It popped open, he withdrew a broom and a silvery cloak, and the car rumbled on its way by itself.
"Um, what if someone sees…"
"The owner lives just down the street. Don't worry, it won't go far." He mounted the broom. "Take care, Devon. Say hi to Luke for me."
"Sure thing, Harry!"
The adult Harry laughed as he kicked off, soaring into the air. He was visible only a moment more before he unfurled the Invisibility Cloak and flung it over himself, concealing wizard and broomstick from view.
Devon stared into the sky, a smile on his face for the first time in weeks. Vader's words from six months ago came back to him.
/"Reality is always an unstable thing. Learned men question it, the religious seek a way to breach it, the fatalistic deny it. And on occasion it fluctuates, giving individuals brief, wondrous tastes of what lies beyond their own plane."/
He turned and went back to the house. Maybe he could go over to Buzz's and tell him the good news over a round of Jedi Outcast.
Kenya Starflight
AUTHOR'S NOTE – Due to popular demand, I've paused work on my other fics to write the second installment of "The Artist." It's both prequel and sequel to the first, giving the back-story of "The Artist" while telling the further story of Devon and Mr. Makatzo. It also explains, I hope, why Darth Vader acted rather out of character in the original story.
Corusant.
It was dangerous for any member of the Alliance to venture anywhere near the capitol world. The city-planet was understandably the most heavily secured planet in the galaxy. But today, Mon Mothma and a handful of other Alliance military leaders had risked the journey. For a Rebel cell hidden deep in the low-level slums of Corusant claimed to have captured one of the highest-ranking men in the Empire – Darth Vader.
Their meeting-place had been carefully chosen. A dim lobby at the bottom level of an abandoned office building in the Dead Sector, its only light was a portable glow panel hastily bolted to the wall. Its sickly yellow illumination only just revealed the jagged cracks in the ferrocrete walls, the mysterious stains on the bare floor, the chipped rickety furniture, and three generations worth of graffiti. It was a lowly place, but it was safe, for few patrols came this deep into the Dead Sector.
Fate had an odd sense of humor, Mothma decided as she tried to make herself comfortable in the broken armchair. If her memory served her, and it usually did, this was the same room where, over twenty years ago, she and a handful of senators had covertly met with Jedi Knight Obi-wan Kenobi. Here they had learned of the destruction of the Chosen One, the rise of Vader, and the inception of the Jedi Purges.
A young Zabrak soldier, looking exhausted but jubilant, skidded into the room, saluting hastily.
"Report," Mothma told him.
"We've got Vader!" he gushed excitedly, as if this would be breaking news. "And the Emperor's dead! Gone for good!"
Astonished silence met his statement. That the Rebellion had managed to take Vader into custody was incredible enough; that the Emperor could be dead was almost unthinkable.
"How did you manage to kill the Emperor and apprehend his right-hand man at the same time?" asked Admiral Ackbar.
"We didn't kill him," corrected the soldier. "Someone reported a big rumble in the Crimson Corridor Sector – something about Imp troops fighting each other and Vader and the Emperor going at it like rabid acklays. By the time we got there, it was all over. Dead stormies all over the place. The Emperor was in the middle of the mess. Had a saber run through his heart, if he ever had one. Just sorry I didn't see it happen."
"Sounds to me like his right-hand man was plotting a takeover all along," noted General Madine. "What about Vader?"
Here his enthusiasm faltered. "It was weird. He was just sitting there, all hunched over with his head in his arms. Didn't resist at all when we put him under arrest. But we tranqued him up good before we brought him in just to be on the safe side."
"Thank you, sir. Bring him in."
Tensions skyrocketed instantly as over a dozen guards escorted the Dark Lord into the lobby. But puzzlement quickly replaced anxiety. For where was the tall, proud, confident Sith, resplendent and terrifying in glossy black battle armor, that had haunted the Alliance's nightmares for years? This man walked with a limp, his armor dulled and cracked and charred, his cloak ragged and torn, his head bowed and shoulders slumped. Lightsaber and electrical burns streaked his armor, and an awful stench of hot metal and singed cloth and flesh followed him.
Despite herself, Mothma felt a great surge of pity for Vader. Something had obviously cut him deeply. Had his master rejected him? Did he regret killing the dictator? Or was he simply depressed because his revolution had been thwarted by the Alliance?
"Your coup appears to have failed, my Lord," she told him.
He raised his head to look her in the eye. "A coup never took place, Madam."
"That's a laugh," an Admiral smirked.
"You're out of order, sir," Mothma told him sternly. To Vader she said, "Then what was the battle in the Crimson Corridor about? What led you to battle your master?"
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," he murmured. "But the story must be told, for it concerns the fate of the galaxy."
"Go on," she urged. If Vader was willing to ally himself with their cause to save the galaxy, it was worth keeping him out of the cell blocks.
Vader kept his gaze leveled at the Alliance leaders as he spoke, his customary bass voice oddly flat. Amusement, then disbelief, and finally horror came over everyone's faces as he related how his sadistic master had studied the ancient secrets of the dark side in the Sith Archives. How he had learned the arcane arts of destruction – and decided to use them against the rebellious galaxy that refused to subject itself to his rule. How Vader had attempted – too late – to curtail the deadly plan by destroying his master.
And he repeated the Emperor's terrifying last words before Vader had run him through:
"One world under my rule, or no world."
---------
Earth.
Devon woke up. He blinked cloudy eyes and kicked off the blankets. Another one of those weird dreams – he'd have to tell Mr. Makatzo about it.
He made his way to the closet to change his clothes, only to trip over a model of an AT-AT walker and almost kill himself. Last night's dream had been pretty tame, actually. Now the dream from the night before… wow! Troopers at war, red lightsabers clashing, lightning and smoke everywhere…
He stopped to grab a donut on his way out to catch the bus. As he washed it down with a glass of chocolate milk, he could hear his older sister Britney griping about something-or-other. He just rolled his eyes. Britney was always complaining.
"It's just unfair," she whined through her pierced nose. "Devon gets to stay out late, and he's only ten! How come I have to have a curfew?"
"Devon has a job, that's why," Mom replied evenly. "If you had an after-school job..."
"And that's another thing!" she spat. "Why do you let him work at that geek store? He's only working there because that weird old geezer's a Star Wars freak too. Hasn't he heard of child labor laws?"
"He's not a weird old geezer," Devon defended. "He's my friend."
"We know, dear," Mom replied sweetly, kissing his forehead as he tried to worm his way past her and out the door.
"Mo-om!" he yowled. Why did she have to subject him to mush all the time?
School was an average day, complete with a lecture from his teacher for bringing a Jango Fett action figure to school, a D on his social studies paper, and an impromptu track meet as he outran Steel to Mr. Makatzo's store. As a self-proclaimed geek, he couldn't expect much else out of a day. Besides, it was after school he was looking forward to.
He took a deep breath as he entered the Mos Espa Street Market, the Star Wars-themed novelty store Mr. Makatzo ran. It wasn't an especially profitable business – in fact, Devon suspected the old man actually lost money on the shop every month. But profit didn't matter to him; running the store was a labor of love.
But only Devon knew Mr. Makatzo's secret – that he was a Jedi Knight and the last hope of a lost galaxy.
"Mr. Makatzo!" he shouted, running for the back room. He knew the storekeeper would want to know of his dream. Dreams, he'd told Devon, were often windows to the past or future.
"Hey Mr. Makatzo!" he shouted, bursting into the apartment at the back of the store.
"Devon!" the familiar warbly voice of Jedi Knight Akri Makatzo greeted warmly. The old man gave him an affectionate hug. He was wearing a Florida Marlin's baseball cap, a Disney/MGM Studios Star Wars Weekends T-shirt, Bermuda shorts, and his trademark beaded sandals.
"Sit down, lad, and I'll get y' somethin' to drink. Been busy lately?"
"I've got something to tell you…" he began, sitting down at the table. His voice trailed off. Someone else was sitting at the table, chewing thoughtfully on a celery stick, a stack of encyclopedias underneath him to keep him above the tabletop.
"Good to see you it is, Devon," the dwarven Jedi said with a smile that made his wrinkled green face light up.
"Hi Yoda!" Devon replied. Though this was his first time meeting Yoda, Mr. Makatzo's interesting visitors didn't bother him anymore. It was fairly common to come back here and find the old man having a philosophical discussion with Luke Skywalker, playing Podracer on the Playstation with Artoo Detoo, or talking politics with Princess Leia. Though he had to admit it had scared him the time he'd entered the room to find Boba Fett using a life-sized statue of Jar Jar Binks for target practice.
"Ah, you've met my Jedi Master," Mr. Makatzo noted, setting a plate of coconut cookies and a glass of tea next to the veggie platter. "Yoda comes out of his painting once a year to inspect your world and see if it's ready for our people."
Yoda nodded. "Decided to accompany Devon in his travels I have. Be able to view this world better I will."
Devon grinned. "I'd be glad to show him around."
"Ah, splendid!" Mr. Makatzo said with a huge smile. "I think you'll be pleased with this young man, Master Yoda. He's a good boy."
Yoda gazed thoughtfully at him, tapping his chin with a clawed finger. "How feel you?"
"Excited," Devon said truthfully. Come on, how many kids ever got the opportunity to play tour guide to Yoda?
But the ancient Jedi's green eyes seemed to probe further into Devon's emotions. "Something to tell Master Makatzo you have."
"Oh yeah," he recalled. In his excitement he'd totally forgotten about the dream. "Last night – last two nights actually – I've been having really weird dreams."
"Ah, dreams," said Mr. Makatzo. "Portals to th' Force, lad. Tell us 'bout them."
"Well, in the first dream, Darth Vader was fighting Emperor Palpatine…" he began, absently crumbling a cookie as he spoke.
At first Mr. Makatzo and Yoda merely looked amused as Devon described the fight and Mothma's meeting with Vader. But as he kept talking, their expressions changed. Mr. Makatzo looked astonished, but Yoda's face went unexpectedly grim.
"Is this bad?" asked Devon in conclusion.
Yoda ignored the question. "Saw the beginning of the end of our world you did."
"You mean that's how it happened?"
He nodded.
"But what does it mean? Why did I dream it?"
Mr. Makatzo shot Yoda a "let-me-explain-this" look before answering. "Devon, y' are th' only one on this planet that knows of our comin'. It's only logical that y' know th' whole story. Th' Force is ensurin' that."
"But why don't you just tell me?" asked Devon, puzzled.
Yoda opened his mouth to say something, but thought better of it and revised it. "Painful it is to discuss it, Devon."
"Oh." He stared at the cookie bits that now littered the table. "Sorry."
"Don't be, lad," Mr. Makatzo told him gently. "It ain't your fault you're dreamin'."
Yoda's long pointed ears twitched once. "Entered the store someone has."
"Devon, will y' go help our customer, please?" asked Mr. Makatzo.
It was a dismissal, and Devon knew it. All the same, he didn't complain but went straight to the cash register. He understood that grownups needed to talk privately sometimes.
While Devon rang up the sale, Yoda finished his celery stick, and then addressed his fellow Jedi.
"Told him the truth you should have, Akri."
He snorted and took Devon's untouched cup, draining it in one gulp. "Th' lad's got 'nough problems to chew on, Master Yoda. He's havin' problems at school, he has to put up with bullies and that spoiled older sister of his, and he's seen as little more than a geek even by his family. He doesn't need this on top of it."
"Need you to leave him unexpectedly he does not," Yoda retorted. His features and voice softened with concern. "Your heart. Still bothers you does it?" He raised his cane and tapped Mr. Makatzo's sternum.
"Th' chest pains aren't gettin' any worse, Master," he insisted.
"But getting better they are not, hmmm?" He shook his head. "Doing Devon any favors you are not, Akri, by hiding that from him."
"Oh honestly, Yoda!" Mr. Makatzo swept the crumbs off the table with a leathery hand. "Just 'cause th' lad's havin' Force-spawned nightmares doesn't mean I'm fixin' t' go one with th' Force!"
"Knew of this you did when gave Devon this responsibility you did." Yoda unexpectedly smiled. "Remind me of a certain youngling he does, though. Very bright, but awkward, given to fetishes."
Mr. Makatzo gazed in the direction of the shop. "Y' think he's that much like me?"
"Indeed. And suspect I do that why you love the boy you do. Wish to hurt him you do not. But hurt him far more your death will if unexpected it is."
The old shopkeeper nodded, tears in his eyes. "Then it's soon."
"Suggest that these dreams do. Preparing him for this responsibility they are." He gave his comrade a penetrating stare. "Tell him you must, Akri. Soon."
He sighed deeply. "Tomorrow. When he comes to work in th' afternoon. I'll plan what t' say t' him tonight."
--------
Corusant.
For two years the Stardestroyer Executor had served the Imperial Navy as a harbinger of doom. Now, however, she was a vessel of mercy, a last hope for thousands of desperate refugees.
The infamous starship hung in Corusant's evening sky, its shuttles landing to unload the first of over thirteen thousand refugees that Vader and his men had managed to gather from dozens of now-vanished worlds. Admiral Piett watched all this from the bridge, face grim. Hundreds of Outer-Rim worlds and their stars had simply disappeared into oblivion – Kamino, Geonosis, Bakura, Tatooine, Endor, Bespin, and others. And for every life they managed to save, a million more perished.
The Alliance High Command had been quite skeptical of Vader's tale at first – who wouldn't be? – and imprisoned him. But Mothma, knowing even Vader wouldn't lie about something of this magnitude, had sent scout teams to various parts of the galaxy to verify the story. She found, of course, that he had been perfectly correct, and had reluctantly recruited him to the Rebellion's cause – which had gone from liberating the galaxy to salvaging what they could of it before it was gone.
"More refugees are on their way via the Devastator and Avenger, my Lord," Piett reported to his superior.
Vader nodded slightly in acknowledgement, his gaze fixed on the planet's surface.
"My Lord," Piett told him, "there was nothing you could do to stop this once the Emperor made up his mind. This isn't your fault."
Vader's gaze never wavered. "If I had never helped the madman further his plans for dominion in the first place, it never would have come to this," he said quietly. "My blindness has doomed our entire galaxy."
Piett felt a stab of empathy for the man – his battle with his master had totally broken his spirit. He would never again be the same intimidating warlord he had been a mere six months ago. And for the rest of his life he would never stop blaming himself for this black apocalypse.
"Is this evacuation even going to help anything?" demanded Boba Fett, barging onto the bridge as if he owned the place. "If the galaxy's going to chaos, what good will rounding up the survivors do but postpone the inevitable?"
"Mothma's orders," Piett replied. He really didn't know why Mothma was insisting on saving as many as possible either. Perhaps being a Rebel had instilled a permanent drive to fight for life in her. "Did anyone else from Jabba's palace accompany you off Tatooine?"
Fett snorted. "The slug wouldn't come. Vowed to go down with the ship. And his entourage was too frightened to leave him. He did give up Solo, though." He idly toyed with a vibroblade. "Why did you drag Tuskens back with you? The savages don't have any idea what's going on and are raising havoc."
"A personal debt of mine," Vader replied, turning to face the hunter. "And to answer your first question, we have a reason for saving as many lives as possible."
"What do you mean?" asked Piett.
"Many years ago," Vader explained, "a scouting party discovered a rift in the fabric of space. No one knew what had caused it. But when we investigated further, we found it was a gateway to an alternate universe."
"Okay, now I know you're spinning tales," Fett growled.
"I have no cause to lie, Fett," Vader replied. "It is Mothma's belief that this reality will be spared from our galaxy's collapse, and that we can perhaps begin a new life there."
"But what of the natives of this other world?" asked Piett. "Will they accept us?"
"There is only one way to find out," Vader replied cryptically.
-------
Earth.
Devon wriggled out of bed. "Not again."
Yoda looked up from contemplating the cover of a Jedi Apprentice book. "Another dream you had."
"How did you know?"
"Forget you do that a Jedi I am?" he inquired with a smile. "Besides, talk in your sleep you do."
"They're so real," Devon mumbled, pulling on his Anakin Skywalker T-shirt. "It felt like I was Piett, that I was in his skin, talking like him."
Yoda nodded. "Talk to Master Makatzo about that you should."
"I will today after school," Devon vowed. He stuffed a few clonetrooper figures and his book report on Vector Prime into his backpack. "All right, I'm off for school. I'll be back to pick you up before we go to the store…"
"Accompany you I will, Devon."
He looked skeptically down at the Jedi. Yesterday he had smuggled Yoda into the house with his backpack. But today there was no chance of that, for his books took up too much room.
"In your bag, on top of your books, put me. Worry about the rest I will."
"Okay," Devon said unsurely. Was Yoda going to do a Force trick to make himself invisible?
Yoda was much lighter than he looked, thought Devon as he tromped downstairs and sat down for breakfast. But his head, shoulders, and arms stuck out of the bag. Would anyone notice…
"Devon, stop dragging your stupid toys to school if you want to keep getting picked on for being a geek," snapped Britney, flouncing into the kitchen.
"What do you care?" Devon shot back. "Besides, what toys?"
"That stupid Yoda doll," she replied, kicking the backpack as she walked by. "That thing's so ugly. Why's the weird elf so popular anyway?"
"'Cuz he's smarter than you and all your friends put together," Devon retorted, looking down. Yoda held perfectly still, looking for all the world like a life-sized doll. Devon grinned. Despite being from another galaxy, he sure knew how to survive in this one.
"Will you two please stop fighting?" demanded Dad from behind the morning paper. He sounded as if he hadn't slept well.
"Dad, he's so embarrassing," complained Britney. "All my friends have normal little brothers that play soccer and Playstation and Pokemon. Mine's just a geek! Can't you make him…"
"You can't make me do anything," Devon told her, sneaking a banana and a blueberry waffle under the table. From what Mr. Makatzo had told him, Yoda was a confirmed vegetarian – maybe that would come in handy at dinner, especially if they were having okra or brussel sprouts again.
"Britney, Devon, please," moaned Dad.
Devon crammed half of a maple-syrup-soaked waffle in his mouth before picking up his backpack and heading for the door. Yoda had managed to turn himself around in the bag so his feet stuck out, humming contentedly as he enjoyed his breakfast.
Though school was walking distance away, he always tried to take the bus to avoid tangling with Steel's gang. As a geek, he was a popular target of theirs, and at their hands he'd suffered everything from trips into the dumpster to spending half-hour stretches in his locker. And despite his best efforts, he still occasionally crossed paths with them.
"Hey geek!"
He spotted Steel and two of his henchmen – the scrawny but generally nasty nerd known as Sticks and the ball of fat everyone tagged Stones – getting off the next bus down. He ran into the building and tried to get to class as fast as he could, but they caught up with him in the halls.
"If it ain't Darth Weirdo," sneered Sticks. Sticks made Devon look tough in comparison, but his main weapon was his cruel wit, and when it did come to blows he could fight dirty. "Got any lunch money or did you blow it on action figures?"
"Let's pound him," grunted Stones. Stones gave the appearance of being slightly dimmer than a sack of potting soil, but no one told that to a kid who could pass off as the spawn of Jabba the Hutt. Whether his nickname referred to his brawn or his brains, who could say?
Devon tried to duck past Sticks to get to class, but Steel grabbed him by the backpack and dragged him back.
"What's the hurry, geek-freak?" he demanded. "We ain't properly said hello yet. What's this? Santa's elf?"
"Isn't that Yoda?" asked Stones, looking interested.
"Give that back!" shouted Devon, suddenly terrified, as Sticks yanked Yoda from the pack by his robe front.
"Why should I?" Sticks demanded. "Always wanted a Yoda doll. He'd look good hanging from my bedroom ceiling… ow!"
Yoda fell to the floor. Devon scooped him up and stuffed him back into the bag.
"It bit me!" Sticks shouted, nursing his hand.
"Dolls don't bite," Stones pointed out, which was the most intelligent thing Devon had heard him say all year.
"Something wrong, boys?"
The four of them whirled to see the principal, Mr. Harvey, watching them.
"Uh… the geek… I mean David here… was just showing us his Yoda doll…" stammered Steel.
"It's Devon," Devon corrected, "and they were trying to steal him." Normally have ratted on any of Steel's cronies for fear of retaliation, but they'd gone too far this time in trying to hurt Yoda.
"I see," Mr. Harvey noted. His gaze moved to Steel, Sticks, and Stones. "Jedidiah, Neville, Buzz, please come to my office. Devon, please leave your toys at home from now on. It'd be a shame for that nice Yoda doll to be broken on the playground."
Devon received three venomous glowers as Steel and his gang followed Mr. Harvey. He groaned as he entered Ms. Gingham's classroom. Boy, was he in for it after school!
"The bullies those are?" Yoda inquired softly as Devon set his backpack under his chair.
"Some of them," Devon whispered. "Sticks and Stones follow Steel around constantly, but he's got others in his gang too – Bubba, Spike, the Hulk, Two-Ton Trevor, Jackhammer, the Cyborg. They pick on everyone, but I'm their favorite punching bag."
"Hmmm," mused Yoda. "Unusual names those are."
"They're not their real names," Devon replied. "They use 'wrestling names.' Makes them feel tougher, I guess."
"Unsatisfied with themselves they are," Yoda noted. "See themselves highly they do not. So raise themselves higher by beating others down they do."
"Never thought of it that way before. Hey, can you hand me my book report?"
Ms. Gingham was a patient woman and knew of Devon's obsession, so she only smiled when she spotted Yoda under his desk and collected his Vector Prime book report.
"All right, clear your desks, students," she told them. "It's time for your math test."
There was a universal groan as she handed out the papers. Devon slid his closer. Multiplying double-digit numbers – oh brother. He hated double digits.
As the rest of class bent industriously over their papers, he carefully toed his backpack. "Hey, what's twenty-four times fifteen?"
"Help you cheat I will not."
"Please? If I flunk the test Mom'll ground me!"
"If pass by dishonest means you do, the worse it will be."
Devon huffed. Why did Yoda have to be difficult?
"Four times five."
"Huh?"
"Four times five," Yoda repeated.
"Easy. Twenty."
"Devon, no talking please," Ms. Gingham chided.
"Sorry." He stared at the problem. How was four times five going to help…
/Trust me./
He nearly jumped out of his chair. Yoda was speaking to him through the Force!
/Listen carefully. Four times five twenty makes. Below the line the zero put and over the two in twenty-four the two put…/
With Yoda's gentle coaching, Devon was able to solve the problem. And with a few reminders he was able to make it through the test. When the tests came back after lunch, Devon's was the only 100 percent in the class.
"I thought you said you couldn't help me," Devon whispered once the final bell had rung.
"Said I did that help you cheat I would not," Yoda replied through a mouthful of the chef's salad Devon had slipped into his pack. "Helped you cheat I did not. Only gave advice I did."
"Hey geek!"
Devon cringed. "Steel!"
"Behind there," ordered Yoda.
He ran behind the dumpster and crouched down. "Hope they didn't see us."
"Saw us they did."
"Dang! I'm in trouble!"
"Not if help it I can." Yoda grinned slyly. "Have a plan I do."
"Hey Darth Wimpy," sneered Sticks, strutting leisurely up to Devon.
"Not smart to rat on the principal, geek," growled Steel, clamping a giant hand on his shoulder. "You know that only leads to trouble."
"Hey, let's rip up the doll," Sticks suggested, yanking Yoda out of the pack by his ear. "Teach freak-boy here a lesson."
"Give him back!" Devon cried, reaching out for him.
Sticks laughed derisively and threw Yoda to Stones. Stones grinned and tossed him to Steel. Steel held him over his head and laughed nastily at Devon's efforts to grab him.
"What comes off first?" asked Steel. "The head? The arms?"
"How 'bout the ears?" suggested Sticks.
"Come off nothing does, boys," Yoda said firmly.
There was a moment of silence. Then Steel dropped Yoda and backed away as if he were a rattlesnake, screaming all the while.
"It talks!" shrieked Stones.
Yoda got to his feet. He leaned on his cane and fixed each boy in turn with a studious stare. Devon couldn't keep a smirk off his face. Steel, Sticks, and Stones quailed under the Jedi Master's gaze.
"Rather disrespectful toward a Jedi Master you younglings are."
Sticks was the first to recover. "Oh yeah? What's it to you, Big Ears?"
"Yeah," sneered Steel, scraping together his bruised ego. "Bring it on, Shorty."
Stones wasn't as dumb as he looked, Devon thought. In fact, he might well have been the most intelligent one of the bunch. He was backing away, looking more and more terrified by the second. No doubt he'd seen Attack of the Clones and the Yoda/Dooku fight scene had made an impression.
"I'm warning you, you don't want to mess with him," Devon said casually.
"Shut up, geek-face," Steel snarled. "You're next, you know." And he charged with a feral yell.
Yoda waited patiently until there was no way Steel could stop himself in time, then stepped aside with a swiftness at odds with his age. There was a satisfying clang as Steel's thick skull met the side of the dumpster. With a pained yowl he danced around clutching his head.
"Why you little green rat!" Sticks shouted, and he ran forward to grab Yoda. But a gimer-stick to the shins brought him to his knees.
"Go Yoda!" cheered Devon.
Yoda made a show of examining his cane for dents. "Gave me a better workout my younglings did."
The battle was fairly one-sided, as Steel and Sticks kept eating grass and smacking the dumpster, losing bravado with every attack. Yoda acted bored as he shrugged off each charge with a quick sidestep or a well-placed whack with his cane, but Devon was sure he was enjoying himself. Stones, meanwhile, hadn't moved in some time, paralyzed with fright.
At last Steel and Sticks gave up, Steel still rubbing his head, Sticks nursing a scrape on his elbow.
"Had enough?" asked Devon.
The two of them shot him looks of hatred laced with fear, then bolted.
Yoda chuckled. "Bother you again they will not."
Devon's elation drained with a sobering thought. "I don't think that was a good idea."
"What want you?" Yoda snorted. "A battalion of assassin droids?"
"But now that they know you exist…"
"Believe them who will?"
"Good point." He jerked his thumb toward Stones. "But what about him?"
Yoda hummed a little to himself and hobbled closer to the boy. Stones backed away with a little whimper.
"Easy, youngling," he told him. "Harm you I will not. Your name?"
"B-B-Buzz," he stammered. "T-the others call m-me Stones."
"Hello, Buzz. Met Devon have you?"
"Oh, that's the geek's name?" He offered Devon a weak smile. "Y-you're not gonna sic Yoda on me, are you?"
"No, he was only protecting me from Steel and Sticks."
"Oh." His fear was slowly dissipating, to be replaced with curiosity. "Uh… where'd he come from?"
Devon looked at Yoda. "Can we tell him?"
Yoda gave Buzz his soul-searching look. "Misguided he is, but pure his heart is. Tell him we can."
"Come with us to the Mos Espa Street Market," Devon invited. "You've got to meet Mr. Makatzo."
"That weird old man with the funny nose?" Buzz didn't look too sure.
"Trust me, he's cool." Devon leaned forward and lowered his voice. "He's a Jedi Knight."
Buzz's eyes threatened to burst out of their sockets. "Wow, cool!" But then his eagerness began to fade. "If Yoda's real… and the old man's a Jedi… is… is Darth Vader real too?"
"Yeah," Devon replied easily. "But he's not evil anymore," he added hastily.
"Cool! Can I meet him?"
Devon laughed. "I didn't know you were a Star Wars fan, Buzz."
"Well… Steel and Sticks don't like geeks. And if they knew I was one I'd get pounded too."
"So? Hang with us from now on! If Steel and Sticks give you any grief, Yoda can cream them. And I'm sure you can give Steel a run for his money…"
Before Buzz could reply, Yoda's entire dwarven body tensed visibly, his knuckles going white around his cane. His eyes and ears focused in the direction of Mr. Makatzo's store. Instantly Devon's stomach turned to lead.
"What is it?" he asked.
"In trouble Akri is," he replied simply. With a single leap he dove into Devon's bag. "To the store. Quickly!"
"What's going on?" asked Buzz as Devon slung the pack over his shoulder.
"Told him this was coming I did," was all Yoda would say.
The two boys ran down the street, their backpacks thumping into their backs with every step. The knot in Devon's stomach tightened with every breath he took. What had happened to Mr. Makatzo? Had he fallen? Had there been a robbery? Was he hurt?
"In there," ordered Yoda, pointing down a decrepit-looking alley.
"But that's gang turf!" protested Buzz.
"Go in," Yoda insisted. "Protected you are."
Buzz hesitated, then ducked into the alley. Two seconds later a horrified shriek rang from the walls.
"Buzz?!" Devon bolted in after him.
He stopped short. Towering over the three of them was a man in battered armor, gazing calculatingly at them through his T-slit visor. He had a blaster pointed in Buzz's direction, but he slowly lowered it when he realized who he'd drawn on.
"Foolish it is to walk the streets in your armor, Boba Fett," Yoda scolded.
"There wasn't time to change," Fett rasped harshly. His gaze rested on Buzz. "Who's this?"
"A friend," Devon replied. "Don't worry, Buzz. Fett's on our side."
Buzz nodded, still speechless.
Fett crouched. "Put your arms around my neck, boys."
Puzzled, they obeyed. He took each of them by the waist and lifted them easily.
"You wouldn't mind doing one of your Jedi mind tricks to make us invisible, would you, Yoda?" Fett asked.
"I will." Yoda closed his eyes in concentration.
"What are we…" began Devon.
There was a hollow roar like a propane torch, and the four of them rose into the air. Devon gulped and tightened his grip.
"Easy boys, I won't drop you," Fett assured them. "Devon, you're going to choke me."
"This is cool!" Buzz gushed as they soared over the rooftops of a city suddenly gone miniature.
"What's going on?" demanded Devon. "What's wrong with Mr. Makatzo?"
"You haven't told him?" Fett snapped at Yoda. "Jedi and their mental games!" To Devon he said, "Mr. Makatzo's just suffered a massive heart attack."
"What?!" Devon exclaimed.
"Vader and Skywalker are with him," Fett continued. "They're working to keep him stable, but he doesn't have much time. He needs to speak to you before he dies."
"He can't die!" Devon shouted. "Yoda, you can heal him! You can save him! Please!"
"Strong am I in the Force," Yoda replied gravely. "But not that strong."
Fett touched down in front of the store. Luckily, the street was deserted, this being a less-frequented area of town, so no one saw them land and run into the shop.
"Devon!" exclaimed a stormtrooper, waving him toward the back. "Back here! Quick!"
"I'll call 911," Buzz offered, running for the phone.
Devon ran past a Lego display, where the bent frames and tattered canvas of three pictures lay amidst a glittering carpet of broken glass – the paintings of Luke, Fett, and Vader and his personal guards. It looked as if Mr. Makatzo's heart attack had struck as he was carrying the pictures. Dropping them had been a stroke of luck, however, as it had freed their occupants so they might help him.
He burst into the apartment. The other five troopers clustered in a tight knot around the couch where Mr. Makatzo lay, as if to protect him from further harm. Devon kicked one in the shins to get him to move aside. The man gave a yelp and stepped back.
Vader and Luke knelt by the stricken Jedi, Luke cupping the old man's head in his hands, Vader with his hands over Mr. Makatzo's heart as if he'd been performing CPR. Devon's own heart hammered in his throat as he ran to his friend's side and took his hand. His skin was ashen and clammy, and he gasped for every breath.
"Luke, can you heal him?" pleaded Devon, staring up into Luke's eyes.
He shook his head sadly. "His heart's too old, Devon. It's his time to go."
"He can't go!" he screamed in reply.
"There's nothing more we can do, son," Vader told him gently, "except keep him alive long enough to talk to you."
"Devon?" Mr. Makatzo sounded so faint he could barely make out the words. "So good… t' see y'…"
"You can make it," urged Devon desperately. "You can fight it. There's an ambulance coming real soon! You can make it 'til then!"
"Th' dreams…" he whispered hoarsely. "Sorry I didn't… tell y' sooner… they've been… a sign… that our times… have come…"
"What do you mean?" demanded Devon.
"My time… t' join th' Force… and your time… t' be keeper… of the paintings… until th' time… is right…"
"But you can't die! Mr. Makatzo, don't leave me! I don't want you to go!"
"Oh lad…" His grip on Devon's hand tightened, as if the last of his life force was being transferred to that limb. "I'll always… be with y'… always…"
Hot tears were sliding down Devon's cheeks now. He was hardly aware of Vader's hand on his shoulder, or of Buzz bursting into the room to announce the paramedics were on their way.
"You're like… th' son I never had… Devon… I love y'…"
"No," Devon whimpered.
Mr. Makatzo's grip relaxed, and a serene expression came over his leathery face. He was gone.
"No…"
Devon buried his face in Mr. Makatzo's chest, sobbing uncontrollably, as Buzz, Luke, Vader, Fett, and the troopers looked on sympathetically.
-------
Corusant.
It was an odd crowd, thought Luke, that gathered in what used to be Emperor Palpatine's conference room in the Imperial Palace. In addition to himself and his friends Leia, Han, Chewie, and the droids, there were various Imperial and Rebel leaders including Mothma and Vader, Prime Minister Laama Su of Kamino and his advisor Taun We, Geonosian warlord Poggle the Lesser, several cowering Neimodians, Baron Administrator of Cloud City Lando Calrissian, Boba Fett and a gaggle of assorted bounty hunters that skulked in a corner, Wookie, Tusken, and Jawa chieftains, Boss Nass of the Gungans of Naboo, and many more. All were uneasily awaiting the return of the scouting party Vader had ordered to Earth three weeks ago.
Han, now several days free of the carbonite, leaned over to Luke. "Ever think it would come to this, kid?"
"No," he replied. "But it goes to show how twisted Palpatine was. And on the other hand…" He nodded at the head of the table, where Mothma and Vader stood side by side. "…It shows that, despite all that's happened, the galaxy can still pull together in a crisis."
"Yeah, it's amazing who you can call friend when someone turns the heat up," Han muttered.
The doors hissed open, and a single scouttrooper, his armor battered and filthy, entered the room.
"Where is the rest of your party, soldier?" asked Vader.
"Dead and gone," he replied in a thick Nar Shadda brogue. "Big war tearin' up th' planet, there is."
Nervous glances were exchanged. The people of this galaxy were used to fighting by now, but jumping from one war-torn world to another wasn't a comforting thought.
"Aside from the war, what is the state of Earth right now?" asked Mothma.
The trooper hesitated. "Uh… nice place… but they're not caught up with us technology-wise…"
"Don't sugar-coat it," rasped Poggle. "Spit it out."
"Okay," he replied. "They ain't even invented th' computer yet, let alone starcraft and blasters."
A collective groan filled the room.
"That decides it," moaned Rune Haako. "We're doomed."
"Wesa not doomed," boomed Boss Nass, scowling at the Trade Federation viceroy. "Wesa adapt. Yousa can learn to live like dem."
"Why not simply wait until their society has reached our state?" suggested Laama Su.
"We're rapidly running out of time, Prime Minister," Vader replied. "Thousands of systems are already gone. The destruction has reached as far into the core as Bestine and works its way deeper into the core every day we delay."
"We need not wait here," Laama Su crooned. "Why not put ourselves into suspended animation…"
"Oh, great idea," Han replied sarcastically. "For your information, sir, sitting in carbonite for who-knows-how-long isn't exactly a walk in the park."
Luke noticed that the scouttrooper had gone rather funny at the mention of suspended animation. He was shifting his weight alternately between his heels and the balls of his feet, as if waiting for a break in the argument so he could jump in and speak.
"…Not to mention that freezing people in carbonite has been known to kill them half the time," Lando was saying.
"Aren't there alternatives?" hissed Bossk from the hunters' corner of the room. "I hear Jedi can put people in Force-sleeps that can keep them alive for centuries." He glared at Yoda, whom Luke had whisked off of Dagobah mere hours before the planet had vanished forever.
"Lost those secrets were when destroyed the Order was," Yoda replied gravely.
The trooper was practically bouncing up and down now. Luke opened his mouth to speak on his behalf but was cut off.
"Well, what other choice do we have?" Threepio stated in translation as a Wookie chief went on a tirade. "If we go to this Earth now, they'll probably panic and kill us. You see what they've done to our scouts."
"We can't stay here either," snapped Fett. "It's only a matter of time before we all burn in chaos."
"I'm afraid he has a valid argument, Fett," Leia replied.
By now the trooper had apparently had enough of being ignored. He gave an exasperated sigh, drew a deep breath, and whistled piercingly. The room went quiet.
"I know a tad 'bout suspended animation," he told them. "Studied it for years 'fore becomin' a trooper."
"What do you mean?" asked Mothma.
Yoda smiled. "Help us this man can. An ordinary trooper he is not, but a Jedi. Thought he still lived I did not."
Disbelieving murmurs rippled across the room. A Jedi in the guise of a stormtrooper?
"Figured th' best place t' hide was right under his Royal Lowliness' nose," he replied, and with great relish he yanked off his helmet.
The Jedi had a tanned face with a hooked nose, dark gray eyes, and a black beard and mustache generously seasoned with gray. His jet-black hair was streaked here and there with silver and had been pulled back into a ponytail that reached between his shoulder blades. Luke immediately recognized him from a holofile containing portraits of Jedi researchers. But how had he managed to survive the Purges?
Vader offered the man a respectful bow. "We would be deeply indebted to you if you aided us, Jedi Knight Akri Makatzo."
---------
Earth.
Devon jerked awake. "Mr. Makatzo?"
But only the Mace Windu poster on the opposite wall looked back at him. For one moment – one wild, sweet moment – he thought he'd seen Mr. Makatzo again. But it had only been a dream. The younger Mr. Makatzo was only a Force-dream; his old friend had been taken away to the city morgue, gone from his life forever.
Devon yanked the covers back over his head, crying anew. Memories of him and the old man discussing the movies over tea and snacks, playing board games, laughing together, talking with Yoda or Luke or some other character, spilled unbidden into his mind. The thought of never seeing his friend again was too much to take.
/And I'm not ready/ he thought despondently. /I'm not ready to be keeper of the paintings. I can't do it by myself./
Then a voice entered his head, a voice that was familiar but totally unlike his own or Mr. Makatzo's.
/Mr. Makatzo will be with you always, Devon./
He shot upright. "Obi-wan?"
The Jedi was nowhere to be seen. But Devon had certainly heard him. He waited awhile, wondering if Obi-wan had anything else to say, but there was only silence.
He took a deep breath and blew his nose on the sheets. Hearing Kenobi speak gave him new resolve. After all, according to the Jedi Code there was no emotion, only peace. His grief would never entirely go, but he wouldn't let it interfere with his mission – to keep the paintings and those within them safe until Yoda said it was time to release them into the world.
Voices drifted up from the living room, and he could hear the front door open and shut. Wondering what was going on, he got out of bed and changed into play clothes.
I hope it's not the medical guys again. When the paramedics had shown up at the store yesterday, Buzz had fielded their questions while Devon had hurriedly repainted Yoda and the others into their frames. But the coroner had cornered him at home later for more information – more than Devon was able to give. It had been Britney, surprisingly enough, who had chased them off, screaming at them to "quit torturing my little brother! Can't you see he's been hurt enough?"
A female police officer sat in the living room, talking to Mom and Dad.
"Here's Devon," the officer smiled, holding out her hand. "I'm Detective Myers. I think you know my son."
Devon studied her face as he shook her hand. "I didn't know Buzz's mom was a cop," he said, though now he could see the family resemblance in the eyes and mouth. Buzz must have gotten his paunch from his dad, however, because Detective Myers was built a lot like Natalie Portman.
"Yes, Buzz told me you were very upset over Mr. Makatzo," she replied, linking her fingers together before her. "Which is why I'm here to talk to you."
Devon snuggled down between his parents on the couch, not minding the protective arms around his shoulders for once. He remembered Myers from the time when hoods had broken into the store and unwittingly freed Vader – she'd been the cop who'd given him a ride home. But he didn't want to point that out; thinking about Mr. Makatzo for too long hurt.
"Nobody seems to know much about Mr. Makatzo," she explained. "You seem to be his closest friend, so we were hoping you might know a little about him."
Of course he knew about Mr. Makatzo. But he wasn't about to tell anyone, even a cop who happened to be his new friend's mom. They'd never believe him.
"He wasn't born in America," he tried. Maybe he could get out of this without outright lying.
"Can you be a little more specific?"
Okay, so he would have to lie. "He's a Czechoslovakian immigrant," he said, then added "He came here during World War II." At least that last part was the truth – Earth had been at war when the Star Wars galaxy had been evacuated.
"Did he have any family?"
"He never had a wife or kids." True, since Mr. Makatzo would never breach the Jedi Code unless absolutely necessary. "If he had any other family, he never talked about them. I never saw family pictures either." Also true; Mr. Makatzo had been an orphan when the Jedi Order discovered him in a foundling home on Nar Shadda.
Detective Myers nodded, looking grim. "Do you know if he kept a will?"
"No."
She sighed. "This complicates things."
"What do you mean?"
"We'd hoped to find his next-of-kin," she explained. "But seeing as he has no family and we can't find a will anywhere, we're having trouble finding the heir of his estate."
"Heir of his estate?" repeated Dad.
"Though I wouldn't call it an estate exactly. He didn't have much but his store and some collectibles. And those paintings – thousands of them in his basement." She shook her head in wonder.
Something clicked in Devon's mind. "About six months ago… he told me I could have his paintings when he died."
"Okay," she replied. "Were there any witnesses to that conversation?"
There had been witnesses – seven of them. But who would believe Darth Vader and his guards had been there? "No, there wasn't."
She frowned. "I'm sorry, Devon, but a judge isn't going to take a boy's word as a last will or testament. I can't get you the paintings."
His stomach seemed to dissolve. "But he promised…"
"We've called every lawyer in the county," Cook explained. "None of them have had a client named Akri Makatzo. We'll keep looking, son, but I can't make any promises."
He was almost too afraid to ask. "What's going to happen to his stuff?"
"Most likely it will be auctioned off at an estate sale."
Panic gripped him. "B-but the paintings…" He turned to Dad. "Can't we get a lawyer, Dad? Mr. Makatzo promised…"
"Look, Devon, I know you'll miss him," Dad told him. "But we just don't have that kind of money. Look, we'll go to the estate sale and pick up one or two of your favorites…"
"He promised me all of them!" Devon shouted angrily.
"Devon!" Mom called as he ran off to his room.
He flung himself onto the bed and cried harder than ever. How could this happen? It wasn't supposed to happen like this. He was supposed to get the paintings... he was supposed to guard them until the time was right… he was supposed to help Mr. Makatzo…
But thanks to a huge legal glitch, the paintings were lost to him. The fate of his Star Wars friends could only be grim, for how could he guarantee that the paintings would stay safe when they were scattered the-Force-knew-where? And his parents didn't even seem to care! Granted, they didn't know Mr. Makatzo like he did, but couldn't they at least try to help him?
No one objected when he stayed home sick from school that day.
--------
Corusant.
Akri blinked moisture from his eyes as he stared up into the night sky. Even on this planet that never slept, it had once been possible to see the brighter stars of the galaxy. Now, though few lights were on as the planet bedded down and resigned itself to a final night, the sky was a blank slab of basalt. Their galaxy was totally gone – except the capitol.
And even Corusant's time was short. It was only a matter of hours before it slipped into nonexistence.
He shook his head and bent down to collect his things -- a suitcase, Earth-style, containing a few items that an Eastern-European immigrant fleeing his war-ravaged homeland might take to America, a small satchel with his U.S. citizenship papers and a claim to a bank vault where his paintings resided, and a durasteel trunk carrying his Jedi clothes, lightsaber, and severed Padawan braid, the last traces of a once-great galaxy.
Heart heavy, he looked at the horizon, dim except for a mere scattering of lights. Those who had not been selected to make the journey between realities were most likely gathering with loved ones for final goodbyes, praying to whatever gods or deities they worshiped, or otherwise preparing for death. He ached for every life he couldn't save, but there just hadn't been time or resources to rescue all of them. As it was, they had only completed the preservation of the selected five thousand just in time.
Luke and Yoda had been the first to go into the pictures, of course – the Jedi Order had to live on. After that had gone various leaders and diplomats to smooth over relations with the Earth natives once the time was right for colonization. The rest had been randomly selected from the remaining refugees and comprised beings from hundreds of cultures, races, and walks of life, from bounty hunters to religious leaders, from tribesmen to businessmen. Vader had been the last – as well as the most reluctant, for he still carried an enormous amount of guilt over this disaster. In the end he had agreed to the process that he might aid his son in re-establishing the Jedi Order.
Akri sighed and slung his bags over his shoulder. He had often wondered why he had survived the attack on the Jedi Order and the subsequent Purges. It hadn't been as if he'd hidden in an obscure spot like Yoda or Kenobi. Now he saw why he had been spared – he'd had a mission to fulfill. The galaxy had needed his knowledge in order to obtain a second chance at life. The Force had known all along. It usually did.
He didn't look back as he picked up the trunk and walked away, ready to begin a new life.
--------
Earth.
Devon didn't want to open his eyes. He didn't want to face a world gone sour, to leave what he knew was the last chapter of the dream-story. He wanted to lay in that netherworld between sleep and consciousness and bask in memories.
At last he rolled out of bed. It had been two weeks since Mr. Makatzo's death, and the police still couldn't track down his will, if he ever had one. Mom and Dad were sympathetic, but there wasn't much they could do. And they might have hired a lawyer to help Devon get the paintings, but almost all of their spare money was going toward Britney's trip to college this fall.
Though today was the first day of summer vacation, Devon felt depressed. Today was also the estate sale. Dad had taken him by yesterday to look over the paintings and decide on a favorite, and the place was already swarming with geeks who were camped out around the auction site as if it were a theater showing sneak peeks at Episode III. There was more Star Wars memorabilia here than many of them had ever seen in their lives. And Devon was sure they would snap up every scrap of it.
Devon had made a decision. He and Dad would bid on the Darth Vader painting. Then, when he got it home, he would shred it. Vader would help him track down the other paintings and destroy them as well, then they would take the refugees someplace safe and repaint their portraits. Thank the Force Mr. Makatzo had taught him the techniques for preserving someone in a picture. He'd meant it for use in an emergency – but then, this was a bona fide emergency if he ever saw one.
"Devon?" Mom called through the door.
He looked up from getting dressed. "Yeah mom?"
"Buzz just called. He wanted to know if you wanted to come over to his house."
"Maybe later." At least that had improved over the last two weeks – Buzz had become a bodyguard of sorts to him, beating off anyone who dared take potshots at the geek. Not that Steel and Sticks would come within ten feet of him anymore, thanks to Yoda.
"Oh, and someone's downstairs to see you."
Devon rolled his eyes. Probably the cops. He stomped down the stairs.
/Don't be so angry, Devon./
He froze in mid-step. What the heck was Obi-wan doing here again?
/Anger is the path to the dark side./
/I'm no Jedi, Obi-wan./
/But you are now a Force user. Please, put away your anger. None of this is anyone's fault./
/Except maybe Mr. Makatzo's./ He loved the old man like a grandfather, but that didn't keep him from being mad at him for neglecting to have a will.
/Not even his fault. And believe me, he had a will./
/Then where is it? How come the cops haven't found it yet?/
/They haven't been looking hard enough. Go downstairs, Devon. Trust me./
He paused as he reached the bottom of the steps and entered the kitchen. Mom and Dad sat at the table with a complete stranger, looking over papers. The man was tall and lanky, wearing a dark business suit, trench coat, glasses, and gray fedora. He looked so much like a detective from the old mystery movies – sans cheap cigar – that Devon wondered if Dad hadn't hired a private investigator to find Mr. Makatzo's lawyer.
"Devon," his mom said with a broad smile. "This is Mr. Porter. He's here to help you."
"Pleased to meet you, Devon," Mr. Porter greeted, holding out his hand. His voice had a pleasant English lilt to it.
Devon tentatively shook the offered hand. "Are you a private eye?"
Mr. Porter laughed. "No, son. I'm Harrison Porter, attorney-at-law. I'm Mr. Makatzo's lawyer."
His heart leaped – even as part of him thought that any friend of Mr. Makatzo's ought to have a more exotic name.
"Come sit down," Mr. Porter invited, tapping a chair beside him.
Devon took the offer. Mr. Porter did seem nice enough. On the table in front of him, among the various papers, was a business card listing an address in London as the law offices of Harrison Porter. The card showed a picture of the scales of justice with a snowy white owl perched on the fulcrum.
"No wonder the cops couldn't find his lawyer," Devon said. "You work in England. They wouldn't think to call around there."
"Frankly, I'm surprised they didn't try Europe," Mr. Porter replied. "Mr. Makatzo did a lot of traveling in Europe to promote his store – it did attract fans from all over the world."
"Yeah, he closed the store for a week in January to go to Scotland," Devon remembered. "That must have been when he filled out his will with you, huh?"
"Sharp lad," Mr. Porter said approvingly. "And when I got the news of my client's death, I got here as fast as I could. I was just in time to call a halt to the estate sale."
Relief swept through Devon.
"Perhaps your son would like to look at the will," Mr. Porter told Mom and Dad.
"Here it is," Dad told him, sliding the paper to him. "Though I don't know how it's going to work out."
Devon bent over to read the will. It was short and to the point:
"Everything goes to my dear friend Devon. My only request is that you keep the shop open."
His eyes got very misty.
"Reminded me very much of 'Secondhand Lions,'" Mr. Porter laughed.
Devon laughed too. "'The kid gets it all. Just plant us in the damn garden with that stupid lion.'"
"I don't know how we're going to manage a store," Dad lamented. "I have work, Devon's mom has a house to tend to…"
"And Mr. Makatzo has an accountant who manages all his financial affairs," Mr. Porter told him. "Devon can open and close the store and run the cash register, I'm sure. And Mr. Makatzo had a fair sum of money in the bank meant exclusively for taking care of his shop. If you need help, I'm sure you can hire extra employees."
"Honey, it's a small price to pay," Mom told Dad. "Those paintings mean a lot to Devon. And I can help him run a store."
"Still, all this fuss over a bunch of paintings…" complained Dad.
"I have to say that those paintings are far more than they seem," Mr. Porter replied, casting a knowing glance at Devon.
Devon stared at Mr. Porter. Did he know?
He could hardly wait for the adults to finish all their business and to corner the lawyer outside.
"Is there something else I can help you with?" asked Mr. Porter as they walked out to his car together.
"You know, don't you?" Devon asked. "You know about the paintings."
Mr. Porter smiled. "Akri told me you were a very perceptive young man, Devon. I see he was right."
Devon stopped and stared a moment. There was something oddly familiar about this man.
"Who are you really? You're not Mr. Porter."
He removed the fedora. "I'm a friend of Master Makatzo, Devon. A friend who came to the Jedi's aid in a desperate time of need."
Devon's eyes moved from the robe-like trench coat to the tragic-yet-mischievous green eyes, to the wild black hair, to the jagged scar down his forehead as if someone had tried to crack his skull open.
"Why did you help? Star Wars wasn't your world."
"Why did you help, Devon?" he asked. "Star Wars isn't your world either."
He hesitated. "Well… I like Star Wars. And I couldn't just sit there and do nothing…"
"You felt an obligation to help, Devon. We all should. Because like it or not, all worlds are linked. What happens in one will affect another. And it's the responsibility of all worlds to ensure these survivors find a new home." He smiled. "And don't worry. That will should be enough to convince any Muggle judge on your world."
As Devon watched, the wizard pulled his wand from a pocket of his trench coat, tapped the trunk of the car, and whispered "Alohalamora." It popped open, he withdrew a broom and a silvery cloak, and the car rumbled on its way by itself.
"Um, what if someone sees…"
"The owner lives just down the street. Don't worry, it won't go far." He mounted the broom. "Take care, Devon. Say hi to Luke for me."
"Sure thing, Harry!"
The adult Harry laughed as he kicked off, soaring into the air. He was visible only a moment more before he unfurled the Invisibility Cloak and flung it over himself, concealing wizard and broomstick from view.
Devon stared into the sky, a smile on his face for the first time in weeks. Vader's words from six months ago came back to him.
/"Reality is always an unstable thing. Learned men question it, the religious seek a way to breach it, the fatalistic deny it. And on occasion it fluctuates, giving individuals brief, wondrous tastes of what lies beyond their own plane."/
He turned and went back to the house. Maybe he could go over to Buzz's and tell him the good news over a round of Jedi Outcast.