VIII

They return a short time later with food in cubes and a set of binders. I consume the cubes and let the rebels secure my hands. They lead me out into an autumn under two bluish suns. The gray prefab buildings stand behind the brown-barked trees with their hot-color revelry; there are a lot of buildings, and a large space-courier sits beyond those to my initial left.

I understand enough Wookkieespeak, but not most of what Jaster's companions says. He translates with a handheld computer. "The Alliance does not discriminate against any species or profession. It does require a standard to exist... We fight not for gain counted in lives or wealth. We aim to free the enslaved,"--A growl rattled up through the Wookiee's white teeth-- "to teach the immoral, to make fear useless. Do you too desire these things?"
"Yes," I lie.

I want to be set against Darth Vader and his mechano-military crutches. Sidious will be proud when I kill his pet Anakin, though neither of you expected it--and if not, I will fight my way out of the heirarchy.

It is so dangerous, yet so comfortable.

(Yes, Vader. I know your name. I learned much while you burned. I will use your fear so well.)

The rebels do not entirely believe my curt answer, but their plammed destination does not change. It is a prefab no different from the others, except all the windows are covered with blue cloth.

The owner of this place exudes powerful calm, without power in the Force. Jaster's mind stops twitching toward his blaster like a hand.

Jaster opens the door onto a sitting room with camp chairs, a holoproj, and woven rugs on the metal floor. He says, "Mon Mothma is our commander--not just of this base." He looks at me with narrow blue eyes. "She'll wnat to know where you've come from. With detail."

I nod and step inside, within the guard of this respected person.

She enters the room and the only thing which surprises me is the disgusted experession which flashfloods across her face when she looks at me.

I am clothed to the skin in foreboding, as it should be, and she musters the bravery to recognize that.

Strong. I mindtrick her, subtly, to remove her prejudice against the Dark.

There are, just as the Empire advertises, mercenary and "lowlife" individuals among the Rebels. No one in the pilots' barracks bothers me. though my only solitude is meditation. I told the group leaders that I couly fly any of their fighters because I am a former Imperial tester. I have studied enough, can avoid damage easily, and do not plan on staying behind the rebels' lines for very long.

Only you, Vader, and perhaps Lord Sidious know my target.

And I want to see you scared, knowing expression burn clearly through the black mask.

I throw the X-Wing toward the open bay. Shrapnel and lasers scream by and are ignored. The Force keeps me from shredding up until the door-clamps are thick around my fighter and the screaming battle outside is swallowed up by the silent stadium of a huge silver hanger.

You are standing there, on a stairwell, directing TIE pilots toward the few ships left on the rack to my left.

I sent the X-Wing in too fast. The nose touches the perfectly shining floor, rips, flips, shreds, spins the rest of this ship so that I am pressed against it, watching the line of where you stand as it orbits around me, my teeth clenched. Screeching metal and dusty smoke. To my right, now fore, the laser canon on my right wing snaps off against the balcony near yours and flips across the floor trailing wire guts.

Finally the tearing stops, the ship slows. I ready. The TIE pilots have drawn blasters, approached, shot. It is such a full scene...!

I throw the dented canopy off of the X-Wing. With the Force it slams against the three pilots who had approached closer, down to the floor. Their scent is easy to ignore. I plant a foot on the rim of the cockpit and leap toward the stairwell. My lightsaber comes up, adding more smell and taste of alloy and teras kasi balance. ---! I tumble and the blaster bolts dance meters from my Force-awareness.

The flips land me standing inches from you.

The shooting stops.

That expression I wanted--rips across your tortured Force-awareness.