Happy Birthday, ESB, From R2-D2!

UNFINISHED BUSINESS

923 ABY

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

The words hurried to isolate themselves from the sentence, recoiling against rusted metal crevices and bounding through walls the color of freshly spilled blood. Barden flinched slightly as the familiar lilt of his clipped Coruscanti accent was twisted and forged into an alien echo that hurled itself at him like the specter of some unfamiliar dream. It admonished him, punished him, made terrible demands that could not have possibly emerged from a mortal imagination.

Not for the first time that day, Barden began to wonder what the kriff he was doing out here.

“No time to get paranoid, old man,” said Ruk. “We’re almost there.”

“Yes, that’s usually when the ground falls out from under you.”

“If you were expecting something to go wrong, you wouldn’t be here in the first place. This whole little expedition was your idea.”

“Just because it was my idea, you shouldn’t assume I didn’t expect something to go wrong,” said Barden, twinges of annoyance beginning to play across his bearded face.

“You worry too much. Trust me. I know where we’re going.”

“So do I,” muttered Barden, “and I’ve got a bad feeling about it.”

Running his sweat-streaked and filthy hand across his equally sweat-streaked and filthy forehead, Barden kept Ruk’s tall figure at most ten feet away from him, the thought of getting lost on a planet like Mustafar not entirely appealing.

Barden hated Mustafar. The oppressive heat did something more than tamper with his ability to breathe and to think, but seemed to reach a metal claw down into his stomach and dull the beating of his heart. Intellectually, he knew this had nothing to do with the heat; this was residual dark side energy lingering from an act of evil performed here nearly a thousand years ago. But his imagination was warped by the planet’s malevolent crevices and colors, and tricks of light and darkness that stretched across the entire world. It felt like a cage, and he was an animal about to be taken to the slaughter.

“This is it,” Ruk announced, the echo startling Barden from his reverie. “We’re here.”

Barden extended his consciousness through the Force. He was not a Jedi, and he had no formal training that allowed him to harness the Force in a controlled manner. But the Force was traditionally strong in his family, and he was no exception, much to his often-expressed dismay.

“Are you sure?” he asked, shutting his eyes against the visual world.

“Yes. He’s in there. I can feel it.”

Barden’s eyes snapped open. “For someone who just dragged himself out of the Mos Eisley cantina three months ago, you’re sure putting a lot of faith in those feelings of yours.”

“This place has many echoes of the Force, Barden.” Ruk’s eyes grew distant, and Barden imagined them peering over generations of history, thick with the heady film of legend. He shuddered. “I can feel them. I’ve never felt anything like this before.”

Barden nodded. “I know what you mean. But that means we must be even more cautious.” He looked up at the wide, rust-streaked door. “We go in?”

Ruk flashed a cocky grin. “After you, Master Kenobi.”

Barden frowned, stroking his beard in thought.

“What is it?” Ruk asked.

“I was just remembering the last time a Kenobi and a Skywalker were together on Mustafar.”

“Yes,” said Ruk, lowering his head in something that might’ve been shame. “One of them left in pieces.”

“No,” said Barden, shaking his head. “They both did. My ancestor, Obi-Wan Kenobi, was never the same man after the duel with his former apprentice. He loved Anakin. Despite everything, he believed in him. After Mustafar…” Barden shrugged. “He changed. Became consumed by what he saw as his own failure. What he didn’t know is that Anakin would still bring balance to the Force. The Jedi would return. But it took…” Barden’s voice trembled, and he inhaled sharply. “It took much sorrow.”

He looked up at Ruk, whose familiar features were twisted by painful memories of a life he never had.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” asked Barden.

“I have to,” said Ruk.

“No, you don’t. We could leave. Or I could go alone.”

“No. No, I can’t leave. It’s my--” he laughed bitterly. “It’s my destiny, you know.”

“Yes. I know.” Sighing deeply, Barden gestured elaborately toward the door. “In that case, after you, Master Skywalker.”

Ruk grinned, his blue eyes flashing in the darkness. “My pleasure, Master Kenobi.”

As Ruk pressed his fingers against a control panel dear the door, it slid open with a whisper so faint that it did not even warrant the smallest of echoes. With that, Ruktan Skywalker and Barden Kenobi, two heirs to a legacy of terror and pain, triumph and transformation, walked through the archway and closer to that freak of time, that oddity of living: their destiny.

----------------

“A room,” said Ruk, his voice sounding hollow and distant in the small space.

“Very observant of you,” said Barden, but the quiver in his voice betrayed his false confidence. “Do you…see anything?”

Ruk snorted. “I see lots of things.”

“I mean do you see anything that might be something to us.”

“I don’t need to.” Ruk closed his eyes, the lines of tension and weariness on his face easing beneath the layers of dirt and caked blood. His lips curved upward in a slight smile, and the years seemed to drop away from him like a mound of sand in a light breeze. “I feel him,” he murmured.

“You enjoy that way too much,” said Barden, smiling slightly.
“I’m a Skywalker, remember?” said Ruk, his eyelids fluttering open. “We live for this Force poodoo.”

“Yes, when you’re not dying for this Force poodoo,” Barden said dryly. He stopped shortly, almost tripping over Ruk. “Is this him?” Barden asked, staring down at a small, domed machine with faded patches of blue and white around its perimeter.

“This is him. At least, I think so. He doesn’t look like any droid I’ve ever seen. I wonder if he even works after all this time.” Ruk bent over slightly. “Look at those scoring marks all around these…things. I don’t even know what they’re for. The thing’s ancien--Woah!”

Ruk almost toppled backwards as the droid, who was slumped over in the back of the room, lurched forward and chirped indignantly. A few lights flickered on the front of his exterior, and he turned in a circle to shake some of the dirt off of himself.

“I guess he works,” said Barden.

Kneeling near the droid, Ruk said, “I’m Ruktan Skywalker. You served my great-grandfathers, all the way back before the Clone Wars. My father, Lor Skywalker, told me where to find you.”

The droid twilled shortly.

“No, he’s dead. He was killed by the Mandalorian Supercommandos on Ossus. They sacked the Temple, and tried to burn the Jedi Archives after they ran off with some of our artifacts. My father died in the planetary defense. Before that, he told me to come here and find you. He said you would help me.”

The droid beeped twice, then turned around to go back to his corner.

“What did he say?” asked Barden.

“He said that there’s nothing he can do for me.” Ruk stood and brushed the dirt from the front of his pants. “I think I believe him.”

Barden crossed his arms. “Well, I think you’d better try again.”

“But I don’t know what he wants. Besides, he’s just a droid. What can he do?”

“You’d be surprised.”

Taking a few slow breaths, Ruk knelt a few feet away from the small droid. “R2-D2?”

Whirring softly, the droid turned his domed head to face Ruk.

“Something must have kept you from trying to leave Mustafar, and someone must have brought you here to begin with. You looked like you shouldn’t even have been functioning when I got here, and you could’ve pretended that you weren’t. But you knew I was a Skywalker.”

The droid was quiet.

“Voice recognition prints?”

The droid was quiet.

“R2,” said Ruk, sitting cross-legged on the cold, musty floor. “You were there when Anakin Skywalker became a Jedi, and you were there when he was consumed by his hatred and pain. You were there when Luke Skywalker embraced his destiny, and you were there when he rejected it. You were there when the galaxy was won by the light, and you were there when it was in flames.”

Ruk leaned forward. “R2-D2, you are the only one who knows the whole story. No other being in the galaxy has been a witness to so much history. If you can help me find some way to fight the Mandalorians, then I need you. Please, do it for the galaxy, if not for my ancestors.”

R2’s body swiveled until he was directly opposite of Ruk. Tweeting slowly, his servos whirred as he rolled closer to the young man.

“What did he say?” whispered Barden.

“He said he has something to show me.”

With a crackle of static, two blue lights fluttered on R2’s chest. He chirped impatiently while the lights grew more constant, their projection growing in magnitude and intensity until a faint blue light illuminated the metal room.

“He’s going to show us a hologram,” said Ruk, his voice barely touching his own eardrums. His heart pounded.

The blue light pulsed and grew into a sold image. The image was of a woman, her face sad and her hands worn, a faint smile on her lips. And there was a young boy, no older than ten, dressed in simple clothes, his hair cropped in the plain style adopted by farmers and poorer craftsmen. But Barden wasn’t looking at the woman. Barden wasn’t looking at the child. Barden was looking at the boy’s eyes.

They were Ruk’s eyes.

“Will I ever see you again?”

The woman smiled sadly. “What does your heart tell you?”

The boy lowered his gaze, his eyes uncertain.

“I think so. Yes.”

“Then we will see each other again.”

“I will come back and free you, Mom. I promise.”

She touched his cheek. “Now be brave, and don’t look back. Don’t look back.”

The imaged expanded, shrank, and faded, only to be replaced by another one. Barden’s mouth twitched slightly, and his eyes began to burn. He didn’t notice the tears that dripped slowly into his beard.

There was a young man of average height and build, a long, thin braid extending down the front of his tunic. His features were kind, but his smile was tinged with a deep weariness.

“Anakin Skywalker, meet Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

The two shook hands.

“You’re a Jedi, too? Pleased to meet you.”

Another flutter and another image.

An older Jedi lay dying, his hand, so strong and true not moments before, weakly stretching toward his apprentice.

“Promise me…promise me you’ll train the boy…”

“Yes, Master,” the young man said, his voice strong but wavering.

“He is the Chosen One…He will bring balance…”

Barden looked at Ruk. The young man was immobile, his right fist clenched in his lap. The images came and went, faded and imploded, grew and pulsed with a life and an intensity of their own. And the two men watched, only the flickering of their eyes and the rising and falling of their chests betraying their existence.

A pure love that endured when it should have died, a man whose dreams were outlasted by his eternal enslavement, a hero consumed by the failures of the man he loved like brother and a son.

And then a young boy who wished for a life greater than his own, only to find that his inner goodness was far more powerful than anyone could have imagined. The evil of the darkest of hatreds, the pain of a galaxy in turmoil, a princess with a heart of gold and a tongue like steel daggers, and a smuggler whose internal purity was mired by the sorrow of his past.

And then the return of the Sith, the Vong, the Second Galactic Civil War, the fires that lit the halls of the Jedi Temple, an unknown darkness, the darkness made real, the death of another galaxy. And its birth.

“I’m Lor Skywalker.”

“My father,” breathed Ruk.

“Hi Ruk,” the image of his father said, his smile mirroring that of his son. “And hello to you, too, Barden Kenobi.”

Barden was silent. There was nothing to say.

“By now, a few very important things have happened to the galaxy. For one, I’m dead, which is a tragedy in and of itself.”

“He sounds like you,” Barden said softly.

Ruk nodded.

“But the Mandos didn’t win control of the Archives. That is absolutely vital. You know the problems those bucket heads cause when they go on one of their little ‘we’re gonna take over the galaxy’ sprees. A mess. One I really don’t relish cleaning up. But, it’s part of the job description. And I think the robes and the lightsaber are well worth the price.

“You’ve both just witnessed about a thousand years of galactic history. A thousand years. Emperor’s black bones, that’s a long time. Through this little droid, you’ve gained possession of information that was thought to be lost forever, events that were misplaced or destroyed in the chaos of time.

“This R2 unit has been waiting to tell his story. That’s his purpose, and that’s why he was put here many galactic rotations ago. It was a Skywalker who put him here, but nobody knows which one. A lot of people think there are too many of us walking around the galaxy as it is.

“R2-D2…He’s a feisty one. Don’t try to understand him. He’s his own little being, that’s for sure. He’s got his own reasons.

“Well, gentlemen, that’s all I can tell you. It’s up to you to decide what you do with what you have learned. Ruk, give my love to your sister and mother. Barden, you foolhardy old man…Thank you. For everything. May the Force be with you both.”

Ruk didn’t notice when the image faded. His eyes were closed, and his hand gripped the fabric of his tunic.

Barden left the room and stood outside in the oppressive heat. He sank to the ground, his head in his hands.

----------------

Ruk emerged sometime later, his krayt skin pack slung over one shoulder, a cocksure grin plastered to his face. “You all right, old man?”

Barden smiled. “I’m fine. Where’s R2?”

Hooking a thumb over his shoulder, Ruk said, “He wanted to stay behind. Something about not being finished yet.”

“Yes.” A frown creased Barden’s forehead and he stood slowly, his backpack rasping across the metal floor.

“You sure you’re all right?” asked Ruk.

“I don’t know yet.”

“Me neither.” Ruk raised his eyes to the horizon, lifting one hand to shield them from the repressive light. “When do you think we’ll find out?”

“You know,” said Barden, “I don’t think we will.”

“Yeah.” The two were silent for a moment. “R2 told me something before I left.”

“What did he say?”

“Something Anakin Skywalker told him, many years ago.”

“What’s that?”

Ruk grinned, clapping Barden on one shoulder. “This is where the fun begins.”

For a moment, Barden stared at Ruk, his mind uncomprehending, his heart confused, feeling as if someone had torn out his nerves and replaced them with something colder than ice. Then he smiled, and the smile grew wider. And Barden Kenobi threw his head back and laughed.

----------------

1123 ABY

Tor Skywalker knelt by the droid, placing his calloused hand on its wide dome. Running his fingers over the tarnished metal, he spoke to it in soft undertones until it emitted a short tweet, lights flashing with a kind of untainted joy unrivaled by any being of flesh. It spun in a circle, servo motors whirring in protest at the activity, and lights began to play over its faded blue and white surface.

“What did he say?” asked Mariah Kenobi.

“He said he has something to show me.”


HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

From Malastare to Tatooine,
And Endor to Naboo,
Happy birthday, ESB,
Your faithful droid, Artoo!


ADDENDUM

I was negative thirteen years old when Star Wars: Episode V - The Empire Strikes Back was first released. With that pretext, I hope I can justify my inability to see it on the big screen. Really, I would’ve loved it, but circumstances demanded my presence elsewhere. Someday I’ll tell you all about it, I promise.

The Empire Strikes Back is not my favorite Star Wars film. It’s not my second favorite. Or my third. Or my fifth. Or my sixth. (All right, all right, I know you want to know: Revenge of the Sith, Return of the Jedi, Attack of the Clones, The Empire Strikes Back, A New Hope, and The Phantom Menace. Yes, I’m a product of my technology-soaked and unambiguously shallow generation. I can’t help it.) Similarly, R2 is not my favorite Star Wars character. Or my second. Or my third. Or my fourth. Or my fifth. Or my sixth. Or my-- You get the idea.

Despite all this adversity, despite all this pain, despite all this anguish…I had an awesome time with this fan fic. I mean, truly I did. It took a lot of adversity, pain, and anguish to write it, as Robin and Granny will testify on the witness stand, but “slowly wheels turned round and round, and cogs began to grind and pound.” (Sorry, my little sister’s class is doing Charlie and the Chocolate Factory for their spring play, and I wrote the script and have been going over there once in a while to direct. At least I finally stopped saying “Let’s boogie.”) And once those wheels started turning and the cogs started grinding and pounding (and I wince just thinking about it), it flowed like Corellian ale at a Rogue Squadron reunion. So it was immensely fun. I really loved it. It almost killed me, but I really loved it.

I have the option to go on and describe just how profoundly I have been moved by our Saga, but words just don’t do it. So I’m going to cut it short in a minute; then you can scurry away and read whatever else we ended up with on this day that seemed to take forever to get here. I just need to sneak in a quick thank you to a couple of people who made this delightful crap possible.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

First off, thank you, Grand Master, for organizing yet another one of these absolutely insane blog challenges. And thank you for driving me insane every time I give you half the chance.

Thank you, Granny, for listening to me brainstorm, brag, whine, protest, mouth off, bawl, deliberate, and dissect through this whole adventure, and through just about every other adventure.

Thank you, everybody who participated, for...uh...participating in this...um...participation.

Thank you, Annabeth Skywalker, my little sister, for tolerating me as I read this thing to you ten billion times. And I know you’re not going to read this for another two or three years, so I’ll say this now, so I can have it on record -- I told you Davy Jones was coming back. Did you actually think they were going to throw a character like that to a stranger tide? (pun intended)

Last but unquestionably not least, thank the Maker for the GFFA!

FINAL THOUGHTS

And what did I learn from this blog challenge, you ask? To Ruk Skywalker's father, you listen: "This R2 unit has been waiting to tell his story...Don’t try to understand him...He’s got his own reasons."