Journal of the Whills: Restoration

Here is a piece of fan fiction I wrote, motivated by a sort of contest run by a podcast called Star Wars Book Report. The text version of the story is below if you choose to go the old fashioned route, or you can read along or just listen to my youtube links where I have recorded myself reading the story for you. Maybe you can do a chore while it plays, which is how I listen to podcasts, commentaries or audiobooks. It is a Star Wars piece aboard the Millennium Falcon. That much, people will generally get. If you - like me - enjoy the Original Star Wars trilogy but have issues with changes made for special editions and elements that have been introduced in the prequels, then you might appreciate what I have tried to do with establishing the recovery and translation - and finally the distribution of a series of multi-perspective testimonies that comprise a Journal composed by a mysterious species called The Whills. When they trived the Whills could be anywhere in the universe and share what they observed with each other, yet they kept a low profile with humans and other species and were all but invisible. Much of their journal was actually lost for decades and though people attributed their lore and old wives tales to it much of the history in Star Wars is proven incorrect by the Journal of the Whills, as See Threepio discovers. . . . The Journal of the Whills: Restoration “It is only the difference, Captain Solo, between beliefs and the facts,” the droid reported. “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Han grumbled, leaning a shoulder against the central computer. He had made the mistake of asking what big important thing the golden See-Threepio and his more compact counterpart Artoo Detoo had been busy with aboard his ship. He suspected they were just using the Millennium Falcon for power, leeching, while R2 downloaded a complicated and apparently sensitive stream of whatever to be interpreted by the one fee-free processer he had access to: Threepio. “But whatever you do, don’t explain it,” Han said. “Was he being ironic?” Threepio said to the shorter droid. If it was possible for Artoo’s beep to sound like a shrug, it would have. Threepio noticed that Solo remained nearby and was not speaking at the moment, so he pressed on to provide listening material. “The Journal of the Whills was a confounding stew of reports from all around the galaxy, the outer rim, the Corporate Sector and beyond.” Han crouched all the way to the deck and sat there, collapsed by boredom. Threepio took no hint, “This has been broken down by focusing on dates of entry that match files thought lost with Alderaan ten standard years ago.” Han looked up at him, not at the droid but the memory of mere asteroids that his wife’s home planet had become the last time he saw it. Threepio observed a grief protocol and offered reassurance, “History did not end with Alderaan’s destruction, but it might have seemed so if an archivist hadn’t jumped a departing fruit freighter as the Death Star entered its orbit.” “So some people got away?” Han mused aloud. “From Alderaan?” Threepio clarified, “Not many people per say. The earliest volumes or data streams called The Journal of the Whills were indeed rescued, only to be lost again. The Whills themselves died off, most notably on Alderaan, aware of their impending fate and so tired of knowing everything and being unable to communicate more directly with humans. At least one was especially fatigued enough to keep himself amused by submitting false log entries perhaps as a prank. It had been thought that these indicated unreliability of the Whills as witnesses of history.” “So then why bother with it? Who’s gonna read a dead language other than you?” Threepio persisted, answering, “In legal matters, most systems came to dismiss their information. But in forensic historical interpretation, any suspected prankster entries can be set aside so the rest can cleanly reinforce each other into solid facts. A breakthrough is in eliminating the chief prank reporter. “ “What was he lying about?” Han asked. “Anything about me?” “It’s not part of the Alderaan files, but there is a later entry reporting your heroic death on Endor. Your presence here would seem to undermine the authority of that Whill’s report.” “I got that,” Han waved Threepio to get on with it. “And he also states that the Millennium Falcon which we are standing in the moment was consumed in a fireball as Lando Calrissian piloted it out of a Death Star he had been in the process of destroying. General Calrissian is doing quite well, and my understanding is that your ship was merely damaged in that attack.” “Yeah,” Han said more to himself than to the droid. “So you strike out those versions and they can’t keep the other versions in check.” “Precisely,” Threepio said. “Well, don’t let me distract you. Better get on with all that processing.” “Oh, I have been translating and outputting it in Basic while we’ve been talking. Try patting your head and rubbing your tummy at the same time and you can see what I mean.” “Threepio,” Han pointed his finger at the droid like a gun. “Just never mind my tummy.” A feint echo of boots on the docking bay outside caught Han’s attention and provided a welcome distraction. He pushed himself clear of the computer bank with a mild groan. “Do you need any help, sir?” Threepio offered, extending his metal arm as far as it would go. Han absently turned the hand palm down and patted the top sarcastically, “Thanks anyway, Goldie.” Han left and Artoo chirped something to Threepio who looked quickly down at his partner’s chrome dome and then to the door. Threepio lowered his volume. “Why didn’t you say I don’t have clearance? Captain Solo couldn’t have understood. You could have spoken up. Now both of us could be deactivated. We’re doomed.” “What were her exact words?” Han asked. He was half way down the ramp of his freighter, greeting two human or humanoid New Republic sentries in full helmets with face shields up. Han’s tone had gone from casual hello to fight-ready in the last few seconds. “Well,” Jasper the senior sentry with yellow eyes recalled, “The orders are to confiscate both droids R2-D2 and C-3PO aboard the Millennium Falcon before take-off.” “Jasper,” Han smiled only with his mouth and kept his eyes on target while he absently flicked what might be a speck of dust from the ramp support, “She didn’t say anything to me. And my wife wouldn’t say confiscate. See, she considers these here droids emancipated. So you guys didn’t speak to Leia directly, did you?” “No, General Solo,” the other sentry Fra breathed while keeping his bulky head nodded forward. Jasper shot an angry look his way, and he felt it rather than saw it. Han Solo strode the rest of the way down the ramp. “So Jasper? Fra? Either of you two gentlemen want to tell me what’s goin’ on? Huh? Because if I open my com-link to Leia – to your leader Princess Leia Organa-Solo – she will talk to you for a long time.” “She doesn’t interrogate with torture,” Jasper insisted. “No,” Han said, “Not unless you count the talkin’.” Fra found his voice again. “The information was relayed through Information Security Protocol office Clerk 37.” “Well,” Han over-articulated as if to someone slow-minded, “With all due respect, you’re only tryin’ to do your jobs but you can tell Clerk 37 for me that misrepresenting the authority of Princess Leia is a violation of whatever you said his office was called. And she knows better than to play broken com-link through him and a pair of busy sentries.” Jasper rubbed his head as he spoke, after waiting for a chance to interrupt. “The R2 unit, sir, has violated protocol by delivering sensitive data files to an unauthorized, insecure individual.” Han laughed as he found himself turning three-hundred and sixty degrees where he stood. He leaned close to Jasper, “No offence. Jas, but I don’t have as much clearance as Artoo-Detoo?” “I regret the confusion, General,” Jasper said with a cough. “Your clearance is fine.” See-Threepio’s gears were heard as he walked and Han glanced back to see the gold-plated humanoid form at the top of his ramp. “Sir, pardon me but I expect he may be referring to me.” “Threepio!” Han barked up at him. “Haven’t you got a gig right now?” “Thousands of gigs,” Threepio said, matter-of-fact, as if he could say it any other way. “Although I have not processed all of it. I can offer a precise count shortly, sir.” Jasper stepped around Han Solo, giving him a wide berth, and stopped shy of the ramp right at its base as he questioned Threepio, “The Journal of the Whills? Yes or no?” “Might you accept a qualified yes? There may be debate as to the matter of authenticity.” “So you confess?” Fra added, attempting to be helpful. Jasper turned a scolding glare at him. “Keep your pants on,” Han said, stepping between the sentries and standing half way up the ramp to block the droid from them. “You guys even got a warrant, or am I not cleared for lookin’ at that?” Jasper took a small square device from his belt and held it up for Han to read the display. Han glanced at it and handed it back. “There, now see if you can stick that where the suns don’t shine. If I have to take off early to shake you, feel free to hang on to the landing gear as tight as you can and hold your breath when it looks like space.” Threepio immediately killed the tension by agreeing, “Captain Solo is indeed capable of letting wicked creatures die in the vacuum of space or hiding a viscous little monster in a gift box or shooting at least one bounty under the table because his gun was drawn.” “Excuse us now.” Jasper commanded. “Silence the droid.” “Yeah, better to shoot first and ask questions later.” Han gave a lopsided smile. “Actually,” Threepio pressed, “Shoot first implies fire from the other, who in this case got off no shot and simply flopped forward according to the most credible accounts.” “I didn’t think anyone was payin’ much attention.” Han shrugged. “The Whills were paying attention,” Threepio advised. “That’s enough!” Jasper and Fra stepped forward, now shoulder to shoulder at the base of the ramp. Fra beckoned Threepio down with a wave at the wrist. His head was still mostly favoring the floor, embarrassed by his duty. Jasper elbowed him in the ribs and Fra frowned up at him and then followed his gaze to the ramp. Han’s gun was now drawn. “I’ll make you guys a deal,” Han said. “Any other day both of you are on my team, so the second-last thing I want to do is hurt either of you. Leave all your weapons on the dock and join us inside. We’ll bring up the ramp, and we won’t lift off unless we have to. And I won’t wake Chewie up from his nap and ask him to give you a hairy deep-tissue massage.” Jasper and Fra released their ammo belts and guns to gently settle to the floor. Fra was the first to step forward up the ramp. Jasper hesitated, “What’s the last thing you’d want to do, then?” “The last thing I’d want is to give up my frien-- my droids.” “I thought you said they weren’t property?” Fra said in passing. “The last thing I want is to take bantha crap from either of you. Come on.” Han made a grand ushering gesture inviting them inside and the ramp started to lift. Han tottered but recovered balance, having not operated the ramp. Jasper snatched a pistol from the floor, tucked it behind himself, and hopped onto the rising ramp. Han glanced back and grabbed his hand, helping him clear the closing mouth of the ramp seal. Falling back inside, Han realized Jasper was on top of him. “Really?” Han curled his trigger finger on the pistol. But Jasper was lifted away by the shoulders and set safely aside by two hairy paws. The shaggy form of Chewbacca yawned beside the ramp control. He eyed Jasper and Fra like prey. Jasper gasped. Chewie gave an upward not of what might have been his chin and held up two hairy fingers in what some systems would consider a sign of peace before wandering past the acceleration padding-lined, rounded corridors of the cozy space. “Don’t worry about Chewie,” Han said. “He gets up half-way through a nap and stands by the open refrigeration unit until he decides on a sedative-heavy snack.” The sentries turned to see the droids both hooked up at the terminal again, resuming the translation process. “If you have any further questions, I can finish work while we talk.” “Or have a seat,” Han said, indicating the acceleration couch across the compartment with a game surface on its table. Jasper seethed, “The point is to prevent you from finishing that work. There may be sensitive material, especially anything that pre-dates Alderaan’s destruction.” “These testimonies,” Threepio reported, “extensively cover history that my companion recalls vividly but with which I was not entrusted. I received a memory wipe from Captain Antilles. I did not even realize that Anakin Skywalker built me with spare parts from a junk pile of standard assembly line discards and that he grew up to be Darth Vader himself so any time I thank the Maker I am thanking someone as flawed as I must be.” Han circled around the guards, “Why’s all that okay for one droid memory and not for another? How is Artoo in the clear and not Threepio?” “That information,” Jasper blinked, “may be above our pay grade, sir.” “I might have the answer,” Threepio piped up. “It could be said that I have a tendency to babble or to say more than might be necessary in a given situation.” “I’ve noticed,” Han said. “You’re a blabbermouth. Fair enough.” Artoo said something in short bursts of scolding beeps. Threepio glanced down at him, “No I don’t blame Captain Antilles for being cautious any more than you blame him for uninstalling your leg jets after so many crewmen raced you down the corridors and burned each other for that extra push of speed.” Jasper waved at the air, expecting Threepio to see this as an indication to stop talking, “That’s enough. We’ve been patient. Just lower the ramp and we’ll take the droids and give them back when the information office is done.” “Wait a second,” Han said as he squared off with Jasper. “These droids aren’t getting any mind-wipe just so you can destroy this Journal of the Whills thing. Whoever gave Artoo the info, they know him and how he’ll get the job done. Otherwise why choose an astro-droid, a mechanic? Just what were they expecting Artoo is gonna do with it? Go get a stranger to translate it when he’s got Threepio tripping over him every day?” Fra sat at on the couch and looked at the game grid, “Maybe they want him to destroy it, sir?” Han sat across the game table from Fra in silence a moment. “Ordinarily I’d say history is history, as useless as tattoos on a Wookiee. But if someone wants this thing deleted, it just became a lot less boring.” Before Han could elaborate, there was a shrill cry from Artoo. Han whirled around, gun already drawn. Jasper had taken his own pistol from under the back of his jacket and aimed it at the droids. Han fired and Jasper’s weapon fell to the floor still clutched by a smoldering hand. Jasper grasped at his cauterized stump. Fra stood bolt upright and Han waved him over to stand in his view. “But why? He didn’t fire.” Fra spoke while Jasper made anguished sounds. Jasper looked at the fallen gun and began to stoop for it and reach his left hand out. “Jasper!” Han said, “You’re gonna want that other hand. Make me take that one away too and I’ll feel real bad about it.” Jasper backed off. Chewbacca ran in with a roar. “It’s alright, Chewie. I got it under control.” Chewbacca noticed the gun on the ground clutched by a severed hand. He picked it up and pried loose the gun and sniffed at the hand. He glanced at the sad, frightened face of Jasper and handed him back the hand. Chewie stepped back and leaned against a bulkhead, arms crossed and gun held casually. “I never would have shot you.” Jasper told Han. “You are a hero of the New Republic.” Han just about growled, “What did you expect me to do? Let you blast fancy pants here?” “I do not wear pants,” interjected Threepio. “And yours Captain Solo have a red stripe that some would consider fancy.” “They’re standard marksman pants,” Han said to Fra and Jasper. Fra looked to Chewbacca who shrugged wanting to stay out of the argument. “Well they are very durable and you have gotten years of wear out of them,” Threepio blathered. “I’ve got more than one pair,” Han said with a sharp look to Threepio finally. “Just an example of the way the Whills reported their details,” the droid explained. “First impressions are not filtered out. The filtration is a large part of my work here today.” Han turned to face Jasper, more certain, “He may not have clearance, whatever that means these days, but he has clocked more years of service than you have years period. I can respect you smuggling a gun onto my ship, fair enough, that’s on me. But when you pull a gun on somebody I trust, potentially robbing me of a resource or an appliance, even a fussy wuss like Threepio, the results. . . . ” “You could have given a warning.” Fra spoke up, more bold now. “Then what?” Han looked at him sidelong. “Would we have a verbal dual? I don’t think I’d go around bragging about that win against you guys. No offense. And I’m not negotiating with anybody on my ship.” Fra stammered and then finally said, “It was your idea to come aboard! And what are Whills?” Without missing a beat, and perhaps despite missing the tone of the moment, Threepio educated the visiting sentry, “Each species imagined the Whills in its own image. Under most of the lighting spectrum, the Whills were not visible.” “I didn’t ask what they looked like,” Fra said. “What are the Whills? What WERE they?” “Don’t encourage the droid,” Jasper spat. “This is not secure information.” Han held up his palm to them and waved it in the air like an eraser or a blessing, “It is now. On my authority as Captain and as one of your Generals, I just cleared it. Full clearance. Amen.” “By the by, sir,” Threepio added, “Artoo discretely sent out a call to medical emergency personnel for the severed hand in case it needs their attention.” “Good!” Fra said. “It bloody well does! And Jasper can sue General Solo. It happened on his ship and he did this. He is responsible.” Han slumped and shook his head. Chewbacca took a step forward in case he could be of service. Han held up a hand indicating one minute. “I’ll take my chances,” Han said. “How long till the medics get here?” Threepio continued with more detail after a beep from Artoo. “They would have been here by now but it appears that before the sentries entered the docking bay they disabled communication beyond it. The signal stops there, blocked on the authority of security sentry Jasper.” Fra shot a look at Jasper, much like the glares he had gotten recently. He took a step closer to his colleague and looked into his eyes. “That is not standard practice,” he muttered. “Especially not when approaching high ranking leaders of the New Republic. Why, sir?” “Well,” Han shrugged to Jasper. “The bad news is you’re gonna live. You’re not losing blood. The laser cauterized the wound. You’re just going to be without a pain remedy until we carry whoever you are back in there.” “So you stoop to torture?” Jasper said as his voice cracked. “Delaying treatment?” “Is that your story?” Han asked. “Because history is told by the winners and survivors.” “Actually, if I may,” Threepio interrupted, “Long destroyed senate chamber coverage and reference material usually available to verify historically significant events have often been destroyed in battle or suppressed by the victors.” “I forgot,” Han held out his arms expansively and twirled his gun, “Victors are vicious. Good thing we can clear the whole mess with whatever the Whills told each other went on.” “That is correct,” Threepio said. “And so the verbal variations on local or intergalactic lore have been attributed to the Whills despite their existence being little more than a faerie tale.” Han, Fra and Jasper all turned their heads to Threepio. Chewie also did, but by now he was sitting against the wall with his legs stretched out and crossed. Chewie grunted a bored sentence. “You said it, Chewie.” Han stepped up closer to Threepio and Artoo, “Are you saying these Whills now didn’t even exist? After all this?” “Oh,” Threepio appeared to sputter, although it was technically not possible, “They were considered a faerie tale by those who upheld the official stories. Over the generations that the Journal of the Whills has been lost, oral tradition has filled in gaps with speculation. Recovery of the original data known as the Journal of the Whills can allow archivists can reconstruct narratives that have been rife with contradiction.” “It is designed to confuse you!” Jasper screamed. “It will make you doubt!” Both Han and Fra looked back at Jasper with a shrug, and back to Threepio who mused, “Under the circumstances, it is impressive how close the verified factual version lines up against the widespread compromised speculations, but it is the first volume of the accounts involving the Old Republic and the struggles of Anakin Skywalker which reveal changes great and small.” “I don’t much care about that stuff,” Han said, “But whatever the truth is, it’s not gonna end here.” Chewbacca was still seated but paying attention now. He barked at Threepio, for whom it was the prompt it sounded like. “It is not easy to determine what you might find interesting, and I’m just an interpreter, not very good at telling stories.” Artoo let out a long beep and a squawk. Threepio confessed, “Quite right, Artoo, I suppose I can embellish by adding sound samples from what I have heard, but effects can only make a story so interesting to humans.” Han waved the two sentries closer to Chewbacca and they sat near him so Han could holster his gun and sit near the droids, “This is the one time I’ll ask you to go ahead and tell me a story that isn’t so interesting.” “There was,” Threepio began randomly, “a minor player in the popular mythos named Cleig Lars who did not factor into the Whills accounts and appears not even to have lived. More shocking is the traumatic nature of Anakin’s early separation from his mother in that it was more final. She died a slave while attempting escape and never married a Lars or anyone.” “Yeah,” Han said, “I’ve never heard of a Cleig Lars. I know Luke was raised by an aunt and uncle named Lars.” “They met Obi Wan Kenobi around the same time he met young Anakin and his mother and a device inside her was detonated by her slave master. I was apparently there but the sound sample was wiped from my memory so I can’t embellish the story. I can do a generic explosion.” “Forget it,” Han said. “I already did forget it.” Threepio said. “Anyway, Owen Lars and his girlfriend Beru got their explosive implants removed by Anakin and they were orphans about his age and got away clean and free thanks to help from Obi-Wan Kenobi who had tracked a Sith to Tattooine who was looking for The One. There is no consensus about the purpose of the One and why the Jedi wanted balance when there were only two surviving Sith and hundreds of Jedi.” “I admit, Threepio,” Han said. “You were right. You are all over the place telling this. Jump to the end. Luke and my wife get born and their mother dies right there of a broken heart?” “Is that what Princes Organa-Solo told you?” Threepio slowly said. “No,” Han shook his head. “And she even told Luke on Endor. . . basically, Leia knew her mother. She died when she was very young but not when her kids were newborns. I have heard people tell both versions, but I don’t care what they think happened and Leia lets it lie.” “According to the Whills, the word of your wife is correct and whoever found it necessary for people to believe Padmé Amidala died in childbirth may have reason to promote that. Whills did observe that a funeral that used a clone who had not survived one of Count Douku’s earliest experiments and his plot to replace her with a controllable stand-in failed. The conspiracy would have had to include Yoda, Obi-Wan Kenobi, and Senator Organa who adopted your infant future wife and raised her with Padmé. There is record of Organa’s wife having a fatal disease and she might have welcomed help from Padmé as a handmaiden of sorts.” Han used a wall cushion for support and stood back up, “There’s one more person in that conspiracy, Threepio,” he said. “And you know personally who it was.” Artoo chirped, and Threepio disengaged himself from the wall unit, his mind focused on one task, the processing of the most simple fact, “Captain Antilles as well hid Amidala. Perhaps he was not so cruel in wiping my memory. I was not privy to knowing where the babies were taken, but I would have seen Amidala alive.” Jasper stood and backed up to the ramp control, “I think we’re done with story time.” Chewbacca growled, long and low. Han watched Jasper’s hand near the controls. “You might miss the best part,” Han said. “And besides, you might not make it all the way down the ramp to that other gun outside before Chewie is on you. He’s old but he’s pretty spry. Anything bother you about all this, Jasper?” “How old do you think I am? I’ve lived history.” Jasper said, still reaching for the controls. Han noticed that it was Jasper’s severed right hand, fully knitted back to the wrist and functioning. Jasper waved at the wrist back to Han. “Some of us heal quicker than others.” His voice became deeper. He licked a finger on the healed hand and traced it down his cheek to expose red complexion underneath. “I will give you the answers, at last, because I trust they will not get past the walls of this freighter.” “I’m impressed,” Han said, “But not so curious.” Han drew his gun and it flew across the compartment. Chewbacca sprang to his feet and fired the pistol he’d been hanging onto. The bolts deflected from Jasper’s upraised palm. The gun was invisibly tugged from Chewbacca’s grasp, but the Wookiee snatched it back and hung onto it until his feet slid along the deck. “Interpretation complete,” Threepio said. Artoo beeped a question? “Yes, Artoo. Power.” “Yesssss,” Jasper said. “Poww-errrrr.” Artoo turned a dial and the power went out. Utter darkness. This distraction may have given Chewbacca a chance to recover and hide. But there were small bolts from the floor as the Wookiee fired in the general direction of the ramp. Briefly the living area of the Falcon was lit-up. Then darkness again. Suddenly a hiss and a hum accompanied a slash of red light glowing steadily. Jasper’s free hand knocked aside the sentry helmet he had been wearing. With the lighsaber blade held straight up, nubs of horns that had been hidden were now exposed. “Shall I continue?” he asked those in the darkness. Only Threepio’s gold eye-lights could be seen at first until all eyes acclimated to the glow of the saber. “I admit changing details, even threatening one of the Whills, to destroy the legacy of my replacement. I was an apprentice, with abilities of a master. But I was a target while my master enjoyed hiding in plain sight. I needed a new life, to indulge rather than to be the hand of a fool. He sent me into battle with two Jedi, and I led them where I wanted them. I did my errand, and I let one of them chop me in half. I was not sure the kind of injury I would sustain, but I made sure it was made with rage. Focus of the Dark Side slowed my descent. My clone was there at the bottom of the shaft with its own bacta tank in case limbs needed harvesting. As it happened, the surgeon droid only needed to take some of its organs, nerves and intestine as my lower half was re-joined.” “And you are?” Han asked, the sarcasm as restrained as possible. “Exactly,” Jasper exhaled. “I carry a double-bladed lightsaber, but I’m only bothering with one right now. I have the face of a demon. I was once at the right hand of Sidious, or Palpatine who became Emperor. You’ve never heard of Darth Maul?” Han, Chewie and Fra shook their heads no. “But you know Darth Vader.” “Sure,” Han said. “Luke’s Dad. Black helmet, cape, scary mask.” “I did everything I could, removed records, meddled, killed, made The One seem like a simpering, pathetic idiot. If not for all of my indulgences over the years, life would have only one meaning and that is to tarnish the dark, iconic legacy of Darth Vader. And I have done that. Even you cannot take him seriously. The little boy racing pods who left his mother a slave while he lounged with powerful Jedi and politicians in a metropolis, the gullible young man, emotionally unstable, who can be talked into changing his masters and killing younglings. The man who can choke a woman who is everything to him, the whining idealist. Maybe I have not made a name for myself, but I have taken his.” “Why reach for the controls if you can open the ramp with your mind?” Han asked, keeping it light while his own brain whirled with options that he dismissed as fast as they occurred. “I was reaching to show off my hand,” the man formerly known as Jasper confessed. “Just showing off. And I was disabling the ramp so it can’t even be unlocked from outside. The Journal of the Whills, proper, non-abridged, the real, full history ends today. It will not replace what I have created. I leave you all here dead so that I can begin to make my mark. And Captain Solo I promise to give proper attention to your wife and children.” “Well,” Han said, his mouth now dry. “I can only hope you meet my brother-in-law. I think you’d hit it off. He’ll find you. And he didn’t need entire lifetimes to make his mark.” Something came rattling along the deck in the reddish blackness. Everyone looked to the floor as the item skidded to a stop with an absurd breaking sound. Darth Maul, no longer Jasper at all, held out his glowing blade just beyond his feet. He knew the size of the object and could see it clear as day with retina of his kind, but he wanted the others to see this ownerless object before he chops it or kicks it. He raised his arms, and as he did a burst of ignition was heard and a green beam of light passed through him. As his own blade followed through, the object below rose up as if it were a counter-weight, slicing between his legs and all the way up his torso, between both occupied arms to bisect his chest and his neck and split his head through the middle. Both halves fell with benign thud-splats, both sides of what had been Jasper and Maul and yet had not made a name for itself. The ramp released and lowered on its own. The green-bladed lightsaber blinked out and rolled down the ramp, levitated and zipped out of sight. The red saber had flicked off as it landed amid the flesh of its owner. Han stepped around Maul and peered out at the docking bay, looking for the other saber’s owner. “Chewie?” Han looked back at the Wookiee who was already beside him. “We better not lift off yet. Check for a breach. How do you suppose the kid’s lightsaber got inside here anyway? Luke is the man but he’s getting a bill. We might have to install another window.” Luke Skywalker stepped out from behind a leg of landing gear, in a formal grey version of his Jedi outfit, attaching the saber cylinder to his belt clip. “Hey Han, everybody okay?” “Almost everybody.” Han indicated Maul’s remains. “Threepio just finished this big translation. Turns out your father was more bad-ass than his reputation.” “Good to know, I guess.” Luke shrugged, “He was pretty scary in my day. Sorry about the hole in your lower gun turret. Had to discretely sneak the saber in. Overt confrontation wouldn’t have worked as well.” Han gave a hollow laugh, “Yeah, and what if you cut one of us in half?” Luke waved it off, “Either way, I’d still have my eyes closed the whole time.” Afterward: Finished combining and filtering the many signals of the Whills, Threepio sat in silence across the games table from Artoo who eventually gave a puttd-wheet query to make sure the protocol droid was still on-line and in service. Threepio turned his photocepters to the dome of his friend for no reason other than emulation of a human tendency to acknowledge the other with what seemed to be verification that he, she, they or it still had the same appearance associated with the noises generated. "Perhaps we have not been made to suffer," Threepio said. "Perhaps we have no lot in life at all." This brought a series of chirps that would sound to the unaccustomed like a form of laughter. "Will the humans accept that so much of what they believe is not the truth? Or will they reject the Journal of the Whills and blame the both of us for being so heretical as to preserve and report it? I would not know the Whills to see them. I do not even know the Maker. The Journal of the Whills indicates my correct serial number and the date I emerged fully formed and ready to be programmed from a droid factory assembly line. Proper machines made me. Whatever maker made the machines I have not inquired. Your own astrodroid components have been intact for most of your active use. I have looked up the one and only Artoo Detoo and apart from a dome replacement after Yavin you have extended function far beyond your original warranty. People amuse themselves and argue folklore between camps and will find a difference to distinguish one culture from another, a variation on the same stories that might have bound them. What we know and what I have just outputted as a Basic language narrative and cross-reference history will be read, heard and shared and it will restore what appears to be the truth, proven reality as opposed to stories and episodes gathered from raving mad creatures around the galaxy who have merely been there to provide answers and raise questions when there was nothing but the vacuum of space." Artoo's lights winked out. Threepio kicked the droid's torso under the table, which brought him humming back to life. "You may not shut down after asking a question. If you meant it as rhetorical then you have insulted me again you dustbin." Artoo made a few beeps and hoots with a sarcastic tone. "My point," Threepio said, simulating exasperation, "Is that we cannot predict which variation from the mythology we know, from the lies that have comforted and perplexed people for generations to the minor names that never actually had a personage attached will enrage or inspire the next wave of war." Artoo rolled away from the table to pick open the Millennium Falcon's hyperdrive cabinet and inspect it by eye or by optical sensor. He had stopped listening to Threepio as the line of logic became a fanciful fear mongering tract like those they had been exposed to in so many entertainment centers and on home-sized holo cubes. There was no question for Artoo and again See Threepio found a way to be an alarmist. For Artoo there had been a mission, and anything else would be mere distraction to be humored or tolerated and then gently set aside so that the plan could be carried out. Threepio did continue elaborating about the way tribes could be formed and how some planets full of only one species of sentient life ended up fighting over the color of a God's eyes or the accent that is correct when they all speak the same language. For Threepio the revelations contained in The Journal of the Whills were something that would cause violent fighting and bickering and boring discussion leading to bloodshed or confusion or paradox and meaningful thought. But such disasters were not the concern of the more squat of the two droids aboard the Falcon at that moment. Artoo found the right sliver of metal to pull which compromised the Hyperdrive of the ship just enough to gradually return them to normal space. Apart from a distant human curse from the cockpit and a run of grunts and howls from Chewbacca, there was no consequence and no permanent damage. The coordinates were approximately correct. Artoo conferred with the Falcon's computer before engaging the channel of the distress signal and replacing it with a copy of Threepio's basic translation of the Journal. Threepio fumbled and stumbled from the table to his feet. He recognized where Artoo had just rolled and the sequence of diodes with which he was fiddling. "Just you reconsider." But Artoo had already sent out the signal, which had never been a standard call of distress. Captain Solo had modified that long ago. The fact that it could carry such a large message had not been considered. From this position in space the Falcon could throw a data stream in hundreds of different directions at once. Further translation of the Journal of the Whills could be left up to other communities and their academics, other publishers that scream and sing and growl and gurgle to stories that might be forever questioned. The Journal would pull Sabbac chances one at a time from a house of cards until it collapses and must be built back up again with more sound structure. It would also be rejected loudly by some. But it was the wish of his former Princess Leia that Artoo get this message out regardless of how a culture is capable of processing or believing it. The foundations of systems throughout the galaxy and beyond the outer rim territories and past the Corporate Sector at least would receive it. What they had known their entire lives was not altogether true. There was more to be known and some to be unlearned. Most scandalous was the idea that the crude matter Yoda once preached as mere carbon or flesh was not important, and that blood was part of that flesh, and that Midichlorians never existed after all and anyone regardless of bloodline or birth or approval from a council of elders could if they wished and focused and were so dedicated use the Force and be influenced by it and whether they wished or not they were all one with the Force. But all of those thoughts went through Artoo in mere seconds before he released the warm, dangerous information out through the clarity and coldness of space.