Darth Vader stepped out of the long, cylindrical elevator into what had been the Death
Star control room, and now was the Emperor's throne room.  Two royal guards stood
either side of the door, red robes from neck to toe, red helmets covering all but
eyeslits that were actually electrically modified view-screens.  Their weapons were
always drawn.
    The room was dim except for the light cables running either side of the elevator
shaft, carrying power and information through the space station.  Vader walked
across the sleek black steel floor, past the humming giant converter engines, up the
short flight of steps to the platform level upon which sat the Emperor's throne.
Beneath this platform, off to the right, was the mouth of the shaft that delved deeply
into the pit of the battle station, down to the very core of the power unit.  The chasm
was black, and reeked of ozone, and echoed continuously in a low, hollow rumble.
    At the end of the overhanging platform was a wall, in the wall, a huge, circular
observation window.  Sitting in an elaborate control-chair before the window, staring
out into space, was the Emperor,
    The uncompleted half of the Death Star could be seen immediately beyond the
window, shuttles and transports buzzing around it, men with tight-suits and
rocket-packs doing exterior construction or surface work.  In the near-distance
beyond all this activity was the jade green moon Endor, resting like a jewel on the
black velvet of space—and scattered to infinity, the gleaming diamonds that were the
stars.
    The Emperor sat, regarding this view, as Vader approached from behind.  The
Lord of Sith kneeled and waited.  The Emperor let him wait.  He perused the vista
before him with a sense of glory beyond all reckoning: this was all his.  And more
glorious still, all his by his own hand.
    For it wasn't always so.  Back in the days when he was merely Senator
Palpatine, the galaxy had been a Knighthood that had watched it over it for centuries.
But inevitably it had grown too large—to massive a bureaucracy had been required,
over too many years, in order to maintain the Republic.  Corruption had set in.
    A few greedy senators had started the chain reaction of malaise, some said: but
who could know?  A few suddenly a fever was in the stars.  Governor turned on
governor, values eroded, trusts were broken—fear had spread like an epidemic in
those early years, rapidly and without visible cause, and no one knew what was
happening, or why.
    And so Senator Palpatine had seized the moment.  Through fraud, clever
promises, and astute political maneuvering, he'd managed to get himself elected head
of the Council.  And then through subterfuge, bribery and terror, he'd named himself
Emperor.
    Emperor.  It had a certain ring to it.  The Republic had crumbled, the Empire
was resplendent with its own fires, and would always be so—for the Emperor knew
what others refused to believe: the dark forces were the strongest.
    He'd known this all along, in his heart of hearts—but relearned it every day:
from traitorous lieutenants who betrayed their superiors for favors; from
weak-principled functionaries who gave him the secrets of lords, and sadistic
gangsters, and power-hungry politicians.  No one was immune, they all craved the
dark energy at their core.  The Emperor had simply recognized this truth, and
utilized it—for his own aggrandizement, of course.
    For his soul was the black center of the Empire.
    He contemplated the dense impenetrability of the deep space beyond the window.
Densely black as his soul—as if he were, in some real way, this blackness; as if his
inner spirit was itself this void over which he reigned.  He smiled at the thought: he
was the Empire; he was the Universe.
    Behind him, he sensed Vader still waiting in genuflection.  How long had the
Dark Lord been there?  Five minutes?  Ten?  The Emperor was uncertain.  No
matter.  The Emperor had not quite finished his meditation.
    Lord Vader did not mind waiting, though, nor was he even aware of it.  For it
was an honor, and a noble activity, to kneel at his ruler's feet.  He kept his eyes
inward, seeking reflection in his own bottomless core.  His power was great, now,
greater than it had ever been.  It shimmered from within, and resonated with the
waves of darkness that flowed from the Emperor.  He felt engorged with this power,
it surged like black fire, demon electrons looking for ground…but he would wait.
For his Emperor was not ready; and his son was not ready, and the time was not yet.
So he waited.
    Finally the chair slowly rotated until the Emperor faced Vader.
    Vader spoke first.  "What is thy bidding, my master?"
    "Send the fleet to the far side of Endor.  There it will stay until called for."
    "And what of the reports of the Rebel fleet massing near Sullust?"
    "It is of no concern.  Soon the Rebellion will be crushed and the young
Skywalker will be one of us.  Your work here is finished, my friend.  Go out to the
command ship and await my order."
    "Yes, my master."  He hoped he would be given command over the destruction
of the Rebel Alliance.  He hoped it would be soon.
    He rose and exited, as the Emperor turned back to the galactic panorama beyond
the window, to view his domain.

    In a remote and midnight vacuum beyond the edge of the galaxy, the vast Rebel
fleet stretched, from its vanguard to its rear echelon, past the range of human vision.
Corellian battle ships, cruisers, destroyers, carriers, bombers, Sullustain cargo
freighter, Calamarian tankers, Alderaanian gunships, Kesselian blockade runners,
Bestinian skyhoppers, X-wing, Y-wing, and A-wing fighters, shuttles, transport
vehicles, manowars.  Every Rebel in the galaxy, soldier and civilian alike, waited
tensely in these ships for instructions.  They were led by the largest of the Rebel Star
Cruisers, the Headquarters Frigate.
    Hundreds of Rebel commanders, of all species and lifeforms, assembled in the
war room of the giant Star Cruiser, awaiting orders from the High Command.
Rumors were everywhere, and an air of excitement spread from squadron to squadron.
    At the center of the briefing room was a large, circular light-table, projected
above which a holographic image of the unfinished Imperial Death Star hovered
beside the Moon of Endor, whose scintillating protective deflector shield
encompassed them both.
    Mon Mothma entered the room.  A stately, beautiful woman of middle age, she
seemed to walk above the murmurs of the crowd.  She wore white robes with gold
braiding, and her severity was not without cause—for she was the elected leader of
the Rebel Alliance.
    Like Leia's adopted father—like Palpatine the Emperor himself—Mon Mothma
had been a senior senator of the Republic, a member of the High Council.  When the
Republic had begun to crumble, Mon Mothma had remained a senator until the end,
organizing dissent, stabilizing the increasingly ineffectual government.
    She had organized cells, too, toward the end.  Pockets of resistance, each of
which was unaware of the identity of the others—each of which was responsible for
inciting revolt against the Empire when it finally made itself manifest.
    There had been other leaders, but many were killed when the Empire's first
Death Star annihilated the planet Alderaan.  Leia's adopted father died in that
calamity.
    Mon Mothma went underground.  She joined her political cells with the
thousands of guerrillas and insurgents the Empire's cruel dictatorship had spawned.
Thousands more joined this Rebel Alliance.  Mon Mothma became the
acknowledged leader of all the galaxy's creatures who had been left homeless by the
Emperor.  Homeless, but not without hope.
    She traversed the room, now, to the holographic display where she conferred
with her two chief advisors, General Madine and Admiral Ackbar.  Madine was
Corellian—tough, resourceful, if a bit of martinet.  Ackbar was pure Calamarian—a
gentle, salmon-colored creature, with huge, sad eyes set in a high-domed head, and
webbed hands that made him more at home in water or free space than on board a
ship.  But if the humans were the arm of the Rebellion, the Calamarians were the
soul—which isn't to say they couldn't fight with the best, when pushed to the limit.
And the evil Empire had reached that limit.
    Lando Calrissian made his way through the crowd, now, scanning faces.  He
saw Wedge, who was to be his wing pilot—they nodded at each other, gave the
thumbs-up sign; but then Lando moved on.  Wedge wasn't the one he was looking
for.  He made it to a clearing near the center, peered around, finally saw his friends
standing by a side door.  He smiled and wandered over.
    Han, Chewie, Leia, and the two droids greeted Lando's appearance with a
cacophony of cheers, laughs, beeps, and barks.
    "Well, look at you," Solo chided, straightening the lapel of Calrissian's new
uniform and pulling on the insignias:  "A general!"
    Lando laughed affectionately.  "I'm a man of many faces and many costumes.
Someone must have told them about my little maneuver at the battle of Taanab."
Bandits from Norulac.  Calrissian—before his stint as governor of Cloud City—had
wiped out the bandits against all odds, using legendary flying and unheard of
strategies.  And he'd done it on a bet.
    Han opened his eyes wide with sarcasm.  "Hey, don't look at me.  I just told
them you were a 'fair' pilot.  I had no idea they were looking for someone to lead
this crazy attack."
    "That's all right, I asked for it.  I want to lead this attack."  For one thing, he
liked dressing up like a general.  People gave him the respect he deserved, and he
didn't have to give up flying circles around some pompous Imperial military
policeman.  And that was the other thing—he was finally going to stick it to this
Imperial navy, stick it so it hurt, for all the times he'd been stuck.  Stick it and leave
his signature on it.  General Calrissian, thank you.
    Solo looked at his old friend, admiration combined with disbelief.  "Have you
ever seen one of those Death Stars?  You're in for a very short generalship, old
buddy."
    "I'm surprised they didn't ask you to do it," Lando smiled.
    "Maybe they did," Han intimated.  "But I'm not crazy.  You're the respectable
one, remember?  Baron-Administrator of the Bespin Cloud City?"
    Leia moved closer to Solo and took his arm protectively.  "Han is going to stay
on the command ship with me…we're both very grateful for what you're doing,
Lando.  And proud."
    Suddenly, at the center of the room, Mon Mothma signaled for attention.  The
room fell silent.  Anticipation was keen.
    "The data brought to us by the Bothan spies have been confirmed," the supreme
leader announced.  "The Empire has made a critical error, and the time for our attack
has come."
    This caused a great stir in the room.  As if her message had been a valve letting
off pressure, the air hissed with comment.  She turned to the hologram of the Death
Star, and went on.  "We now have the exact location of the Emperor's new battle
station.  The weapon systems on this Death Star are not yet operational.  With the
Imperial fleet spread throughout the galaxy in a vain effort to engage us, it is
relatively unprotected."  She paused here, to let her next statement register its full
effect.  "Most important, we have learned the Emperor himself is personally
overseeing the construction."
    A volley of spirited chatter erupted from the assembly.  This was it.  The
chance.  The hope no one could hope to hope for.  A shot at the Emperor.
    Mon Mothma continued when the hubbub died down slightly.  "His trip was
undertaken in the utmost secrecy, but he underestimated our spy network.  Many
Bothans died to bring us this information."  Her voice turned suddenly stern again to
remind them of the price of this enterprise.
    Admiral Ackbar stepped forward.  His specialty was Imperial defense
procedures.  He raised his fin and pointed at the holographic model of the force field
emanating from Endor.  "Although uncompleted, the Death Star is not entirely
without a defense mechanism," he instructed in soothing Calamarian tones.  "It is
protected by an energy shield which is generated by the nearby Moon of Endor, here.
No ship can fly through it, no weapon can penetrate it."  He stopped for a long
moment.  He wanted the information to sink in.  when he thought it had, he spoke
more slowly.  "The shield must be deactivated if any attack is to be attempted.
Once the shield is down, the cruisers will create a perimeter while the fighters fly into
the superstructure, here…and attempt to hit the main reactor…" he pointed to the
unfinished portion of the Death Star  "…somewhere in here."
    Another murmur swept over the room of commanders, like a swell in a heavy
sea.
    Ackbar concluded.  "General Calrissian will lead the fighter attack."
    Han turned to Lando, his doubts gilded with respect.  "Good luck, buddy."
    "Thanks," said Lando simply.
    "You're gonna need it."
    Admiral Ackbar yielded the floor to General Madine, who was in charge of
covert operations.  "We have acquired a small Imperial shuttle," Madine declared
smugly.  "Under this guise, a strike team will land on the moon and deactivate the
shield generator.  The control bunker is well guarded, but a small squad should be
able to penetrate its security."
    This news stimulated another round of general mumbling.
    Leia turned to Han and said under her breath, "I wonder who they found to pull
that one off?"
    Madine called out:  "General Solo, is your strike team assembled?"
    Leia looked up at Han, shock quickly melting to joyous admiration.  She knew
there was a reason she loved him—in spite of his usual crass insensitivity and oafish
bravado.  Beneath it all, he had heart.
    Moreover, a change had come over him since he emerged from carbonization.
He wasn't just a loner selfish edge and had somehow, subtly, become part of the
whole.  He was actually doing something for someone else, now, and that fact
moved Leia greatly.  Madine had called him General; that meant Han had let himself
officially become a member of the army.  A part of the whole.
    Solo responded to Madine.  "My squad is ready, sir, but I need a command crew
for the shuttle."  He looked questioningly at Chewbacca, and spoke in a lower voice.
"It's gonna be rough, old pal.  I didn't want to speak for you."
    "Roo roowfl," Chewbacca shook his head with gruff love, and raised his hairy
paw.
    "That's one," Han called.
    "Here's two!" Leia shouted, sticking her arm in the air.  Then softly, to Solo:
"I'm not letting you out of my sight again, Your Generalship."
    "And I'm with you, too!" a voice was raised from the back of the room.
    They all turned their heads to see Luke standing at the top of the stairs.
    Cheers went up for the last of the Jedi.
    And though it wasn't his style, Han was unable to conceal his joy.  "That's
three," he smiled.
    Leia ran up to Luke and hugged him warmly.  She felt a special closeness to
him all of a sudden, which she attributed to the gravity of the moment, the import of
their mission.  But then she sensed a change in him, too, a difference of substance
that seemed to radiate from his very core—something that she alone could see.
    "What is it, Luke?" she whispered.  She suddenly wanted to hold him; she
could not have said why.
    "Nothing.  I'll tell you someday," he murmured quietly.  It was distinctly not
nothing, though.
    "All right," she answered, not pushing.  "I'll wait."  She wondered.  Maybe
he was just dressed differently—that was probably it.  Suited up all in black now—it
made him look older.  Older, that was it.
    Han, Chewie, Lando, Wedge, and several others crowded around Luke all at
once, with greetings and diverse sorts of hubbub.  The assembly as a whole broke up
into multiple such small groups.  It was a time for last farewells and good graces.
    Artoo beeped a singsong little observation to a somewhat less sanguine Threepio.
    "I don't think 'exciting' is the right word," the golden droid answered.  Being a
translator in his master program, of course, Threepio was most concerned with
locating the right word to describe the present situation.
    The Millennium Falcon rested in the main docking bay of the Rebel Star Cruiser,
getting loaded and serviced.  Just beyond it sat the stolen Imperial shuttle, looking
anomalous in the midst of all the Rebel X-wing fighters.
    Chewie supervised the final transfer of weapons and supplies to the shuttle and
oversaw the placement of the strike team.  Han stood with Lando between the two
ships, saying good-bye—for all they knew, forever.
    "I mean it, take her!" Solo insisted, indicating the Falcon.  "She'll bring you
luck.  you know she's the fastest ship in the whole fleet, now."  Han had really
souped her up after winning her from Lando.  She'd always been fast, but now she
was much faster.  And the modifications Solo added had really made the Falcon a
part of him—he'd put his love and sweat into it.  His spirit.  So giving her to Lando
now was truly Solo's final transformation—as selfless a gift as he'd ever given.
    And Lando understood.  "Thanks, old buddy.  I'll take good care of her.  You
know I always flew her better than you did, anyway.  She won't get a scratch on her,
with me at the stick."
    Solo looked warmly at the endearing rogue.  "I've got your word—not a
scratch."
    "Take off, you pirate—next thing you'll have me putting down a security
deposit."
    "See you soon, pal."
    They parted without their true feelings expressed aloud, as was the way between
men of deeds in those times; each walked up the ramp into a different ship.
    Han entered the cockpit of the Imperial shuttle as Luke was doing some fine
tuning on a rear navigator panel.  Chewbacca, in the copilot's seat, was trying to
figure out the Imperial controls.  Han took the pilot's chair, and Chewbacca growled
grumpily about the design.
    "Yeah, yeah," Solo answered, "I don't think the Empire designed it with a
Wookiee in mind."
    Leia walked in from the hold, taking her seat near Luke.  "We're all set back
there."
    "Rrrwfr," said Chewie, hitting the first sequence of switches.  He looked over at
Solo, but Han was motionless, staring out the window at something.  Chewie and
Leia both followed his gaze to the object of his unyielding attention—the Millennium
Falcon.
    Leia gently nudged the pilot.  "Hey, you awake up there?"
    "I just got a funny feeling," Han mused.  "Like I'm not going to see her again."
He thought of the times she'd saved him with her speed, of the times he'd saved with
his cunning, or his touch.  He thought of the universe they'd seen together, of the
shelter she'd given him; of the way he knew her, inside and out.  Of the times they'd
slept in each other's embrace, floating still as a quiet dream in the black silence of
deep space.
    Chewbacca, hearing this, took his own longing look at the Falcon.  Leia put her
hand on Solo's shoulder.  She knew he had special love for his ship and was
reluctant to interrupt this last communion.  But time was dear, and becoming dearer.
"Come on, Captain," she whispered.  "Let's move."
    Han snapped back to the moment.  "Right.  Okay, Chewie, let's find out what
this baby can do."
    They fired up the engines in the stolen shuttle, eased out of the docking bay, and
banked off into the endless night.

    Construction on the Death Star proceeded.  Traffic in the area was thick with
transport ships, TIE fighters and equipment shuttles.  Periodically, the Super Star
Destroyer orbited the area, surveying progress on the space station from every angle.
    The bridge of the Star Destroyer was a hive of activity.  Messengers ran back
and forth along a string of controllers studying their tracking screens, monitoring
ingress and egress of vehicles through the deflector shield.  Codes were sent and
received, orders given, diagrams plotted.  It was an operation involving a thousand
scurrying ships, and everything was proceeding with maximum efficiency, until
Controller Jhoff made the shield from Sector Seven.
    "Shuttle to Control, please come in," the voice broke into Jhoff's headset with
the normal amount of static.
    "We have you on our screen now," the controller replied into his comlink.
"Please identify."
    "This is Shuttle Tydirium, requesting deactivation of the deflector shield."
    "Shuttle Tydirium, transmit the clearance code for shield passage."
    Up in the shuttle, Han threw a worried look at the others and said into his
comlink, "Transmission commencing."
    Chewie flipped a bank of switches, producing a syncopated series of
high-frequency transmission noises.
    Leia bit her lip, bracing herself for fight or flight.  "Now we find out if that
code was worth the price we paid."
    Chewie whined nervously.
    Luke stared at the huge Super Star Destroyer that loomed everywhere in front of
them.  It fixed his eye with its glittering darkness, filled his vision like a malignant
cataract—but it made more than his vision opaque.  It filled his mind with blackness,
too; and his heart.  Black fear, and a special knowing.  "Vader is on that ship," he
whispered.
    "You're jittery, Luke," Han reassured them all.  "There are lots of command
ships.  But, Chewie," he cautioned, "let's keep our distance, without looking like
we're keeping our distance."
    "Awroff rwrgh rrfrough?"
    "I don't know—fly casual," Han barked back.
    "They're taking a long time with that code clearance," Leia said tightly.  What
if it didn't work?  The Alliance could do nothing if the Empire's deflector shield
remained functioning.  Leia tried to clear her mind, tried to focus on the shield
generator she wanted to reach, tried to weed away all feelings of doubt or fear she
may have been giving off.
    "I'm endangering the mission," Luke spoke now, in a kind of emotional
resonance with his secret sister.  His thoughts were of Vader, though: their father.
"I shouldn't have come."
    Han tried to buoy things up.  "Hey, why don't we try to be optimistic about
this?"  He felt beleaguered by negativity.
    "He knows I'm here," Luke avowed.  He kept staring at the command ship out
the view-window.  It seemed to taunt him.  It awaited.
    "Come on, kid, you're imagining things."
    "Ararh gragh," Chewie mumbled.  Even he was grim.

    Lord Vader stood quite still, staring out a large view-screen at the Death Star.
He thrilled to the sight of this monument to the dark side of the Force.  Icily he
caressed it with his gaze.
    Like a floating ornament, it sparkled for him.  A magic globe.  Tiny specks of
light raced across its surface, mesmerizing the Dark Lord as if he were a small child
entranced by a special toy.  It was a transcendant state he was inn, a moment of
heightened perceptions.
    And then, all at once, in the midst of the stillness of his contemplation, he grew
absolutely motionless: not a breath, not even a heartbeat stirred to mar his
concentration.  He strained his every sense into the ether.  What had he felt?  His
spirit tilted its head to listen.  Some echo, some vibration apprehended only by him,
had passed—no, had not passed.  Had swirled the moment and altered the very shape
of things.  Things were no longer the same.
    He walked down the row of controllers until he came to the spot where Admiral
Piett was leaning over the tracking screen of Controller Jhoff.  Piett straightened at
Vader's approach, then bowed stiffly, at the neck.
    "Where is that shuttle going?" Vader demanded quietly, without preliminary.
    Piett turned back to the view-screen and spoke into the comlink.  "Shuttle
Tydirium, what is your cargo and destination?"
    The filtered voice of the shuttle pilot came back over the receiver.  "Parts and
technical personnel for the Sanctuary Moon."
    The bridge commander looked to Vader for a reaction.  He hoped nothing was
amiss.  Lord Vader did not take mistakes lightly.
    "Do they have a code clearance?" Vader questioned.
    "It's an older code, but it checks out," Piett replied immediately.  "I was about
to clear them."  There was no point in lying to the Lord of the Sith.  He always
knew if you lied; lies sang out to the Dark Lord.
    "I have a strange feeling about that ship," Vader said more to himself than to
anyone else.
    "Should I hold them?" Piett hurried, anxious to please his master.
    "No, let them pass, I will deal with this myself."
    "As you wish, my Lord." Piett bowed, partly to hide his surprise.  He nodded at
Controller Jhoff, who spoke into the comlink, to Shuttle Tydirium.

    In the Shuttle Tydirium, the group waited tensely.  The more questions they
were asked about things like cargo and destination, the more likely it seemed they
were going to blow their cover.
    Han looked fondly at his old Wookiee partner.  "Chewie, if they don't go for
this, we're gonna have to beat it quick."  It was a good-bye speech, really; they all
knew this pokey shuttle wasn't about to outrun anything in the neighborhood.
    The static voice of the controller broke up, and then came in clearly over the
comlink.  "Shuttle Tydirium, deactivation of the shield will commence immediately.
Follow your present course."
    Everyone but Luke exhaled in simultaneous relief; as if the trouble were all over
now, instead of just beginning.  Luke continued to stare at the command ship, as if
engaged in some silent, complex dialogue.
    Chewie barked loudly.
    "Hey, what did I tell you?" Han grinned.  "No sweat."
    Leia smiled affectionately.  "Is that what you told us?"
    Solo pushed the throttle forward, and the stolen shuttle moved smoothly toward
the green Sanctuary Moon.

    Vader, Piett, and Jhoff watched the view-screen in the control room, as the
weblike deflector grid readout parted to admit the Shuttle Tydirium, which moved
slowly toward the center of the web—to Endor.
    Vader turned to the deck officer and spoke with more urgency in his voice than
was usually heard.  "Ready my shuttle.  I must go to the Emperor."
    Without waiting for response, the Dark Lord strode off, clearly in the thrall of a
dark thought.