The two space armadas, like their sea-bound counterparts of another time and galaxy,
sat floating, ship to ship, trading broadsides with each other in pointblank
confrontation.
    Heroic, sometimes suicidal, maneuvers marked the day.  A Rebel cruiser, its
back alive with fires and explosions, limped into direct contact with an Imperial Star
Destroyer before exploding completely—taking the Star Destroyer with it.  Cargo
ships loaded with charge were set on collision courses with fortress-vessels, their
crews abandoning ships to fates that were uncertain, at best.
    Lando, Wedge, Blue Leader, and Green Wing went in to take out one of the
larger Destroyers—the Empire's main communications ship.  It had already been
disabled by direct cannonade from the Rebel cruiser it had subsequently destroyed;
but its damages were reparable—so the Rebels had to strike while it was still licking
its wounds.
    Lando's squadron went in low—rock-throwing low—this prevented the
Destroyer from using its bigger guns.  It also made the fighters invisible until they
were directly visualized.
    "Increase power on the front deflector shields," Lando radioed his group.
"We're going in."
    "I'm right with you," answered Wedge.  "Close up formations, team."
    They went into a high-speed power-dive, perpendicular to the long axis of the
Imperial vessel—vertical drops were hard to track.  Fifty feet from the surface, they
pulled out at ninety degrees, and raced along the gunmetal hull, taking laserfire from
every port.
    "Starting attack run on the main power tree," Lando advised.
    "I copy," answered Green Wing.  "Moving into position."
    "Stay clear of their front batteries," warned Blue Leader.
    "It's a heavy fire zone down there."
    "I'm in range."
    "She's hurt bad on the left of the tower," Wedge noted.  "Concentrate on that
side."
    "Right with you."
    Green Wing was hit.  "I'm losing power!"
    "Get clear, you're going to blow!"
    Green Wing took it down like riding a rocket, into the Destroyer's front batteries.
Tremendous explosions rumbled the port bow.
    "Thanks," Blue Leader said quietly to the conflagration.
    "That opens it up for us!" yelled Wedge.  "Cur over.  The power reactors are
just inside that cargo bay."
    "Follow me!" Lando called, pulling the Falcon into a sharp bank that caught the
horrified reactor personnel by surprise.  Wedge and Blue followed suit.  They all
did their worst.
    "Direct hit!" Lando shouted.
    "There she goes!"
    "Pull up, pull up!"
    They pulled up hard and fast, as the Destroyer was enveloped in a series of
ever-increasing explosions, until it looked finally just like one more small star.  Blue
Leader was caught by the shock wave, and thrown horribly against the side of a
smaller Imperial ship, which also exploded.  Lando and Wedge escaped.
    On the Rebel command ship bridge, smoke and shouts filled the air.
    Ackbar reached Calrissian on the comlink.  "The jamming has stopped.  We
have a reading on the shield."
    "Is it still up?" Lando responded with desperate anticipation in his voice.
    "I'm afraid so.  It looks like General Solo's unit didn't make it."
    "Until they've destroyed our last ship, there's still hope," replied Lando.  Han
wouldn't fail.  He couldn't—they still had to pick off that annoying Death Star.

    On the Death Star, Luke was nearly unconscious beneath the continuing assault
of the Emperor's lightning.  Tormented beyond reason, betaken of a weakness that
drained his very essence, he hoped for nothing more than to submit to the nothingness
toward which he was drifting.
    The Emperor smiled down at the enfeebled young Jedi, as Vader struggled to his
feet beside his master.
    "Young fool!" Palpatine rasped at Luke.  "Only now at the end, do you
understand.  Your puerile skills are no match for the power of the dark side.  You
have paid a price for your lack of vision.  Now, young Skywalker, you will pay the
price in full.  You will die!"
    He laughed maniacally; and although it would not have seemed possible to Luke,
the outpouring of bolts from the Emperor's fingers actually increased in intensity.
The sound screamed through the room, the murderous brightness of the flashes was
overwhelming.
    Luke's body slowed, wilted, finally crumpled under the hideous barrage.  He
stopped moving altogether.  At last, he appeared totally lifeless.  The Emperor
hissed maliciously.
    At that instant, Vader sprang up and grabbed the Emperor from behind, pinning
Palpatine's upper arms to his torso.  Weaker than he'd ever been, Vader had lain still
these last few minutes, focusing his every fiber of being on this one, concentrated
act—the only action possible; his last, if he failed.  Ignoring pain, ignoring his shame
and his weaknesses, ignoring the bone-crushing noise in his head, he focused solely
and sightlessly on his will—he will to defeat the evil embodied in the Emperor.
    Palpatine struggled in the grip of Vader's unfeeling embrace, his hands still
shooting bolts of malign energy out in all directions.  In his wild flailing, the
lightning ripped across the room, tearing into Vader.  The Dark Lord fell again,
electric currents crackling down his helmet, over his cape, into his heart.
    Vader stumbled with his load to the middle of the bridge over the black chasm
leading to the power core.  He held the wailing despot high over his head, and with a
final spasm of strength, hurled him into the abyss.
    Palpatine's body, still spewing bolts of light, spun out of control, into the void,
bouncing back and forth off the sides of the shaft as it fell.  It disappeared at last; but
then, a few seconds later, a distant explosion could be heard, far down at the core.  A
rush of air billowed out the shaft, into the throne room.
    The wind whipped at Lord Vader's cape, as he staggered and collapsed toward
the hole, trying to follow his master to the end.  Luke crawled to his father's side,
though, and pulled the Dark Lord away from the edge of the chasm, to safety.
    Both of them lay on the floor, entwined in each other, too weak to move, too
moved to speak.

    Inside the bunker on Endor, Imperial controllers watched the main view-screen
of the Ewok battle just outside.  Though the image was clogged with static, the
fighting seemed to be winding down.  About time, since they'd initially been told
that the locals on this moon were harmless nonbelligerents.
    The interference seemed to worsen—probably another antenna damaged in the
fighting—when suddenly a walker pilot appeared on the screen, waving excitedly.
    "It's over, Commander!  The Rebel have been routed, and are fleeing with the
bear-creatures into the woods.  We need reinforcements to continue the pursuit."
    The bunker personnel all cheered.  The shield was safe.
    "Open the main door!" ordered the commander.  "Send three squads to help."
    The bunker door opened, the Imperial troops came rushing out only to find
themselves surrounded by Rebels and Ewoks, looking bloody and mean.  The
Imperial troops surrendered without a fight.
    Han, Chewie, and five others ran into the bunker with the explosive charges.
They placed the timed devices at eleven strategic points in and around the power
generator, then ran out again as fast as they could.
    Leia, still in great pain from her wounds, lay in the sheltered comfort of some
distant bushes.  She was shouting orders to the Ewoks, to gather their prisoners on
the far side of the clearing, away from the bunker when Han and Chewie tore out,
racing for cover.  In the next moment, the bunker went.
    It was a spectacular display, explosion after explosion sending a wall of fire
hundreds of feet into the air, creating a shock wave that knocked every living creature
off its feet, and charred all the greenery that faced the clearing.
    The bunker was destroyed.

    A captain ran up to Admiral Ackbar, his voice tremulous.  "Sir, the shield
around the Death Star has lost its power."
    Ackbar looked at the view-screen; the electronically generated web was gone.
The moon, and the Death Star, now floated in black, empty, unprotected space.
    "They did it," Ackbar whispered.
    He rushed over to the comlink and shouted into the multifrequency war channel.
"All fighters commence attack on the Death Star's main reactor.  The deflector
shield is down.  Repeat.  The deflector shield is down!"
    Lando's voice was the next one heard.  "I see it.  We're on our way.  Red
group!  Gold group!  Blue Squad!  All fighters follow me!"  That's my man, Han.
Now it's my turn.
    The Falcon plunged to the surface of the Death Star, followed by hordes of
Rebel fighters, followed by a still-massing but disorganized array of Imperial TIE
fighters—while three Rebel Star Cruisers headed for the huge Imperial Super Star
Destroyer, Vader's flagship, which seemed to be having difficulties with its guidance
system.
    Lando and the first wave of X-wings headed for the unfinished portion of the
Death Star, skimming low over the curving surface of the completed side.
    "Stay low until we get to the unfinished side," Wedge told his squad.  Nobody
needed to be told.
    "Squadron of enemy fighters coming—"
    "Blue Wing," called Lando, "take your group and draw the TIE fighters away—"
    "I'll do what I can."
    "I'm picking up interference…the Death Star's jamming us, I think—"
    "More fighters coming at ten o'clock—"
    "There's the superstructure," Lando called.  "Watch for the main reactor shaft."
    He turned hard into the unfinished side, and began weaving dramatically among
protruding girders, half-built towers, mazelike channels, temporary scaffolding,
sporadic floodlights.  The antiaircraft defenses weren't nearly as well developed here
yet—they'd been depending completely on the deflector shield for protection.
Consequently the major sources of worry for the Rebels were the physical jeopardies
of the structure itself, and the Imperial TIE fighters on their tails.
    "I see it—the power-channel system," Wedge radioed.  "I'm going in."
    "I see it, too," agreed Lando.  "Here goes nothing."
    "This isn't going to be easy—"
    Over a tower and under a bridge—and suddenly they were flying at top speed
inside a deep shaft that was barely wide enough for three fighters, wing to wing.
Moreover, it was pierced, along its entire twisting length, by myriad feeding shafts
and tunnels, alternate forks, and dead-end caverns; and spiked, in addition, with an
alarming number of obstacles within the shaft itself: heavy machinery, structural
elements, power cables, floating stairways, barrier half-walls, piled debris.
    A score of Rebel fighters made the first turn-off into the power shaft, followed
by twice that number of TIEs.  Two X-wings lost its right away, careening into a
derrick to avoid the first volley of laser fire.
    The chase was on.
    "Where are we going, Gold Leader?" Wedge called out gaily.  A laserbolt hit
the shaft above him, showering his window with sparks.
    "Lock onto the strongest power source," Lando suggested.  "It should be the
generator."
    "Red Wing, stay alert—we could run out of space real fast."
    They quickly strung out into single and double file, as it started becoming
apparent that the shaft was not only pocked with side-vents and protruding obstacles,
but also narrowing across its width at every turn.
    TIE fighters hit another Rebel, who exploded in flames.  Then another Tie
fighter hit a piece of machinery, with a similar result.
    "I've got a reading on a major shaft obstruction ahead," Lando announced.
    "Just picked it up.  Will you make it?"
    "Going to be a tight squeeze."
    It was a tight squeeze.  It was a heat-wall occluding three fourths of the tunnel,
with a dip in the shaft at the same level to make up a little room.  Lando had to spin
the Falcon through 360 degrees while rising, falling, and accelerating.  Luckily, the
X-wings and Y-wings weren't quite as bulky.  Still, two more of them didn't make it
on the downside.  The smaller TIEs drew closer.
    Suddenly coarse white static blanketed all the view-screens.
    "My scope's gone!" yelled Wedge.
    "Cut speed," cautioned Lando.  "Some kind of power discharge causing
interference."
    "Switch to visual scanning."
    "That's useless at these velocities—we'll have to fly nearly blind."
    Two blind X-wings hit the wall as the shaft narrowed again.  A third was blown
apart by the gaining Imperial fighters.
    "Green Leader!" called Lando.
    "Copy, Gold Leader."
    "Split off and head back to the surface—Home-one just called for a fighter, and
you might draw some fire off us."
    Green Leader and his cohort peeled off, out of the power shaft, back up to the
cruiser battle.  One TIE fighter followed, firing continuously.
    Ackbar's voice came in over the comlink.  "The Death Star is tuning away from
the fleet—looks like it's repositioning to destroy the Endor Moon."
    "How long before it's in position?" Lando asked.
    "Point oh three."
    "That's not enough time!  We're running out of time."
    Wedge broke in the transmission.  "Well, we're running out of shaft, too."
    At that instant the Falcon scraped through an even smaller opening, this time
injuring her auxiliary thrusters.
    "That was too close," muttered Calrissian.
    "Gdzhng dzn," nodded the copilot.

    Ackbar stared wild-eyed out the observation window.  He was looking down
onto the deck of the Super Star Destroyer; only miles away.  Fires burst over the
entire stern, and the Imperial warship was listing badly to starboard.
    "We've knocked out their forward shields," Ackbar said into the comlink.  "Fire
at the bridge."
    Green Leader's group swooped in low, from bottomside, up from the Death Star,
    "Glad to help out, Home-one," called Green Leader.
    "Firing proton torpedoes," Green Wing advised.
    The bridge was hit, with kaleidoscopic results.  A rapid chain reaction got set
off, from power station to power station along the middle third of the huge Destroyer,
producing a dazzling rainbow of explosions that buckled the ship at right angles, and
started it spinning like a pinwheel toward the Death Star.
    The first bridge explosion took Greed Leader with it; the subsequent
uncontrolled joyride snagged ten more fighters, two cruisers, and an ordnance vessel.
By the time the whole exothermic conglomerate finally crashed into the side of the
Death Star, the impact was momentous enough to actually jolt the battle station,
setting off internal explosions and thunderings all through its network of reactors,
munitions, and halls.

    For the first time, the Death Star rocked.  The collision with the exploding
Destroyer was only the beginning, leading to various systems breakdowns, which led
to reactor meltdowns, which led to personnel panic, abandonment of posts, further
malfunctions, and general chaos.
    Smoke was everywhere, substantial rumblings came from all directions at once,
people were running and shouting.  Electrical fires, steam explosions, cabin
depressurizations, disruption of chain-of-command.  Added to this, the continued
bombardments by Rebel cruisers—smelling fear in the enemy—merely heightened
the sense of hysteria that was already pervasive.
    For the Emperor was dead.  The central, powerful evil that had been the
cohesive force to the Empire was gone; and when the dark side was this diffused, this
nondirected—this was simply where it led.
    Confusion.
    Desperation.
    Damp fear.
    In the midst of this uproar, Luke had made it, somehow, to the main docking
bay—where he was trying to carry the hulking deadweight of his father's weakening
body toward an Imperial shuttle.  Halfway there, his strength finally gave out,
though; and he collapsed under the strain.
    Slowly he rose again.  Like an automaton, he hoisted his father's body over his
shoulder and stumbled toward one of the last remaining shuttles.
    Luke rested his father on the ground, trying to collect strength one last time, as
explosions grew louder all around them.  Sparks hissed in the rafters; one of the
walls buckled, and smoke poured through a gaping fissure.  The floor shook.
    Vader motioned Luke closer to him.  "Luke, help me take this mask off."
    Luke shook his head.  "You'll die."
    The Dark Lord's voice was weary.  "Nothing can stop that now.  Just once let
me face you without it.  Let me look on you with my own eyes."
    Luke was afraid.  Afraid to see his father as he really was.  Afraid to see what
person could have become so dark—the same person who'd fathered Luke, and Leia.
Afraid to know the Anakin Skywalker who lived inside Darth Vader.
    Vader, too, was afraid—to let his son see him, to remove this armored mask that
had been between them so long.  The black, armored mask that had been his only
means of existing for over twenty years.  It had been his voice, and his breath, and
his invisibility—his shield against all human contact.  But now he would remove it;
for he would see his son before he died.
    Together they lifted the heavy helmet from Vader's head—inside the mask
portion, a complicated breathing apparatus had to be disentangled, a speaking
modulator and view-screen detached from the power unit in back.  But when the
mask was finally off and set aside, Luke gazed on his father's face.
    It was the sad, benign face of an old man.  Bald, beardless, with a mighty scar
running from the top of his head to the back of the scalp, he had unfocused, deepset,
dark eyes, and his skin was pasty white, for it had not seen the sun in two decades.
The old man smiled weakly; tears glazed his eyes, now.  For a moment, he looked
not too unlike Ben.
    It was a face full of meanings, that Luke would forever recall.  Regret, he saw
most plainly.  And shame.  Memories could be seen flashing across it…memories
of rich times.  And horrors.  And love, too.
    It was a face that hadn't touched the world in a lifetime.  In Luke's lifetime.
He saw the wizened nostrils twitch, as they tested a first, tentative smell.  He saw the
head tilt imperceptibly to listen—for the first time without electronic auditory
amplification.  Luke felt a pang of remorse that the only sounds now to be heard
were those of explosions, the only smells, the pungent sting of electrical fires.  Still,
it was a touch.  Palpable, unfiltered.
    He saw the old eyes focus on him.  Tears burned Luke's cheeks, fell on his
father's lips.  His father smiled at the taste.
    It was a face that had not seen itself in twenty years.
    Vader saw his son crying, and knew it must have been at the horror of the face
they boy beheld.
    It intensified, momentarily, Vader's own sense of anguish—to his crimes, now,
he added guilt at the imagined repugnance of his appearance.  But then this brought
him to mind of the way he used to look—striking, and grand, with a wry tilt to his
brow that hinted of invincibility and took in all of life with a wink.  Yes, that was
how he'd looked once.
    And this memory brought a wave of other memories with it.  Memories of
brotherhood, and home.  His dear wife.  The freedom of deep space.  Obi-wan.
Obi-wan, his friend…and how that friendship had turned.  Turned, he knew not
how—but got injected, nonetheless, with some uncaring virulence that festered,
until…hold.  These were memories he wanted none of, not now.  Memories of
molten lava, crawling up his back…no.
    This boy had pulled him from that pit—here, now, with this act.  This boy was
good.
    The boy was good, and the boy had come from him—so there must have been
good in him, too.  He smiled up again at his son, and for the first time, loved him.
And for the first time in many long years, loved himself again, as well.
    Suddenly he smelled something—flared his nostrils, sniffed once more.
Wildflowers, that was what it was.  Just blooming; it must be spring.
    And there was thunder—he cocked his head, strained his ears.  Yes, spring
thunder, for a spring rain.  To make the flowers bloom.
    Yes, there…he felt a raindrop on his lips.  He licked the delicate droplet…but
wait, it wasn't sweetwater, it was salty, it was…a teardrop.
    He focused on Luke once again, and saw his son was crying.  Yes that was it, he
was tasting his boy's grief—because he looked so horrible; because he was so
horrible.
    But he wanted to make it all right for Luke, he wanted Luke to know he wasn't
really ugly like this, not deep inside, not all together.  With a little self-deprecatory
smile, he shook his head at Luke, explaining away the unsightly beast his son saw.
"Luminous beings are we, Luke—not this crude matter."
    Luke shook his head, too—to tell his father it was all right, to dismiss the old
man's shame, to tell him nothing mattered now.  And everything—but he couldn't
talk.
    Vader spoke again, even weaker—almost inaudible.  "Go, my son.  Leave
me."
    At that, Luke found his voice.  "No.  You're coming with me.  I'll not leave
you here.  I've got to save you."
    "You already have, Luke," he whispered.  He wished, briefly, he'd met Yoda, to
thank the old Jedi for the training he'd given Luke…but perhaps he'd be with Yoda
soon, now, in the ethereal oneness of the Force.  And with Obi-wan.
    "Father, I won't leave you," Luke protested.  Explosions jarred the docking bay
in earnest, crumbling one entire wall, splitting the ceiling.  A jet of blue flame shot
from a gas nozzle nearby.  Just beneath it the floor began to melt.
    Vader pulled Luke very close, spoke into his ear.  "Luke, you were right…and
you were right about me…Tell your sister…you were right."
    With that, he closed his eyes, and Darth Vader—Anakin Skywalker—died.
    A tremendous explosion filled the back of the bay with fire, knocking Luke flat
to the ground.  Slowly, he rose again; and like an automaton, stumbled toward one of
the last remaining shuttles.
    The Millennium Falcon continued its swerving race through the labyrinth of
power channels, inching ever-closer to the hub of the giant sphere—the main reactor.
The Rebel cruisers were unloading a continuous bombardment on the exposed,
unfinished superstructure of the Death Star, now, each hit causing a resonating
shudder in the immense battle station, and a new series of catastrophic events within.
    Commander Jerjerrod sat, brooding, in the control room of the Death Star,
watching all about him crumble.  Half of his crew were dead, wounded, or run
off—where they hoped to find sanctuary was unclear, if not insane.  The rest
wandered ineffectually, or railed at the enemy ships, or fired all their guns at all
sectors, or shouted orders, or focused desperately on a single task, as if that would
save them.  Or, like Jerjerrod simply brooded.
    He couldn't fathom what he'd done wrong.  He'd been patient, he'd been loyal,
he'd been clever, he'd been hard.  He was the commander of the greatest battle
station ever built.  Or, at least, almost built.  He hated this Rebel Alliance, now,
with a child's hate, untempered.  He'd loved it once—it had been the small boy he
could bully, the enraged baby animal he could torture.  But the boy had grown up
now; it knew how to fight back effectively.  It had broken its bonds.
    Jerjerrod hated it now.
    Yet there seemed to be little he could do at this point.  Except, of course,
destroy Endor—he could do that.  It was a small act, a token really—to incinerate
something green and living, gratuitously, meanly, toward no end but that of wanton
destruction.  A small act, but deliciously satisfying.
    An aide ran up to him.  "The Rebel fleet is closing, sir."
    "Concentrate all fire in that sector," he answered distractedly.  A console on the
far wall burst into flame.
    "The fighters in the superstructure are eluding our defense system, Commander.
Shouldn't we—"
    "Flood sectors 304 and 138.  That should slow them up."  He arched his
eyebrows at the aide.
    This made little sense to the aide, who had cause to wonder at the commander's
grasp of the situation.  "But sir…"
    "What is the rotation factor to firing range on the Endor Moon?"
    The aide checked the compuscreen.  "Point oh two to moon target, sir.
Commander, the fleet—"
    "Accelerate rotation until moon is in range, and then fire on my mark."
    "Yes, sir."  The aide pulled a bank of switches.  "Rotation accelerating, sir.
Point oh one to moon target, sir.  Sixty seconds to firing range.  Sir, good-bye, sir."
The aide saluted, put the firing switch in Jerjerrod's hand as another explosion shook
the control room, and ran out the door.
    Jerjerrod smiled calmly at the view-screen.  Endor was starting to come out of
the Death Star's eclipse.  He fondled the detonation switch in his hand.  Point oh oh
five to moon target.  Screams erupted in the next room.
    Thirty seconds to firing.

    Lando was homing in on the reactor core shaft.  Else only Wedge was left,
flying just ahead of him, and Gold Wing, just behind.  Several TIE fighters still
trailed.
    These central twistings were barely two planes wide, and turned sharply every
five or ten seconds at the speeds Lando was reaching.  Another Imperial jet exploded
against a wall; another shot down Gold Wing.
    And then there were two.
    Lando's tail-gunners kept the remaining TIE fighters jumping in the narrow
space, until at last the main reactor shaft came into view.  They'd never seen a
reactor that awesome.
    "It's too big, Gold Leader," yelled Wedge.  "My proton torpedoes won't even
dent that."
    "Go for the power regulator on the north tower," Lando directed.  "I'll take the
main reactor.  We're carrying concussion missiles—they should penetrate.  Once I
let them go, we won't have much time to get out of here, though."
    "I'm already on my way out," Wedge exclaimed.
    He fired his torpedoes with a Corellian war-cry, hitting both sides of the north
tower, and peeled off, accelerating.
    The Falcon waited three dangerous seconds longer, then loosed its concussion
missiles with a powerful roar.  For another second the flash was too bright to see
what had happened.  And then the whole reactor began to go.
    "Direct hit!" shouted Lando.  "Now comes the hard part."
    The shaft was already caving in on top of him, creating a tunnel effect.  The
Falcon maneuvered through the twisting outlet, through walls of flame, and through
moving shafts, always just ahead of the continuing chain of explosions.
    Wedge tore out of the superstructure at barely sublight speed, whipped around
the near side of Endor, and coasted into deep space, slowing slowly in a gentle arc, to
return to the safety of the moon.
    A moment later, in a destabilized Imperial shuttle, Luke escaped the main
docking bay, just as that section began to blow apart completely.  His wobbling craft,
too, headed for the green sanctuary in the near distance.
    And finally, as if being spit out of the very flames of the conflagration, the
Millennium Falcon shot toward Endor, only moments before the Death Star flared
into brilliant oblivion, like a fulminant supernova.
    Han was binding Leia's arm-wound in a fern-dell when the Death Star blew.  It
captured everyone's attention, wherever they happened to be—Ewoks, stormtrooper
prisoners, Rebel troops—the final, turbulent, flash of self-destruction, incandescent in
the evening sky.  The Rebels cheered.
    Leia touched Han's cheek.  He leaned over, and kissed her; then sat back,
seeing her eyes focused on the starry sky.
    "Hey," he jostled, "I'll bet Luke got off that thing before it blew."
    She nodded.  "He did.  I can feel it."  Her brother's living presence touched
her, through the Force.  She reached out to answer the touch, to reassure Luke she
was all right.  Everything was all right.
    Han looked at her with deep love, special love.  For she was a special woman.
A princess not by title, but by heart.  Her fortitude astounded him, yet she held
herself so lightly.  Once, he'd wanted whatever he wanted, for himself, because he
wanted it.  Now he wanted everything for her.  Her everythings.  And one thing he
could see she wanted dearly, was Luke.
    "You really care for him, don't you?"
    She nodded, scanning the sky.  He was alive, Luke was alive.  And the
other—the Dark One—was dead.
    "Well, listen," Han went on, "I understand.  When he gets back, I won't stand in
your way…"
    She squinted at him, suddenly aware they were crossing wires, having different
conversations.  "What are you talking about?" she said.  Then she realized what he
was talking about.  "Oh, no.  No," she laughed, "it's not like that at all—Luke is my
brother."
    Han was successively stunned, embarrassed, and elated.  This made everything
fine, just fine.
    He took her in his arms, embraced her, lowered her back down into the
ferns…and being extra careful of her wounded arm, lay down there beside her, under
the waning glow of the burning Star.

    Luke stood in a forest clearing before a great pile of logs and branches.  Lying,
still and robed, atop the mound, was the lifeless body of Darth Vader.  Luke set a
torch to the kindling.
    As the flames enveloped the corpse, smoke rose from the vents in the mask,
almost like a black spirit, finally freed.  Luke stared with a fierce sorrow at the
conflagration.  Silently, he said his last goodbye.  He, alone, had believed in the
small speck of humanity remaining in his father.  That redemption rose, now, with
these flames, into the night.
    Luke followed the blazing embers as they sailed to the sky.  They mixed, there,
in his vision, with the fireworks the Rebel fighters were setting off in victory
celebration.  And these, in turn, mingled with the bonfires that speckled the woods
and the Ewoks village—fires of elation, of comfort and triumph.  He could hear the
drums beating, the music weaving in the firelight, the cheers of brave reunion.
Luke's cheer was mute as he gazed into the fires of his own victory and loss.

    A huge bonfire blazed in the center of the Ewok village square for the
celebration that night.  Rebels and Ewoks rejoiced in the warm firelight of the cool
evening—singing, dancing, and laughing, in the communal language of liberation.
Even Teebo and Artoo had reconciled, and were doing a little jig together, as others
clapped in time to the music.  Threepio, his regal days in this village over, was
content to sit near the spinning little droid who was his best friend in the universe.
He thanked the Maker that Captain Solo had been able to fix Artoo, not to mention
Mistress Leia—for a man without protocol, Solo did have his moments.  And he
thanked the Maker this bloody war was over.
    The prisoners had been sent on shuttles to what was left of the Imperial
Fleet—the Rebel Star Cruisers were dealing with all that.  Up there, somewhere.
The Death Star had burned itself out.
    Han, Leia, and Chewbacca stood off a short way from the revelers.  They
stayed close to each other, not talking; periodically glancing at the path that led into
the village.  Half waiting, half trying not to wait; unable to do anything else.
    Until, at last, their patience was rewarded:  Luke and Lando, exhausted, into the
light.  The friends rushed to greet them.  They all embraced, cheered, jumped about,
fell over, and finally just huddled, still wordless, content with the comfort of each
other's touch.
    In a while, the two droids sidled over as well, to stand beside their dearest
comrades.
    The fuzzy Ewoks continued in wild jubilation, far into the night, while this small
company of gallant adventurers watched on from the sidelines.
    For an evanescent moment, looking into the bonfire, Luke thought he saw faces
dancing—Yoda, Ben; was it his father?  He drew away from his companions, to try
to see what the faces were saying; they were ephemeral, and spoke only to the
shadows of the flames, and then disappeared altogether.
    It gave Luke a momentary sadness but then Leia took his hand, and drew him
back close to her and to the others, back into their circle of warmth, and camaraderie;
and love.
    The Empire was dead.
    Long live the Alliance.