Trilogy (8 page)

“Indeed, sir,” Threepio admitted, forgetting to drop the
honorific. This time Luke was too absorbed elsewhere to correct him. “Sometimes I'm amazed we're in as good shape as we are.” He added as an afterthought, while still shying away from the thrust of Luke's question. “What with the rebellion and all.”

Despite his caution, it seemed to Threepio that he must have given something away, for an almost jawa-like blaze appeared in Luke's eyes. “You know about the rebellion against the Empire?” he demanded.

“In a way,” Threepio confessed reluctantly. “The rebellion was responsible for our coming into your service. We are refugees, you see.” He did not add from where.

Not that Luke appeared to care. “
Refugees!
Then I
did
see a space battle!” He rambled on rapidly, excited. “Tell me where you've been—in how many encounters. How is the rebellion going? Does the Empire take it seriously? Have you seen many ships destroyed?”

“A bit slower, please, sir,” Threepio pleaded. “You misinterpret our status. We were innocent bystanders. Our involvement with the rebellion was of the most marginal nature.

“As to battles, we were in several, I think. It is difficult to tell when one is not directly in contact with the actual battle machinery.” He shrugged neatly. “Beyond that, there is not much to say. Remember, sir, I am little more than a cosmeticized interpreter and not very good at telling stories or relating histories, and even less proficient at embellishing them. I am a very literal machine.”

Luke turned away, disappointed, and returned to his cleaning of Artoo Detoo. Additional scraping turned up something puzzling enough to demand his full attention. A small metal fragment was tightly lodged between two bar conduits that would normally form a linkage. Setting
down the delicate pick, Luke switched to a larger instrument.

“Well, my little friend,” he murmured, “you've got something jammed in here real good.” As he pushed and pried Luke directed half his attention to Threepio. “Were you on a star freighter or was it—”

Metal gave way with a powerful
crack
, and the recoil sent Luke tumbling head over heels. Getting to his feet, he started to curse—then froze, motionless.

The front of the Artoo unit had begun to glow, exuding a three-dimensional image less than one-third of a meter square but precisely defined. The portrait formed within the box was so exquisite that in a couple of minutes Luke discovered he was out of breath—because he had forgotten to breathe.

Despite a superficial sharpness, the image flickered and jiggled unsteadily, as if the recording had been made and installed with haste. Luke stared at the foreign colors being projected into the prosaic atmosphere of the garage and started to form a question. But it was never finished. The lips on the figure moved, and the girl spoke—or rather, seemed to speak. Luke knew the aural accompaniment was generated somewhere within Artoo Detoo's squat torso.

“Obi-wan Kenobi,” the voice implored huskily, “help me! You're my only remaining hope.” A burst of static dissolved the face momentarily. Then it coalesced again, and once more the voice repeated, “Obi-wan Kenobi, you're my only remaining hope.”

With a raspy hum the hologram continued. Luke sat perfectly still for a long moment, considering what he was seeing, then he blinked and directed his words to the Artoo unit.

“What's this all about, Artoo Detoo?”

The stubby 'droid shifted slightly, the cubish portrait shifting with him, and beeped what sounded vaguely like a sheepish reply.

Threepio appeared as mystified as Luke. “What is that?” he inquired sharply, gesturing at the speaking portrait and then at Luke. “You were asked a question. What and who is that, and how are you originating it—and why?”

The Artoo unit generated a beep of surprise, for all the world as if just noticing the hologram. This was followed by a whistling stream of information.

Threepio digested the data, tried to frown, couldn't and strove to convey his own confusion via the tone of his voice. “He insists it's nothing, sir. Merely a malfunction—old data. A tape that should have been erased but was missed. He insists we pay it no mind.”

That was like telling Luke to ignore a cache of Durindfires he might stumble over in the desert. “Who is she?” he demanded, staring enraptured at the hologram. “She's beautiful.”

“I really don't know who she is,” Threepio confessed honestly. “I think she might have been a passenger on our last voyage. From what I recall, she was a personage of some importance. This might have something to do with the fact that our Captain was attaché to—”

Luke cut him off, savoring the way sensuous lips formed and reformed the sentence fragment. “Is there any more to this recording? It sounds like it's incomplete.” Getting to his feet, Luke reached out for the Artoo unit.

The robot moved backward and produced whistles of such frantic concern that Luke hesitated and held off reaching for the internal controls.

Threepio was shocked. “Behave yourself, Artoo,” he finally chastised his companion. “You're going to get us into trouble.” He had visions of the both of them being packed up as uncooperative and shipped back to the jawas, which was enough to make him imitate a shudder.

“It's all right—he's our master now.” Threepio indicated Luke. “You can trust him. I feel that he has our best interests in mind.”

Detoo appeared to hesitate, uncertain. Then he whistled and beeped a long complexity at his friend.

“Well?” Luke prompted impatiently.

Threepio paused before replying. “He says that he is the property of one Obi-wan Kenobi, a resident of this world. Of this very region, in fact. The sentence fragment we are hearing is part of a private message intended for this person.”

Threepio shook his head slowly. “Quite frankly, sir, I don't know what he's talking about. Our last master was Captain Colton. I never heard Artoo mention a prior master. I've certainly never heard of an Obi-wan Kenobi. But with all we've been through,” he concluded apologetically, “I'm afraid his logic circuits have gotten a bit scrambled. He's become decidedly eccentric at times.” And while Luke considered this turn of events, Threepio took the opportunity to throw Artoo a furious look of warning.

“Obi-wan Kenobi,” Luke recited thoughtfully. His expression suddenly brightened. “Say … I wonder if he could be referring to old Ben Kenobi.”

“Begging your pardon,” Threepio gulped, astonished beyond measure, “but you actually know of such a person?”

“Not exactly,” he admitted in a more subdued voice. “I
don't know anyone named Obi-wan—but old Ben lives somewhere out on the fringe of the Western Dune Sea. He's kind of a local character—a hermit. Uncle Owen and a few of the other farmers say he's a sorcerer.

“He comes around once in a while to trade things. I hardly ever talk to him, though. My uncle usually runs him off.” He paused and glanced across at the small robot again. “But I never heard that old Ben owned a 'droid of any kind. At least, none that I ever heard tell of.”

Luke's gaze was drawn irresistibly back to the hologram. “I wonder who she is. She must be important—especially if what you told me just now is true, Threepio. She sounds and looks as if she's in some kind of trouble. Maybe the message
is
important. We ought to hear the rest of it.”

He reached again for the Artoo's internal controls, and the robot scurried backward again, squeaking a blue streak.

“He says there's a restraining separator bolt that's circuiting out his self-motivation components.” Threepio translated. “He suggests that if you move the bolt he might be able to repeat the entire message,” Threepio finished uncertainly. When Luke continued to stare at the portrait, Threepio added, more loudly, “
Sir!
”

Luke shook himself. “What …? Oh, yes.” He considered the request. Then he moved and peered into the open panel. This time Artoo didn't retreat.

“I see it, I think. Well, I guess you're too small to run away from me if I take this off. I wonder what someone would be sending a message to old Ben for.”

Selecting the proper tool, Luke reached down into the exposed circuitry and popped the restraining bolt free.
The first noticeable result of this action was that the portrait disappeared.

Luke stood back. “There, now.” There was an uncomfortable pause during which the hologram showed no sign of returning. “Where did she go?” Luke finally prompted. “Make her come back. Play the entire message, Artoo Detoo.”

An innocent-sounding beep came from the robot. Threepio appeared embarrassed and nervous as he translated. “He said, ‘What message?' ”

Threepio's attention turned half angrily to his companion. “What message? You know what message! The one you just played a fragment of for us. The one you're hauling around inside your recalcitrant, rust-ridden innards, you stubborn hunk of junk!”

Artoo sat and hummed softly to himself.

“I'm sorry, sir,” Threepio said slowly, “but he shows signs of having developed an alarming flutter in his obedience-rational module. Perhaps if we—”

A voice from down a corridor interrupted him. “Luke … oh, Luke—come to dinner!”

Luke hesitated, then rose and turned away from the puzzling little 'droid. “Okay,” he called, “I'm coming, Aunt Beru!” He lowered his voice as he spoke to Threepio. “See what you can do with him. I'll be back soon.” Tossing the just-removed restraining bolt on the workbench, he hurried from the chamber.

As soon as the human was gone, Threepio whirled on his shorter companion. “You'd better consider playing that whole recording for him,” he growled, with a suggestive nod toward a workbench laden with dismembered machine parts. “Otherwise he's liable to take up that
cleaning pick again and go digging for it. He might not be too careful what he cuts through if he believes you're deliberately withholding something from him.”

A plaintive beep came from Artoo.

“No,” Threepio responded, “I don't think he likes you at all.”

A second beep failed to alter the stern tone in the taller robot's voice. “No, I don't like you, either.”

IV

L
UKE'S AUNT
B
ERU WAS FILLING A
pitcher with blue liquid from a refrigerated container. Behind her, in the dining area, a steady buzz of conversation reached to the kitchen.

She sighed sadly. The mealtime discussions between her husband and Luke had grown steadily more acrimonious as the boy's restlessness pulled him in directions other than farming. Directions for which Owen, a stolid man of the soil if there ever was one, had absolutely no sympathy.

Returning the bulk container to the refrigerator unit, she placed the pitcher on a tray and hurried back to the dining room. Beru was not a brilliant woman, but she possessed an instinctive understanding of her important position in this household. She functioned like the damping rods in a nuclear reactor. As long as she was present, Owen and Luke would continue to generate a lot
of heat, but if she was out of their presence for too long—
boom
!

Condenser units built into the bottom of each plate kept the food on the dining-room table hot as she hurried in. Immediately, both men lowered their voices to something civilized and shifted the subject. Beru pretended not to notice the change.

“I think that Artoo unit might have been stolen, Uncle Owen,” Luke was saying, as if that had been the topic of conversation all along.

His uncle helped himself to the milk pitcher, mumbling his reply around a mouthful of food. “The jawas have a tendency to pick up anything that's not tied down, Luke, but remember, they're basically afraid of their own shadows. To resort to outright theft, they'd have to have considered the consequences of being pursued and punished. Theoretically, their minds shouldn't be capable of that. What makes you think the 'droid is stolen?”

“For one thing, it's in awfully good shape for a discard. It generated a hologram recording while I was cleaning—” Luke tried to conceal his horror at the slip. He added hastily, “But that's not important. The reason I think it might be stolen is because it claims to be the property of someone it calls Obi-wan Kenobi.”

Maybe something in the food, or perhaps the milk, caused Luke's uncle to gag. Then again, it might have been an expression of disgust, which was Owen's way of indicating his opinion of that peculiar personage. In any case, he continued eating without looking up at his nephew.

Luke pretended the display of graphic dislike had never happened. “I thought,” he continued determinedly, “it
might have meant old Ben. The first name is different, but the last is identical.”

When his uncle steadfastly maintained his silence, Luke prompted him directly. “Do
you
know who he's talking about, Uncle Owen?”