Date: Sat, 03 Jan 1998 18:56:00 -0600
From: P & J Hidalgo <phidalgo@CYBERSPC.MB.CA>
Subject: [SW-RPG] FLUFF: Crucible (Parts 1-4)
Sender: Star Wars Role Playing Game Discussion Group <SW-RPG@LISTSERV.AOL.COM>
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Reply-to: phidalgo@cyberspc.mb.ca
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Organization: Royal Canadian Kilted Yaksmen
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References: <199801040011.TAA09574@alpha.vaxxine.com>
Comments: To: Tim Fowler <timf@vaxxine.com>

Collecting the first four weeks of Crucible.


* represent italics.

CRUCIBLE
By Pablo Hidalgo
Based on an original story by Archie Goodwin and Chris Claremont.

Luke had spotted the enemy. More importantly, the enemy had not spotted
him.

Carefully, he propped up the hunting blaster on the curved windscreen.
He quickly glanced, checking the connecters to the energy cell. Content
that his power supply was adequate, he stared down the length of the
barrel.

He had his orders. Above all, the fort was to be protected, and this foe
represented a threat that could not be ignored. His General would be
proud.

Slowly, Luke eased the trigger. "For the Republic," he whispered. When
he returned from the front, she would be waiting for him. Oh, how she'd
embrace him when he arrived.

The crimson beam lanced out from the barrel, and Luke felt the kick
against his shoulder. The bolt cut cleanly through his target's skull,
burrowing a cauterized hole as it made its instant kill. There was a
twitching of nerves before it fell dead.

***

Luke hopped out of his landspeeder, and it rocked slightly on its
repulsorlift cushion. He flicked the safety on the rifle, propping it
before him.

He looked dead -- you could never be too careful.

He looked behind the sandstone boulder, and saw, in the shade, his kill.

Just a few centimeters short of two meters long, the gray-furred womp
rat corpse curled as if sleeping. Luke prodded it with the rifle barrel,
but it was dead.

*Mission accomplished, General.*

His uncle had described Luke Skywalker as having his head in the stars.
But given the alternative of the harsh, dry reality of endless dune
stretches on Tatooine, there was little choice for a 16-year old
farmboy. It was not delerium brought on by the relentless heat of twin
suns. Rather, it was escape brought on by the boredom of moisture
farming.

It was a tough life, but Luke had his landspeeder. A used clunker his
uncle had purchased from Mos Eisley almost three seasons ago, he and
Luke had tuned it into fine shape. He also had his skyhopper.

Again, his uncle said it should be used to survey the vaporator fields,
to
make sure no theives or Tusken Raiders wandered too close. But that was
his uncle talking... Owen Lars would be hard pressed to show generosity,
or
any affection, to his nephew.

He also lived with his aunt. Luke, an orphan, looked to Beru Lars as his
mother, and the warm-hearted woman took very good care of him. An
unimposing woman, she always seemed to form a natural shield between him
and his uncle. He loved her very much.

Then, there were his friends. Or more accurately, his best friend. Biggs
Darklighter had known Luke since the two were in their early teens.
Biggs was a bit older than Luke, and always looked after him. He was his
big brother. There were other kids Luke's age who would hang around
Tosche station at Anchorhead. He liked them fine, but he never truly fit
in.

Finally, there was his luck. Before his friends had taken to calling him
"Wormie," (the result of a long story about a practical joke involving
sand worms) they had called him Lucky. Not only had he avoided injury in
a number of stunts that he and Biggs had cooked up, Luke had never
gotten lost in the desert. He could always find his way home, even when
he and Windy once were stranded in the desert after a dewback ride.

It was more than luck, Luke knew. He wasn't sure what it was, but
sometimes... sometimes...

Luke's head snapped around, and his crystal blue eyes affixed themselves
on the hazy horizon. *There...*

He turned his back on the dead womp-rat, took a two-step jaunt and
leaped into his open-air speeder. He gunned the accelerator, and hoisted
the blaster rifle up.

Luke propped the gun against the passenger seat as he reached up for his
goggles which were wrapped around his hat. He then held the rifle,
propped it against the windscreen again, but this time, he continued
holding the steering yoke with his other hand.

The repulsors shrieked as Luke gunned the accelerator again. He didn't
look down, but he imagined he was cruising at about 120 kilometers per
hour now.

*There...*

Luke squinted, the gritty sand plinking against his goggles. He squeezed
the trigger on his rifle and again, a crimson beam tried unsuccessfully
to outshine the desert suns.

Although Luke couldn't hear it, a sharp squeak cried out as the laser
bolt seared a womp-rat hiding behind a rocky outcropping.

Luke brought the speeder around, nearly flipping it over as he banked
it. He cut forward acceleration, bringing the three thrusters down to a
purr. Luke jumped down, inspecting his marksmanship.

*The Skywalker luck was with him.*

"Yeee-ow!" he shouted, to no one in particular. "Wait'll the gang hears
about this."

Any of his friends may have been able to claim a bullseyed womp-rat
using a skyhopper's laser, but not even Biggs could lay claim to a
one-handed rifle shot while fighting a landspeeder's controls.

Luke whistled softly as he stretched the smelly womp-rat carcass out
from its death-curl.

Including tail, this one was close to two-and-a-quarter meters long.

In Anchorhead, there was an old woman named Edu who would pay a good
twenty or so credits for the womp-rat's pelt and skin, which she used in
the making of water bladders and some clothing.

With the money he had saved the past half-season, he could finally buy
those macrobinoculars he wanted.

Then, on the clear Tatooine nights, he could finally be up there, with
those stars.

***

Inhuman eyes watched as the young farmboy placed the womp-rat in a dry
bag, and powered up his loud vehicle, disappearing in a cloud of grit.
Concealed beneath sand-screening lenses, and pieced-together
sand-filters, a fierce nomad watched the human.

The Tusken Raider had no word for human, specifically. Their word for
human was contained in an angry grunt of consonants that described
"stranger," "violator" and "thief."

The Raider topped a rocky crest. He paused, reaching into a ragged
satchel at his side. From it, he produced a dried, severed human hand,
roughly the color of the Jundland sands.

He said an oath to unknown spirits that governed the lives of the desert
nomads, and snapped a finger from the hand. Flakes of dried skin and
tissue floated down like autumn leaves.

The Raider crowed out another angry mix of howls, consonants and grunts,
and turned from his crest. At the bottom of the ledge stood his mount, a
tall shaggy bantha beast. He felt his beast's thirst, and it amplified
his rage. He hopped on the bantha's back, and touched a rag-covered hand
to caress the spiral horns. Without any prompting, for the two knew each
other and understood, the bantha trotted off to a direction contained
only within the minds of the Raider and his mount.

....

Tatoo II’s curve began to touch the hazy horizon of Tatooine’s western
sky. Second Twilight. The temperature fell, and Luke’s tan poncho
afforded him little heat.

He slowed the speeder down, bringing it around to the small adobe hut
that marked the Lars Homestead. From a distance, it would appear as a
single hut, a handful of moisture vaporators, and a hydroponics
station/tech dome off to the side. Upon closer inspection, the sunken
underground courtyard became apparent. Like many structures on Tatooine,
the homestead stretched further underground than it did above.

He had arrived in time. Uncle Owen hadn’t shut off the power for the
night, or erected the security screens to keep unwanted visitors off the
property. Still, by Owen’s chronometer, as always, Luke was late.

Luke swallowed a gulp of dry Tatooine air, and called, “Uncle Owen, Aunt
Beru! I’m home!”

Before Luke had trotted down the staircase into the courtyard, he heard
his uncle’s gruff response.

“Late! And let me look,” he scanned his tired eyes over Luke’s
dishevelled form, “*and* without the parts for the treadwell droid you
were supposed to get. *Another* wasted day.”

Luke’s eyes searched for help in the form of his aunt but didn’t see
her. Her cooking, however, he did find with his nose. *Sandquail,
roasted, with ootoowergs.*

“I tried giving Fixer a hand, Uncle Owen,” Luke responded weakly, “but
with his backlog he says it’ll be at least a week before ... “

“Without that droid we can’t install those new vaporators.” Owen
grumbled. “Get yourself cleaned up. Your aunt was considerate enough to
keep your supper warm, for all the good it’ll do ya. It’s not as if you
need the energy to sleep tonight.”

Luke considered telling his uncle about the womp-rat, but decided
against it. Better not to goad him further. Instead, he’d just sneak off
into Anchorhead the day after tomorrow, and sell the body. Let his uncle
wonder where he got his money. And if he needed to use his binoculars,
*well forget it.*

***

His uncle had stayed to help Beru clean up the kitchen, obviously a
calculated ploy to make Luke feel all the more guilty. His aunt simply
asked Luke how his day was, and warned him, motherly, that he should eat
on a more regular schedule.

He smiled. She was the only one who could dissolve the tension between
him and his uncle, and she did it without seeming to try too hard. For
all the posturing and blustering he and his uncle found themselves in,
she could defuse a thermal detonator with her quiet demeanor and smile.

“So, promise me you’ll try to eat on time tommorow, Luke.” his aunt
chided.

“Uhh.. actually,” Luke said, looking down at his plate, stirring the
food around with a prong. “I meant to talk to you about this.”

His uncle stopped his clattering long enough to evoke an unpleasant
silence.

“Well, I was wondering... Biggs and Tank are leaving for the Academy
soon, and tomorrow the gang’s planning a sort of farewell celebration.”
Luke spoke the next bit a little louder. “Without the treadwell working,
I can’t really do much since --”

“So, it’ll be an excuse to idle away more time, Luke.” Owen barked.

“*Owen,*” Beru spoke up. “Biggs is Luke’s best friend. He’ll be gone a
year or more.”

“The Darklighters always have more time on their hands than they know
what to do with.” Lars had never much cared for the Darklighters. Biggs’
father, Huff, was  wealthy, for Tatooine standards: a food-magnate that
sold to the other farmers. Owen was conviced that Huff was a braggart,
and did his best to outdo the other farmers. He didn’t know the
Darklighters the way Luke did.

“Luke should be allowed to say goodbye,” Beru pressed. “You let a
brother leave without saying good-bye. Haven’t you wished --”

“*Enough,* Beru.”

Luke stood there silent. He would never have dared to approach that
territory with his uncle. There were just some things he learned not to
talk about.

Owen was quiet for a few uncomfortable moments. “You can go,” he
conceded, quietly. “But don’t ask for anything else until we have a
functioning treadwell, young man.”

He turned to leave the kitchen, clearly indicating by his silence that
Luke was to finish cleaning. “And if any vaporators break down...”

“They won’t, sir,” Luke beamed. “I *promise.*”

The silence that hung between Luke and his Aunt Beru was by no means
uncomfortable. It was the product of communication, not the lack of it.
They understood each other more than Luke and Owen ever did. Luke held
the plastic plates underneath the airjets, scrubbing it clear.

“Gee, I never figured Uncle Owen would give in,” Luke ventured over the
buzz of the scrubbers, “What happened between him and my father?”

Beru collected the leftovers, putting them into small plastic bags.
Unlike her husband, she found it difficult to seek comfort in a lie.

“Your father? Nothing really, Luke.” She put the food down for a moment,
turning to Luke. “I guess Owen just depended too much on his brother
staying with him on the farm...”

“Just like he does now with me,” Luke said. The first few fingers of
guilt began trembling his throat. “Whenever I even mention going to the
Academy like Biggs he...”

“He cares for you Luke,” Beru interrupted, a bit harsher than she
intended. “In his own gruff way,” she added, with a tender smile.

“I guess I know that. Thanks.” Luke knew that all the effort his uncle
put on the farm was to build something for his family, to ensure his
comfort on this, the harshest of worlds. His aunt stepped closer, and
kissed him gently on the forehead.

“You’re so tall, Luke. When did you get this tall?” A tear began to form
in the corner of her eye.

The idea of leaving made Luke feel like a traitor at times. But still, a
part of him demanded more of his life than toiling on the farm. He
yearned to see what lay beyond the horizons of Tatooine. Every day now,
he looked away. To the future, to the horizon, finding it harder and
harder to keep his mind on what he was doing.

“Aunt Beru, there are still a few things I should take care of before
uncle shuts the power for the night,” said Luke, avoiding the awkward
question. He gave her a hug, and left the kitchen.

***

By the time Luke had his toolkit out, his uncle had already shut down
the power for the night. Luke wasn’t in the mood to negotiate for
another few minutes, so he snuck out a small lighting post, and set it
up in the garage.

He torqued down the final bolt on his skyhopper’s engine casing, putting
all his arm into the hydrospanner. He stepped back to look at his
handiwork.

It was a sleek craft, an Incom T-16 skyhopper. Its hull was triangular,
with the points of the triangle being the mounts for the three flat
wings stretching out from the craft. A massive afterburner nozzle jutted
out from the back of the craft. It was designed for raw power, with the
ultralight frame of the hopper sitting on a block-like repulsorlift
generator. The culmination of sophisticated design with simple premise.

The hull sits on an anti-grav generator, while the afterburner blasts it
into the troposphere.

Luke had flown it only twice since he got the hopper. The first time he
took it up a crosswind pressed hard against the hopper’s central wing,
skewing its course. The first time had almost been the last, as he
clipped both lower wings going down. But the Skywalker luck was with
him, since the craft didn’t flip. His uncle almost threatened to take
away the hopper that first time.

Yet, the hopper brought them together. Later that night, the two of them
stayed up till well after midnight, straightening out the wings. They
had *talked.* Not just of the harvest, but of his father. He found out
he was a navigator on a spice freighter. They talked of Luke’s grades in
schooling. Owen shared that he, like Luke, was not the best student, but
urged that Luke study hard. Luke had learned Owen Lars really did care
for him.

Luke opened the pointed cockpit, and stepped inside. It was fairly
roomy, since Luke could not afford many of the extras that civilian
hoppers came with. Luke didn’t dare bring up the power, but he grabbed
the stick anyway.

*He saw them... pirates! NaQoit bandits, scoring the fringes of the
Tatooine system!* He imagined the HUD on the screen, turning green as
the targeting computer got a lock. He was at the far range of the
lasers... several kilometers away. He could see the turn, however.

He could see the shape of the fighter’s maneuver. The NaQoit used the
older Z-95 Headhunter prevalent in the Outer Rim Territories. They were
no match for Luke’s TIE fighter ... no... for his T-65 *X-wing.* The
headhunter finished its turn, doubling back for a quick snap-fire. But
the fighter’s blasters had worse range than his X-winger. He squeezed
the firing stud... and saw the Headhunter disappear in an expanding
cloud of burning gases.

“Luke! What’s a matter with you, boy? Have you gone deaf or fallen
asleep?”

It wasn’t Base Command.

“Oh, sorry, uncle. I was just...” Luke answered meekly. “I guess I got
caught up in my work.”

“If you’d put as much dedication into maintaining our vaporators, we’d
have the richest moisture farm on this planet.” Owen walked over to the
skyhopper, rubbing a coarse hand on the smooth wing surface. “Give ol’
Darklighter a run for his credits...”

“I’m sure gonna try, uncle,” said Luke, starting to get up. “You’ll see,
after tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Owen exhaled. There was an uncomfortable pause. “You’d better
turn in. What time are you waking up tomorrow?”

“0630, sir.” Luke replied.

“That’s not early enough, there’s something I want you to do, first.”
Owen said, still admiring the hopper.

“But... yes, sir. Will 0530 do?” Luke sighed.

“Now, Luke,” Owen’s hand reached into his robe, pulling out a small
metal box. “It won’t take you an hour to fit in a new scanner, will
you?”

“What? A new...” Luke blinked. Sure enough, he saw the leads, the
modular casing, the Incom logo. “Uncle, where’d you get this?”


“Jawa traders. Didn’t even know what they had. Now, I mean it. To bed
with you. The scanner will sit till morning.”

“Thanks, Uncle.” Luke started, but didn’t know what to do. If it was his
aunt, he would have hugged her. But, he couldn’t even bring himself to
shake his uncle’s hand. So, again, he said, “thanks.”

Then he went to bed.

***