Encryptions
A SW fic by Morgan D.

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Luke longed for a place to hide. The bright green shirt Hobbie had lent him fell almost to his knees and glowed in the dark. The cape hanging from his shoulders was in fact the oldest-looking blanket Wes could find, pinned to that ghastly shirt by large rivets that one would usually find keeping ship engines together. Tarn had torn the legs of Luke's old boots — the only footwear he had brought with him from Tatooine — into thin stripes that were now fastened around Luke's legs with a multitude of ribbons. And adorning his head was the bizarre tiara Wedge had improvised from the flexible metal of a fluxdispeller piston and shards of a broken transparisteel window he had painted purple and yellow.

But just one glance at the people in the mess hall was enough to convince Luke that, despite his pilot friends' frank efforts, he was still outrageously underdressed for the occasion.

No surprise there, of course. The Emperor's Day was a major holiday for the Rebels, and preparations started months in advance. And unlike the rest of the galaxy, which by law was required to produce solemn, elegant, dignified festivities celebrating the anniversary of the Imperial regime, the Rebels expressed their feelings toward the Emperor and his Order in an exuberant, shamelessly parodic carnival. Every single person in that base — even those on duty — were dressed in deranged costumes of garish colours and adorned with fake, flashy, ugly jewellery, mocking the refined clothes of expensive material Palpatine had always worn since his days as a Republic senator. There was even a contest to award the bearer of the Most Imperially Ridiculous Costume; the grand prize was a crown made of ration bar wrappings. Having joined the Alliance only three weeks before and owning the impressive total of four outfits — two uniforms, a flightsuit and the clothes he had on when he first embarked on the Millennium Falcon —, Luke would have had nothing to wear if it weren't for his new friends' generosity and creativity. And even then he didn't run any risk of qualifying for the contest.

There were other activities he could try, though. Well, certainly not the Most Imperially Hypocritical Speech contest; Luke doubted he had the articulation and mordant humour the task entailed, and he would probably stutter and make a fool of himself if he had to stand on a table to talk to a crowd of critiquing listeners. But he was sure he would have a fighting chance at the Pin-The-Bantha-Tail-On-His-Imperial-Highness game, or at the Whack-A-Ruler stand, or at the Imperial-Battleship matches.

And Zev and Wes had kindly welcomed him on their team for the Most Imperially Disgusting Sculpture contest; it would surely be a lot of fun to try and model the Emperor's figure from a bunch of rotten vegetables, especially with Wes entertaining them with his inexhaustible assortment of stormtrooper jokes.

Too bad Princess Leia had ordered the shooting competition to be cancelled. Luke did understand her concern: the Emperor was a politician, not a soldier, and firing blasters at his unthreatening hologram resembled too much a cowardly execution. "That is not the image I'd like to see associated with the Rebel Alliance," she had said. Remembering the fate his uncle and aunt had suffered when they inadvertently found themselves in the way of Imperial troops, Luke had to agree with her. Still, he was disappointed. A shooting competition was not only the one game he had a decent chance to win, but also the one activity in which Han would probably have agreed to participate.

The Corellian was still very determined to shatter any ties he might have with the Rebel Alliance, and keeping him around this long hadn't been an easy accomplishment. First, General Dodonna hired him to help with the transportation of equipment from Yavin IV to that temporary base on Truwc. When that job was done, Luke had managed to persuade Han to stay just for long enough to teach him how to reprogram his X-wing's acceleration compensator — and made a point of being a really slow learner for a change. Then Chewbacca fell ill with some mysterious bug that conveniently kept him from travelling through space. And finally Leia had dared Han to witness the Rebels' version of Emperor's Day and not be moved by it. Luke was amused by the thought that there were so much people conspiring to convince the stubborn man to stay, but he worried that they might run out of clever excuses at some point. Or that Han might figure out what was going on, if he hadn't already. Or that Han might simply take off one of these days, despite all their collective ingenuity to prevent that.

Solo could be a pain in the neck at times. Most times, actually. But he had proved to be a good friend, and Luke was just sick and tired of losing people. His parents, whom he had never known. Biggs, to the Academy. Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru. Ben. Then Biggs again, forever. Luke hadn't known Han and Chewbacca for long, but right now, in this new place full of new people, those two were the oldest, most familiar elements in his life, and he would not let them go without a fight.

He crossed the room, passing by the tables where people were playing Imperial Sabacc — a version in which the winner of each round was the one who managed to cheat most flagrantly — to get to the Wall of Ignominy. Inspired by the famous Wall of Honour in Coruscant, where every year on that day new engravings would be added registering the alleged good deeds and achievements of the government, that broad grey surface was where the Rebels could write their thoughts about Palpatine and the Empire.

Only a third of the day gone, and the wall was almost fully covered with inscriptions in a dozen different languages, all in dark red ink. Elegant poems shared the space with vicious curses; some had written long testimonies of the Empire's tyranny, while others had summarised their anger and indignation in ferine one-liners. There were many epitaphs to friends and family members killed by Imperial soldiers. Many references to Alderaan. Demands for justice. Vows of revenge.

Tarn Mison stood facing the wall, glaring at one of the few blank spots left, tapping the palm of his hand with a red marker. He was another reason why Luke lamented the cancellation of the shooting competition: in the few weeks the former Imperial pilot had been with them he had already built quite a reputation for himself as a marksman. And if there was something Luke had learned from racing against Biggs in Beggar's Canyon was that competing with the best could be exhilarating.

"Don't know what to write, Tarn?"

Tarn jumped, startled. Then took a deep breath as he recognised the other. "Hey, Luke."

"Sorry, didn't mean to sneak up on you."

"It's okay, man, I'm just a tad uneasy here," Tarn laughed. "Guess I'm half expecting one of my former superiors to show up and arrest me for making subversive propaganda."

Luke smiled. "I think you're pretty safe here. Worst that can happen is that you get a reprimand for not being subversive enough."

"Yeah, and I'm worried about that too. I've only read this half," said Tarn, indicating the left section of the wall, "and I'm completely discouraged already. There's some pretty inspired stuff here. And every time I think of something, I see that someone else already wrote it in much better words."

"How long have you been here?"

"Uh... about an hour, I think."

"That's a long time to keep staring at a blank point on a wall, Tarn."

"Tell me about it..."

Luke tried to think of a way to help the other, but the truth was that he didn't know what he would write either. Besides, he felt he was hardly the best candidate to give anyone advice; as Han loved to remind him, he didn't have much experience in anything. What would Ben have said? 'Trust your feelings'?

"What was the first thing that came to your mind when you saw the wall?" he asked.

Tarn blinked, and frowned. Then smiled. Raising the marker, he wrote, Look at this wall. You can't make us shut up anymore. The time for fearful silence is over.

"Wow," Luke nodded. "Not bad. Not bad at all."

"Thanks. Now, your turn," said Tarn, handing him the marker. "There's some space left over here."

Luke looked at the wall in dismay. "But I don't know what to write yet..."

"What was the first thing you thought when you saw it?"

"Honestly? I remembered when Biggs and I were trying some modifications on his landspeeder, but something went wrong and the mercofluid injector blew up, sending coolant everywhere. We took days scrubbing the red goo off the walls of his dad's garage." The memory brought along a timid grin, and a pang in his heart. He shook his head, and noticed Tarn's concerned gaze. "Uh, you haven't been with us long enough to have met him. Biggs was..."

"I know," Tarn said softly. "Antilles told me."

"Oh. Okay."

"That's what you should write about."

"About washing coolant off a wall?"

"About him."

Luke gazed down at the marker in his hands, wondering what exactly Wedge had discussed with Tarn about this subject. He didn't want to talk about Biggs. He didn't want to think about Biggs. He didn't want to listen to himself using the past tense to refer to feelings that were still so real and alive inside him. He hadn't allowed himself to mourn for his lover, because... because... it wasn't time yet. Mourning should come when everything was over, and it wasn't over. Not for Luke. Right now he doubted that it would ever be.

Wedge had been trying to get him to talk, to open up, to cry... Had he recruited Tarn to help? Wedge might have had the best of intentions, but... Tarn was little more than a stranger.

And come to think of it, so was Wedge.

He had come close to talking to Han about it all, once. The Corellian had made a silly comment about moustaches, and Luke felt this giant lump climbing through his windpipe and glutting his throat, threatening to explode in sobs and words he had been repressing since he had heard Biggs' voice fade into deadly static to never be heard again. But that would have been unforgivably stupid. Did Han Solo look like the kind of guy who would take a weeping person in a comforting embrace? Had he ever hinted that he would have that sort of patience and disposition? Han was a good friend, but a reluctant one; it wouldn't be smart to push him that much. Besides, Luke had been fighting mean odds to win the man's respect, and he suspected that bursting into tears on his shoulder would probably erase every small victory he had obtained so far.

"Hey... Luke?" Tarn called gently. "I'm sorry. Didn't mean to upset you."

"You didn't," Luke sighed, looking up at the wall. "Or at least... it wasn't you."

Tarn made a grumbling sound of comprehension, staring at one of the longest inscriptions. "They think they can get away with anything. Everything."

The naked bitterness in those words reminded Luke that the man beside him had, until not long ago, been 'one of them'. How much misery had he seen firsthand before he decided to risk everything and desert? "Biggs never talked about joining the Rebellion before he left for the Academy," Luke mused aloud. "Not seriously, anyway."

"So many people out there still don't have a clue of how rotten the system has become," Tarn nodded. "They hear stories, but they don't believe it can be that bad. But when you come really close... nothing can disguise the stench. And it changes you, Luke. One way or another, it changes you."

In the years Biggs had been away making acquaintance with a huge galaxy, Luke had feared his lover would grow too sophisticated to settle down with a little nobody like him. And maybe he did. He certainly had changed. "I only got to talk to him twice after his graduation," Luke realised mournfully. "I don't know what happened... what he saw... and now he's..." He couldn't make himself finish the sentence.

"He's not," Tarn assured him. "Because you're still here."

"What do you mean?"

"They're never gone as long as we remember them," said Tarn. "The Empire, of course, wants us to forget about everything, keep our heads down, our mouths shut, do our jobs and never question. That's why Alderaan was their worst mistake. People will never forget that."

"Mison!" Hobbie was yelling from the other side of the room. "C'mon, we have a disgusting sculpture to plan!"

"Coming!" Tarn shouted back. "Gotta go, Luke. Good luck with the wall. Try not to think too much."

"Don't worry, I'll have the problem solved in less than an hour," Luke promised. "Wouldn't want to beat your record."

"Who would?" the other groaned. "See ya."

Luke saw him leave with both sadness and relief. Although thankful for Tarn's sympathy and comprehension, he really didn't feel like continuing that conversation any further. Not now. Not for quite a while yet.

However, the red marker didn't feel as heavy now as when he had taken it in his hand. The wall was not a competition stand for the best writer. It was the voice for thoughts and feelings that couldn't remain in the dark forever. He owed Biggs that much.

Holding the marker firmly between his fingers, he meticulously drew the characters that spelled, Shooting stars can never be stopped.

"Actually, they can," an amused voice whispered conspiratorially in his ear.

"Han!" A chill ran down Luke's back at the feel of his friend's breath on his neck. "I thought you'd stay in the Falcon all day, avoiding the party."

"And miss the chance to laugh at all these loons' costumes? No way."

Luke risked giving him an once-over, trying to look completely uninterested. Han was wearing his everyday clothes — and now also a grin of smug satisfaction at being watched like that.

"And it seems I showed up just in time to teach you a couple of things about meteors," the Corellian added, pointing at the line Luke had just written. "Because that's what shooting stars are, kid: termed meteors."

Luke rolled his eyes, exasperated. "I know that."

"It's just bits of material falling through a planet's atmosphere," Han went on as if he hadn't heard anything. "The friction with air causes them to heat up, and that's where the incandescence comes from. The small ones vaporise completely before hitting the ground. The big ones survive the entry, but then they're stopped when they do hit the ground. So basically shooting stars are a chunk of trash that is bound to be destroyed, one way or another."

"Shut up," Luke grumbled. He reminded himself that Han could not know what the line really referred to, and stifled his impulse to punch him. "I didn't mean it literally."

"Ah. Poetry?"

"No... Just... you know... imagery. Not literal."

"It's good imagery. Very appropriate."

Luke blinked. "For what?"

"For the Rebel Alliance, of course. Wasn't that what you meant? 'Dear Emperor, we are meteors that will fall through your atmosphere. Most of us will get vaporised in the process, but some will manage to make a bunch of holes on the surface, and that will be our greatest triumph. Yours, the crazy Rebels.'"

Chewbacca chose that moment to appear, pointing at Han and barking something at Luke.

"He says I'm right," Solo translated quickly. "And that you'll save yourself a lot of grief if you listen to me more often."

Luke smirked. "Really? Are you sure he's not apologising for your behaviour?"

Han winced. Chewbacca gave Luke a pleased look.

"I thought you didn't speak Wookieese, kid," the Corellian growled.

"I don't," Luke admitted. "But you've just convinced me that I should remedy that."

"So your translation just now was nothing but a lucky guess?"

"An educated guess," the youngster corrected. "Inspired by the feather necklace and the trinket bracelets Chewie is wearing. By the way, Chewie, you look great!"

Chewbacca adjusted the ornaments with visible pride.

"You look ridiculous," Han snorted. "Both of you."

"Well, yeah, that's the whole point. So you say you've been enjoying yourself laughing at our costumes. But guess what, Han, that's exactly why we're wearing them. For laughs." Luke looked his friend hard in the eye. "Why are you so determined to boycott the party?"

Han shrugged. "Hey, who knows? Maybe I'm wearing my Most Imperially Sexy Underwear. Wanna check it out?"

"Uh... erm. No. Thanks."

"Well, okay. I'm not wearing my Most Imperially Sexy Underwear anyway."

"I didn't think you were."

"In fact, I'm not wearing any underwear."

Out of reflex, Luke gazed down to verify the information, then moaned in self-reproach. Seeing if he would look had probably been Solo's intent all along; that insidious grin of his left little doubt about it.

"Can't you take anything seriously?" Luke spat.

"Funny thing to hear from the guy wearing the transparisteel tiara..."

Luke tried to come up with a proper comeback, but Chewbacca let out a long roar that Luke had learned to identify as a warm greeting. As the two humans followed his gaze, they saw Princess Leia approaching, followed by a prissily moving Threepio. Someone had dressed the droid in a long glitter-embroidered robe, and he was putting so much effort into keeping the fabric from tripping him that he barely paid attention to where he was going.

One would have expected Leia to have as much problem finding material for a costume as Luke had, since she too had very recently lost her home in the blink of an eye. But the day after the destruction of the Death Star she already had a magnificent white gown to wear for the medal-awarding ceremony; understandably, the Alliance made sure that such an important person did not go around looking like a beggar. Now she entered the room wearing a turquoise top with crystal embroidering, a blindingly orange skirt that dragged on the floor behind her, a dark green sequined sash and a dozen bracelets made of ordinary pebbles around her naked arms. Her hair was loose, a shimmering cascade down her back, and her head was covered by a pilot helmet decorated with discordantly multicoloured plumes.

To Luke, she had never looked more beautiful.

"Captain Solo, I believe you didn't quite understand the tradition," said Leia, critically examining his clothes. "Looking silly and pathetic is certainly part of it, but you were also supposed to mimic the Emperor's glamour."

Luke flinched at her harsh directness. Han and Leia seemed to have got to the point where they dispensed with any attempts at being civil to each other.

Han's smile only grew broader. "I see you didn't forget to mimic the Emperor's attitude towards people that defy his commands, Your Highness. I suppose that comes very naturally to you, doesn't it?"

"Han!" exclaimed Luke. "How can you even think something like that?"

"Easy, kid. Just a matter of seeing with my eyes, listening with my ears, thinking with my head and knowing that people will never be anything more than people, no matter what they wear and what titles they demand to be called by. You should try it sometime."

"So Luke doesn't agree with you and you automatically dismisses his opinion as irrelevant," Leia sneered. "Are you sure you wish to lecture me on authoritarianism, Captain?"

"But I know his opinion, and that's how I know he's wrong. You, on the other hand, don't know anything about me. You don't know what I think. You never bothered to ask. You just saw me not wearing a stupid costume and jumped on me with your customary grace."

"I didn't have to ask because you spent the last two weeks blabbering to anyone unlucky to be around you that our festival is, and I quote, 'a fool's party that proves that the Rebels are too gullible and simpleminded to be able to overthrow the Empire, let alone rule the galaxy in its place'."

"Wow," Han exclaimed. "I think this is the first time I've heard intelligent words coming out of your mouth, Your Worship."

Chewbacca entwined his hands behind him and arched backwards, looking at the ceiling — a gesture that Luke had learned to interpret as the equivalent of rolling one's eyes in humans. Poor Threepio was trying to walk past the contenders to address his master, since the heated discussion had kept him from greeting Luke as protocol demanded — few things managed to shut the droid up as effectively and Han and Leia's bickering did. Neither of them seemed eager to get involved in the argument, causing Luke to wonder if there was anything wrong with him. He was desperate to find something to say, some way to intervene, some wise words to solve the dispute, some wisecrack to soften the mood.

Apparently, he was the only one who saw the hostility with which Han and Leia treated one another with concern or trepidation. He couldn't help thinking that if those two remained on bad terms, he would constantly asked to choose sides, and truth was that he felt a kinship of souls with both of them, as if each one reflected different parts of himself. Choosing between them always felt, even those times when they discussed matters he did have a clear opinion about, like choosing between breathing and drinking water.

"Seeing that you believe yourself to hold the monopoly of intelligence around here," Leia told Han acridly, "maybe you'd like to enlighten us. What about our festival strikes you as gullibility and simplemindness?"

"You mean, besides wasting a whole day mocking the Emperor?"

"Oh, I'm so very sorry, Captain. I wasn't aware that you were such a fan of Palpatine's..."

"Everybody knows Palpatine is just a figurehead," Han drawled. "This carnival only serves to teach your guys to aim at the wrong target."

"The Emperor is the paramount symbol of the regime we are fighting here, and festivities are rituals, symbolic gestures to remind us of important things. Or perhaps you have never heard of the concept of 'allegory'?"

"I know enough about allegories to realise you can't win a war with them, sweetheart."

"If you are so sure you know better than we do, why don't you stay to teach us your clever strategies?"

"There she goes again... I'm sorry, Your Worship, but you're not cute enough to keep me here risking my neck at your convenience. You already have Luke for it."

That was another reason why those debates between Han and Leia left Luke longing for a place to hide: no matter what the topic was, it always came back to him. Clearly, each of them believed the other was a bad influence on the young, inexperienced farmboy from Tatooine.

But maybe the problem was about to be solved — the hard way —, since Leia was about to say the unthinkable...

"Go, leave! It's not like you can prove to be anything more than a noisy braggart if you stay."

"Who says I want you guys to win this war anyway?"

Speaking of the unthinkable... "WHAT?!" Luke and Leia cried in unison.

"Totalitarian regimes are a smuggler's heaven, sweetheart. The more prohibitions there are and the fiercer the law enforcers are, the more work I have and the more money I make."

"Why don't you take a good look at this wall, Solo? Read some of these depositions. See how much your successful career is costing the rest of the galaxy."

Han smirked, unimpressed by her rage. He took the marker from Luke's hand and scrawled a couple of lines on the wall, in some strange pictorial characters Luke had never seen before. Chewbacca let out a short chuckle, shaking his head in amusement. Handing the marker back to Luke, Han turned on his heels and walked away, without another glance at any of them. The Wookiee followed him, humming a martial tune of some kind.

"Now isn't that incredibly mature?" said Leia. "Throw us an insult in a foreign language and leave before we can decipher it."

"But... Threepio is here," Luke frowned. Certainly Han knew the droid could translate pretty much anything in no time.

"Princess Leia, I could gladly translate that inscription for you," Threepio volunteered excitedly. "Captain Solo wrote it in Selonian, which is one of the six million forms of..."

"What does it mean?" asked Leia.

"It is grossly misspelled, I must say, but I believe there's no question to..."

"What. Does. It. Mean?"

"'Thank you, Powerful Ones, for all the death, misery and suffering you have poured over these lands.'"

Leia stood paralysed for a moment, her mouth hanging open in utter disbelief. She seemed ready to shred someone to pieces with her bare hands, and Threepio, alone under that sinister glare, tried to recoil a few steps, probably fearing the typical fate reserved for messengers of bad news.

"'Thank you'?!" Leia spat. "He thanked the Empire? He used our wall to thank the Empire?"

"Well, at... at a first glance..." Threepio stuttered.

"'Thanks for spreading death and misery over the galaxy', is that what he wrote?" The Princess' voice grew in volume and indignation. "'Hey, guys, good job, keep it up, the more suffering you cause, the more money I make...'"

"There is no mention of money," the droid pointed out politely. "And as for possible interpretations..."

"That wretched, despicable, low-life..." she spun around, her glare finally zeroing in on the true target of her contempt. Han and Chewbacca hadn't left the mess after all, and stood talking quietly to each other near a large bust of Palpatine made of discarded torfleen batteries.

Threepio still mumbled something about protocol and potential misunderstandings, but Leia was already marching towards the Corellian with the determination of an enraged krayt dragon. And to Luke's dismay, everyone in the room stopped whatever they were doing to watch the second round of that combat.

"Oh dear," Threepio moaned. "They seem really..."

"Loud?" Luke offered.

"Ah, yes, that too, I suppose."

It was like watching a natural cataclysm; terrifying, and yet impossible to ignore.

Nonetheless, there was one person in that room whose eyes were focused on something else. For some unfathomed reason, Chewbacca kept staring attentively at Luke, as if waiting for him to... to do what, really?

"I don't get it," the young man murmured, turning to examine Han's writing on the wall. "Why did he write that in Selonian?"

"That is the language in which it was originally written, Master Luke," said Threepio.

"'Originally'?" Luke frowned. "You mean this is a quote from something?"

"Oh yes, this is the first line of 'Natorsa Daotil' by Korbtus of Luiin. The title means 'Murderous Gratitude'."

"A poem?!"

"A song, actually. I believe Chewbacca was humming the first notes of the chorus just now. Almost two centuries old, very popular in the Corellian system." Threepio tilted his head at Luke, his expressionless face somehow looking chagrined. "Although probably not very well known anywhere else," he added.

Luke grinned. "No offence taken, Threepio. If it was popular two centuries ago, then there might be a chance that it'll get to Tatooine two centuries from now. How do the rest of the lyrics go?"

"I could sing it for you, if you'd like..."

"Er, no. Thanks. Just the translation of the lyrics, okay?"

"As you wish, Master Luke. 'Thank you, Powerful Ones, for all the death, misery and suffering you have poured over these lands. Thank you for the fear we breathe, for the blood we cry, for the rotten food we starve for. The hotter Corell burns, the cooler the shade feels. The mightier the hatred grows outside my den, the deeper affection grows inside.' And then comes the chorus, 'You murder our sept sisters, you strengthen our bonds, you teach us the power of togetherness. We shall repay you.'"

It took a moment for the words sink in. When they did, Luke turned around so fast he got dizzy. The discomfort was well rewarded, though. If he had moved half a second slower, he would have missed the contented smile with which Han had been watching him.

Leia was still voicing her opinion of the Corellian's attitude in long, thunderous words, and getting lots of scornful and equally thunderous ripostes. But in Luke's eyes, the picture now looked a bit less frightening.

He should have known, of course. Han Solo was a man that only a fool would not take seriously. Then again, only a bigger fool would take him literally.

Laughing to himself, Luke raised his hand to offer Chewbacca a casual salute, which the Wookiee returned with an amused nod.

"Threepio? What was the name of the composer again?"

"Korbtus of Luiin, sir."

"Thanks." First thing next day, he would ask Han to introduce him to Selonian music. And he would ask as many questions as his creativity could come up with. And pester him mercilessly to get him to sing a song or two. That would probably keep Han around for five more days, after which Luke would have to think of another pretext.

But that was okay. Suddenly, Luke realised that persuading Han to stay wouldn't be as hard as he had feared.

"Oh, another thing, Threepio."

"Yes, Master Luke?"

"I'm gonna need your help. How long do you think it'd take for me to learn Wookieese?"

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