Ian Doescher: William Shakespeare's The Empire Striketh Back

But Sir!

—They do approach!

Observe? What’s to observe, pray tell me plain?

A fig! The ship seems to malfunction. Fie!
’Tis possible we may in trouble be.

I tried to warn thee, Sir, the hyperdrive
Hath damag’d been, and cannot do its task!
Lightspeed is verily unfeasible!

Correction: we in trouble truly are.
O that all I had fix’d were truly fix’d!
But now I must in haste—and under threat
Of death—attempt to fix the ship once more.

Where are the horizontal boosters hid?

Egh, auugh!

—Alluvi’l dampers, where are they?
[ Aside: ] If only I were but more organiz’d!
’Tis true that order’s not a smuggler’s gift.
[ To Chewbacca: ] Bring me the hydrospanners quickly now.
[ Aside: ] I know not how we shall escape this time.
Of all the situations I have seen,
Of all the problems small or dangers great,
Of all the rubs and scrapes have scratch’d my life,
Of all the enemies just barely fled—
This moment now doth seem the worst of all.

Alack, now what is this? What shakes the ship?
How have we gone from bad to still worse yet?

Good Han, return at once!

’Tis asteroids!

[ aside: ] O wicked thought and wonderful idea
That cometh to me in this frightful time.
I shall here chart a course none would expect:
Not flee from danger, nay, but welcome it,
And in so doing break the Empire’s grip
While rescuing my princess from all harm.
[ To Chewbacca: ] Set course two-seven-one.

—What didst thou say?
Thou wilt not enter in the ast’roid field?
For certain thou art wild—but not insane!

Yet they would be the madder to give chase.

Thou must not do this to impress me, Han.
[ Aside: ] Already he hath won my heart, ’tis true,
Yet would I rather live to tell him so!

Good Sir, attend: the possibility
Of navigating fields of ast’roids is
Three thousand seven hundred twenty to
But one—the odds are well against thee here!

The odds of rescuing a princess: low.
The odds of smuggler turning rebel: lower.
The odds of ending th’Death Star: lowest yet!
I tell thee, droid: assail me not with odds!

[ aside: ] Behold, what keen maneuvers doth he make,
And how, like Gungans sinking in the swamp,
Our enemies do fall behind us, slain.
What bravery he showeth for my sake.

If you recall, Your Highness, you did hope
You would bear witness to my failure great:
It may be now.

—My word I do rescind.
We shall be pulveriz’d if we remain
A’floating in this field of wayward rocks.
Thou hast thy honor proven, Han, now please:
Let us seek safety in another place.

I cannot argue with thine argument.
I shall attempt to fly us closer in
Toward a larger ast’roid.

—Closer?

—Auugh!

O this is suicide, for where have we
To go where we may yet survive? Are we
Not bound for death?

—Aye, this one here shall do.
It hath a goodly look.

—What “goodly look”?

Be calm, I prithee, for it shall suffice.

Excuse me, Princess, but where are we bound?

My hope flies unto you, most worthy man,
My hope for us, and for our safety, too.
I hope it is the Force that leadeth thee,
I hope that thou dost know what thou dost do.

Thy hopes do echo mine, my lady, true.

[ aside: ] O sight most tragic, this—a robot-man
Who doth require a mask to stay alive.
What situation e’er did lead to this?
How can he stand to live beneath a mask?
But soft, Piett, and reconsider this:
Aye, verily, how shall I judge? The mask
He wears is far more obvious than most.
With Vader it is plain he wears a mask,
Though few have seen the scarring underneath.
But truly, what man doth not wear a mask?
For all of us are maskèd in some way—
Some choose sharp cruelty as their outward face,

Some put themselves behind a king’s façade,
Some hide behind the mask of bravery,
Some put on the disguise of arrogance.
But underneath our masks, are we not one?
Do not all wish for love, and joy, and peace?
And whether rebel or Imperial,
Do not our hearts all beat in time to make
The pounding rhythm of the galaxy?
So while Darth Vader’s mask keeps him alive,
And sits upon his face for all to see,
’Tis possible he is more honest than
A man who wears no mask, but hides his self.
But come, Piett, now still thy prating tongue—
His private time is done, his mask back on.

Yes, Admiral?

—Our ships have found the swift
Millenn’um Falcon , Lord. However, it
Hath ventur’d deep into an ast’roid field.
It seems unsafe to make pursuit therein:
To follow it is far too great a risk.

Thy fear of asteroids concerns me not.
I want the ship, not thy most weak dismay.

I understand, my Lord, and shall obey.

What misadventure I have seen today!
Our sensors spied no cities or machines
Within this system desolate, but life
Forms plenty. As we made our way unto
The planet’s atmosphere, all went awry:
My X-wing ship began to shake and groan.
My scopes had fail’d, and I did blindly spin
Into a landing doom’d to end with strife.
’Tis almost fortunate that I did land
Within this swampy bog where now the ship
Is partway sunk, for had I hit the ground
My ship and droid and even my own self
Might have been crush’d, and ev’rything destroy’d.
But now my ship is fixèd in the mire,
And how it shall come out I cannot tell.
Was this first trouble all I would endure?
Nay, nay! It seemeth Fate did not see fit
To send pain singular, but multiple!
Fate hath provided pains abundantly,
For this is not the end of our distress.
As R2 and I headed for the shore
He fell into the water, wheels to scope,
And was assaulted by a mighty beast—
Aye, swallow’d whole and disappear’d from sight.
For seeming ages I did search for him,
To no avail. And then, with frightful scream,
He was ejected from the swamp as fast
As proton-fill’d torpedoes from their shaft.
Above my head he sail’d, well o’er the ground,
And landed in a heap of dirt and grime.
’Twas only for his metal-tasting shell
This little droid shall live to see tomorrow.
So much misfortune! After all this pain
I should feel grateful still to have my life.
But now we are maroon’d within a place
Where neither friend nor contact may be found.
I should have listen’d to the wise R2
When he said coming here would work us woe.
Our camp is now set up, our food prepar’d,
My faithful R2 chargeth up his pow’r,
The semblance of good order we present—
But I have neither stomach nor desire
To sit down to a hale and hearty feast.
More pressing, too, I must this Yoda find,
Indeed, if that good man doth e’en exist.
Look ’round about, R2: is this place not
Unlikely for a Jedi master’s home?
’Tis strange, ’tis passing strange, ’tis pitiful.