The keyboard's familiar weight beneath weathered fingertips felt different tonight, heavier, more final. Each keystroke echoed through Cass Avery's cluttered studio apartment like a countdown timer, mixing with the hum of an overworked air conditioner and the distant murmur of Los Angeles traffic. The accumulated scent of fifty years of creativity filled the small space: coffee rings on wooden surfaces, the metallic tang of printer ink, and underneath it all, the musty comfort of a life well-lived in solitude.
Cass paused, his arthritic knuckles protesting as he flexed fingers stained with decades of ink and coffee. The blue glow of his monitor illuminated deep lines etched by time and countless late-night deadlines, casting shadows across the army of Star Wars memorabilia that stood sentinel on every available surface. Action figures watched with plastic eyes as their creator prepared to say goodbye to the universe that had defined his existence.
Click. Click. Click.
My name is Cass Avery and tomorrow I turn seventy years old. The words materialized on screen, each letter a small monument to a career that had spanned half a century. I've dedicated fifty years of my life to creating Star Wars comics, with special thanks to all the original rights holders who allowed me to represent this galaxy in whatever way felt true to the characters and stories we all love.
His eyes drifted to the framed photograph on his desk, himself as a young man with thick black hair, shaking hands with George Lucas at a convention in 1977. The eager face in that picture seemed like a stranger now, unmarked by the weight of deadlines, fan expectations, and the slow erosion of time. Now, wisps of silver crowned his spotted scalp, and thick glasses had become as much a part of him as his drawing tablet.
Every year, new writers take the Star Wars franchise in fresh directions, he continued, but I stayed true to my vision and never let down the millions of fans who trusted me with their childhood dreams. Tomorrow begins my retirement, and with it, my lifelong dream of world travel. I plan to retire peacefully somewhere in Europe, sketching cafes instead of cantinas.
Should he mention the dreams? Those strange, vivid visions that had been haunting his sleep for months? Images of swirling black holes and alien worlds that felt more real than memory. He'd always been a practical man, but lately...
Sometimes I joke about sneaking into Area 51 to see if the government really does have UFOs hidden away. It reminds me of these recurring dreams I've been having, visions of wormholes and distant galaxies, of actually living the space opera adventures I've spent my career drawing. I suppose that's just the mind of an aging artist, still dreaming of impossible things. Pay no mind to the ramblings of an old man.
The cursor blinked expectantly. Through his window, dawn crept across the smog-hazed horizon, painting the sky in shades that reminded him of Tatooine's twin suns. How many times had he drawn that same sunrise? How many different stories had begun with that familiar orange glow?
My deepest gratitude goes to all the comic readers who kept my art alive for these fifty incredible years. Thank you for letting an old dreamer share his visions with you.
- Cass Avery, April 17, 2027
His finger hovered over the "Post" button. This was it, the end of Cass Avery, comic book legend. Tomorrow he would be just another retiree with a suitcase and a pension, shuffling through European museums and pretending to care about ancient architecture when all he really wanted was to sit in a cafe and sketch aliens in the margins of newspapers. The thought should have excited him, but instead, it felt like stepping off a cliff into empty air.
Click.
The blog post vanished, instantly appearing on screens across the globe where fans were already beginning to share memories and tributes. Cass leaned back in his creaky office chair, the same one he'd used since Reagan was president, and felt exhaustion wash over him like a tide.
Had it really been fifty years? It felt like yesterday he was sketching his first Jedi knight on a napkin in his mother's kitchen, dreaming of a career that seemed impossible for a kid from nowhere. Now he was... what? A success? A has-been? Both?
The apartment fell silent except for his neighbor's cat meowing through thin walls, a sound that had annoyed him for fifteen years but would soon become just another abandoned memory. His breathing slowed, grew deeper. The weight of completion settled into his bones like lead.
Just going to rest my eyes, he told himself, the same lie he'd been telling himself for decades when exhaustion finally won its war against ambition. Just a quick nap before I start packing...
But this time felt different. His chest grew tight, each breath requiring more effort than the last. The familiar ache in his left arm spread upward, and he recognized the symptoms he'd drawn in medical comics years ago. His vision blurred at the edges, and the last thing Cass saw was the gentle glow of his monitor reflecting off a vintage Luke Skywalker figure, its plastic lightsaber raised in eternal defiance against the darkness.
The heart attack was swift and mercifully painless. Cass Avery, creator of dreams, died as he had lived, surrounded by the characters he'd brought to life, his final words still glowing on the screen that had been his window to infinite possibilities.
....
Consciousness returned like a slow tide, each wave bringing back fragments of awareness that didn't quite fit together. Cass felt... different. Lighter somehow, as if gravity had become optional rather than mandatory. The first thing he noticed was the absence of pain, no arthritic joints, no lower back ache that had been his constant companion for twenty years, no tight feeling in his chest.
The second thing he noticed was that he was most definitely not in his apartment.
Surfaces curved around him in impossible geometries, covered in circuit patterns that pulsed with soft blue light. The walls seemed to breathe, their chrome-like finish reflecting fractured images of himself from every angle. Holographic displays floated in mid-air, showing star charts and navigation data that hurt his brain to interpret. Everything hummed with barely contained energy, and the air itself tasted of ozone and recycled atmosphere.
He was lying on something that shifted to support his body. When he sat up, the surface adjusted automatically with a soft harmonic tone. The movement felt effortless, his body responding with a lightness he hadn't felt since his twenties.
"Okay, think," he muttered, running a hand through hair that felt surprisingly thick. "Either I'm having the most vivid hallucination in medical history, or"
"You're dead."
The voice came from everywhere and nowhere, reverberating through the chamber with crystalline clarity. Cass jerked upright, spinning to find the source.
"Who's there? Show yourself!"
"I am showing myself. You're standing inside me." A pause. "I suppose 'standing inside me' sounds rather inappropriate. You're aboard me. I am this vessel."
Cass felt his jaw drop. "The ship is talking to me."
"The ship is talking to you, yes. Are you always this quick on the uptake, or is death affecting your cognitive functions?"
Despite everything, Cass felt a familiar flash of irritation, the same heat that had gotten him into trouble with editors for five decades. "Listen here, you overgrown calculator"
"Overgrown calculator?" The ship's voice carried what sounded suspiciously like amusement. "How wonderfully analog of you. I am a multidimensional entity capable of traversing space, time, and consciousness itself. You are a recently deceased carbon-based artist with severe boundary issues. Perhaps we should establish some ground rules."
"Dead?" The word hit Cass like cold water. "That's impossible. I feel fine. Better than fine, I feel great."
"That's because you're no longer burdened by that deteriorating meat suit you called a body. You're pure consciousness now, interfacing with my systems. Think of yourself as... software. Admittedly outdated software, but functional."
Cass staggered to what looked like a viewport and peered out into space. Stars stretched past in brilliant ribbons of light, and in the distance, he could see a swirling vortex of energy, a wormhole that looked exactly like the ones he'd spent decades illustrating.
"This is insane," he whispered, pressing his palm against the transparent surface. It felt solid, real, warm to the touch. "This can't be happening."
"Reality is considerably more flexible than humans typically imagine," the ship replied, its tone gentling slightly. "But I understand your confusion. The transition from corporeal existence to pure consciousness can be... disorienting."
"So what happens now? Do I go toward the light? Meet my deceased relatives? Get judged by some cosmic tribunal?"
"Nothing so dramatic, I'm afraid. You have a choice to make."
Cass turned from the viewport, noting how the ship's interior seemed to shift and adjust around him like a living thing. "What kind of choice?"
"Accept a mission of considerable importance and potential danger, or remain with me as a passenger until your consciousness gradually dissolves into the cosmic background radiation. The first option offers purpose, power, and the chance to matter in ways you never imagined. The second offers... well, eventual oblivion, but with excellent in-flight entertainment."
The casual way the ship described his potential non-existence sent a chill through Cass's incorporeal form. "You're serious."
"I don't possess a sense of humor in the way you understand it. Yes, I'm serious."
Cass walked or floated, it was hard to tell, around the chamber, his mind racing. This was like something out of his comics, but the sensory details were too vivid, too complex for any dream. The recycled air carried hints of ozone and metal. The walls thrummed with barely audible harmonics. Even his own reflection in the chrome surfaces looked real, though somehow younger and more vibrant than he remembered.
"What if I just say no? What if I demand to go back, or... or file a complaint with whoever's in charge of this cosmic postal service? If there's any?"
The ship's response came with what he could swear was gentle humor. "There is no going back, human. Your corporeal form has already been cremated, your affairs settled by an attorney you've never met. As for complaints... well, the universe has excellent customer service, but the hold times are measured in geological epochs."
Cass slumped against the wall, feeling every one of his seventy years despite supposedly being dead. "So I'm trapped."
"You're liberated. There's a difference, though I understand it may be difficult to appreciate from your current perspective."
"And this mission?"
"Will be explained in detail once you make your choice. I can tell you it involves correcting certain... narrative imbalances in a universe you know very well."
Something in the ship's tone made Cass look up sharply. "What universe?"
"Patience. Choose first: mission or dissolution?"
The silence stretched between them like a held breath. Cass found himself thinking of all the stories he'd never finished, all the adventures he'd dreamed of but never lived. Fifty years of giving other people's dreams substance and form, and now...
"If I accept this mission, do I get to be the hero for once?"
"You get to try. Success is not guaranteed, and the consequences of failure are... significant."
Cass closed his eyes, or thought he did; it was hard to tell without a physical body, and made his choice.
"I'll do it."
"Excellent." The ship's systems hummed with what sounded like satisfaction. "Now we can begin the real conversation."
The chamber around Cass transformed, walls flowing like liquid mercury to create a vast spherical space dominated by a massive viewing screen. But instead of showing the star-field outside, the screen displayed something that made his breath catch in his throat.
Star Wars. His Star Wars. The universe he'd spent fifty years exploring, expanding, and loving.
On the screen, young Anakin Skywalker raced through the streets of Mos Espa, his podracer engines screaming against the desert wind. The scene shifted to show Palpatine in his senator's robes, speaking with honeyed words that hid serpent's venom. Then to Qui-Gon Jinn, noble and doomed, practicing lightsaber forms with the fluid grace of a master who had no idea his death was rapidly approaching.
"What is this?" Cass whispered.
"Your assignment," the ship replied. "Welcome to the Star Wars universe, the real one."
"Real?" Cass shook his head. "It's fiction. A story, not... not reality."
"What you call fiction is simply another dimension of existence. Stories told with enough passion, enough collective belief, take on lives of their own. Millions of humans have spent decades dreaming these dreams, living these adventures in their imagination. That much focused consciousness creates reality, Cass. Multiple realities, actually."
The screen showed Darth Maul stalking through the shadows of Theed Palace, his yellow eyes burning with Sith hatred and his double-bladed lightsaber hungry for Jedi blood.
"Every choice made spawns new timelines, new possibilities. Every story told adds threads to the cosmic tapestry. Star Wars exists, in all its variations and possibilities."
"What's the mission?" Cass asked directly, cutting through the mystical explanations. Fifty years in the comic industry had taught him to get straight to the point when someone was being deliberately vague.
The screen displayed four images in sequence: Qui-Gon Jinn falling before Darth Maul's blade, young Anakin kneeling before Palpatine, Shmi Skywalker dying in chains on Tatooine, and Darth Maul's triumphant sneer.
"Our first mission has four primary objectives," the ship said. "Protect Qui-Gon Jinn from his death. Prevent Palatine's rise. Ensure Shmi Skywalker's freedom from slavery. And eliminate Darth Maul as a threat to galactic peace."
"You want me to kill Darth Maul." Cass's voice came out flat and disbelieving. "A trained Sith assassin who can cut through steel with his bare hands and move faster than human eyes can follow. Me. The guy who needed help opening pickle jars."
"You'll have abilities beyond your current comprehension," the ship replied. "Force sensitivity, enhanced manipulated capabilities, accelerated healing, and most importantly, the power to influence other beings' actions. You'll be like a Jedi Knight, but with fifty years of meta-knowledge about how this universe actually functions."
Cass absorbed this, then asked the practical question: "What will you do during all this? What's your role?"
The ship's tone became more formal. "Oh, I'm nobody's servant. Think of me as your co-writer in this little cosmic rewrite. Consider me a partner in this endeavor. My assistance will be limited to transportation, I can move you through wormholes rather than relying on hyperspace travel, which gives us certain advantages. I will also relay missions to you as they become available."
"Missions?" Cass's eyes narrowed. "Plural? And speaking of which, who exactly is giving us these missions?"
The ship fell silent for so long that Cass wondered if it had stopped functioning. Finally, when it spoke again, there was something almost reluctant in its voice.
"You do not currently have access to this knowledge. I've already provided significant information without receiving anything in return from you. Complete your first mission, and then you'll be granted access to this data."
The words hit Cass like a physical blow.
Then he felt a familiar surge of anger, the same indignation that had driven him through decades of fighting editors and publishers. But then he looked at the screen showing the Star Wars events stretching out before him, all the characters he'd loved, all the stories he'd told, all the possibilities that lay waiting to be explored and changed.
Despite his revulsion at being cosmic entertainment, the prospect of actually changing Star Wars, of fixing the tragedies and preventing the disasters he'd spent fifty years writing around, sent excitement coursing through his consciousness.
The ship was clearly more capable and higher-dimensional than any human, displaying knowledge and abilities that defied comprehension. But it seemed genuinely partnered with him rather than hostile, and that was more than he'd dared hope for.
"Well," he said finally, surprising himself with the steadiness of his own voice, "I guess it's time to stop drawing adventures and start living one."
"That's the spirit! Now, we need to make a stop for some... upgrades... before we proceed to your destination." The ship lurched forward, heading toward something that made Cass gasp in recognition and awe.