For Bespin Bash 2016.
Not necessarily secondary-canon compliant; original characters and settings are my own.
The scenes are all set in different timelines from each other, and are sorted chronologically by point of divergence from "canon" (in some cases it's my own headcanon that's being diverged from, admittedly). Some of it alludes to my other fics but this should be able to stand alone.
N1-T5 was not much good in a fight. The old astromech could hardly hold a blaster with any competence, and if it was called upon to serve as gunner in the middle of a space confrontation, was prone to freeze up and go into panicked loops. Lando Calrissian had learned this fact the hard way when attempting to evade Imperial troops in the secure delivery of some highly combustible biological products near the Mustafar system, with his copilot useless in the fray. There had been no time for the luxury of dah-dits, slowed down from the lightning-speed flashes of binary that droids could process into a pace that a human could transmit. It was all he could do to bark out a few choice words—"shoot, shoot you crazy droid, shoot!"—together with a couple others just in case the first few hadn't quite gotten the urgency of the moment across.
But he'd survived that day, ship and cargo intact. Even N1-T5 had made it down to the planet in one piece, no thanks to its own ability to keep the fleet off their tail. Rather, it was the speed and agility of the Millennium Falcon itself that had seen Lando through once again.
That day was long behind them, and Lando told himself there was no risk of violence breaking out. Indeed, there might even be a chance he could start again, a life free from reliance on N1-T5's aim. Surely, that would be an opportunity worth hedging on?
Lando glanced down at his hand. He was holding the binary suns and the seven of planets. The suits hardly mattered, of course, in Exiles' Union. He'd have better luck getting some quack mystic to read his fortune. Would he keep his ship? Keep his friendship? Which did he value more?
What counted was that Han had had the better start to the game, and had been left with a hand of four cards that round, holding twice the information about what remained on the table. Exiles' Union was occasionally a game of skill when contested among several players, winnowing down the weakest until the final two remained to duke it out. When only two began the competition, though—no matter how many cards they started with—it seemed much more likely that luck would have the last word. Was that why Han had suggested it?
From behind Han, Chewbacca gave a soft whine. The Wookiee language was not one that Lando spoke, but in that moment, only one implication seemed to matter. No matter what happened, Han would land on his feet, if only because he had a soft and loyal right-hand-life-form there to cushion the blow.
Lose, and Lando would have nothing, except N1-T5's forlorn beeps.
He'd have to be careful. A few blinks, as if beating back the glare from his eyes. A few jittery taps of his other hand against the table. Those, Han did notice. "Eh?"
"Nerves," Lando admitted.
Han could only shrug one shoulder in a let's-get-it-over-with way. Lando didn't meet his eyes.
N1-T5 was barely taller than the table itself, and only its top output could flash back, blinking red and yellow. Faster, Lando signalled. And no beeping!
"A ten, between us," he finally declared. Any legal hand in "Firebluff" was an acceptable bid there, though their simplified variant didn't feature as much anteing between rounds as that game.
Han nodded. "Pair of tens."
"Splay," said Lando. They revealed their hands, Lando showing that he had no single ten. Han, of course, was holding the ten of moons, and nodded in appreciation. As far as anyone cared, lucky bluffs were part of the game.
Under the Coruscant Variations, Lando, having declared the challenge, would get to start the next round of bidding. Han gave a quick, practiced shuffle, moons and planets hurtling by at dizzying speed. Lando barely looked at the deck as he cut it and drew another pair. Han had to draw three cards, penalized by Lando's win in the previous round. N1-T5 stood motionless in the light.
"Four," Lando offered.
"Knight," Han responded.
"Pilot?"
"Ah, splay it," Han laughed, but Lando revealed the Moon Pilot, gliding around a cratered satellite, and they were tied. He shuffled as speedily as his friend had, trying not to flinch at the delicate way Han cut the deck.
"Eight," Han called.
Lando froze—it was an opening bluff. Not that the play didn't make sense, but he'd intended to spot Han that round, and space out his wins. He'd already hesitated so long, though, that he wasn't sure what response would look most natural. Finally, he settled on "Two eights."
"Pair of nines?" Han rebutted.
"Splay."
Neither of them had any nines, and their awkward giggles were fortunately dwarfed by Chewbacca's howls of "Clrnkt," which presumably was the equivalent of furless bipeds thinking this is some kind of test of wit.
Lando resolved to declare a "five" for the next round with confidence, assuming he did not actually have one, which he didn't. Han raised to a General, and duly tied the game again after a failed challenge. Then came the delicate part. "Commander."
Han didn't miss a beat. "Pilot."
"Let's see 'em."
Han tossed down the three of rockets. In a larger game, he'd have been able to stay in, playing blind until he failed one more challenge; once Lando controlled all the information, though, there was no point continuing the charade.
Lando exhaled. "Scared me for a minute there."
"I'll say," said Han, stepping away from the table. It was impossible to see what he controlled, below his face. "Good luck getting that piece of junk to shoot straight."
"I'll need it." Lando gathered up the cards. "Used up my luck here, I think." To say nothing, he mentally added, of N1-T5's.
"Drvft," Chewbacca growled, and Lando suddenly felt compelled to draw himself up to his full height.
"Hey, big guy. Easy, there wouldn't be room enough for you in that crate anyway. It barely has space enough for lazy droids."
"Nee-whee-whee?" bristled N1-T5's.
"All right, the cargo bay's probably big enough for you, but you can't tell me Han wouldn't try to squeeze the most profit out of it that he could." They were too similar.
Han shot him a look, then turned back to Chewbacca. "Maybe I will take you up on that trip to Kashyyyk after all."
"Han," Lando began. "You know you're always welcome...around, yeah?" There was no such thing as "here," not when he had a new lease on freedom, on not needing to touch down again.
Han glanced over at him, but it was still with that scrutiny of testing him for bluffs. "Uh-huh," he finally said. "C'mon, Chewie, let's get moving."
Long after they'd begun the slow approach to hyperspace, Lando made his way back to the Millennium Falcon, the ship, his ship. "You did good," he said, and N1-T5 beeped happily.
"Yeah, yeah, I wouldn't sell you for scrap metal."
"Wheer-wheer."
"Nobody would take you, either."
"Kee-o."
Lando handed the deck of cards to the astromech. "Knock yourself out."
Of course the little droid's extremities weren't nimble enough to shuffle them at any kind of useful speed. Still, it was amusing to watch, and the kind of thing one really should be able to automate. If reputable dealers considered it beneath the hands or tentacles of various life-forms to do themselves. If they trusted the subroutines of a droid to not be compromised. Better a droid, maybe, then sentient choices.
When he woke up, he wasn't alone.
Klashe was there, and she was yelling something that didn't sound like the panic of someone fleeing imminent pursuers, and then there were other people piling in, Noroun lumbering, and Eelev, attempting to glide through a door that really didn't fit life-forms with that kind of wingspan. People of Cloud City were alive, and free. Even if Cloud City itself was...
He wasn't sure where it was. Everything felt heavy, like he was sinking into some kind of ground. Or maybe he just didn't want to move his legs.
"Sir!" Eelev chirped.
"What's going on?" he asked. The title didn't feel right until he was sure there was a city left to be administering.
"We're on a lunar base," Klashe explained. "Sculljend."
Some comedown, indeed. "And the Empire didn't follow us here?"
"Hmm, we think some of them tried," Noroun said. "They've got bigger problems to deal with, though."
"Securing," he half-spat the word, "the city?"
The huddled Bespinites looked from one to the other; Klashe must have been deputized the leader in his unconsciousness, because she was forced to admit, "Yes."
"What numbers do we have left?" They had to still be on the scale where they could deal with numbers, not just names. He refused to consider alternatives. There would be time to mourn, later.
"Not enough to attack immediately. But we were never going to be able to do that, anyway, they'll have enough reinforcements there to control all the standing arsenal."
"But we know the terrain," came Eelev's singsongy voice from above.
"What terrain?" snapped Noroun. "You get as much altitudinal variance here as you do on a space station orbiting Coruscant. There's no advantage."
"Give it time," said Klashe. "Once the rest of the population sees how tyrannical the Empire is, they'll realize we were right all along and be primed to support us. That's when we come back."
A wince of pain shot through Lando's right arm, which had been tightly braced. "Can we afford to wait that long?"
"You certainly can, boss, you're not going anywhere in that shape," Eelev pointed out.
"Then go without me, as soon as we have the resources."
Klashe shot him a look.
"Do you think I'm looking forward to the idea of being stuck here while other people go and fight for our city? Of course not! But I'm just one person, I think anyone who's healthy should be trying to head back as soon as it makes sense. No sooner."
"No sooner?" Noroun echoed. "What happened to luck?"
"You tell me," Lando tried to lift his arm up, "can't remember the last few...days?"
"All the ways you had to learn that the planet doesn't revolve around you and your luck, it had to be by crashing us into the moon."
"Not helping," said Eelev. "We haven't heard any news of your friends, I'm sorry."
"My friends?" Lando blurted. "Daylig's squadron? Trushlew's? Where is everyone else?"
"They're regrouping," Klashe said, "here and off-world. Don't worry, some of us have better priorities than standing guard over you."
It didn't ring entirely false, although she didn't sound very enthusiastic about the quantities of available troops either. "Then...?"
"Solo and Organa. I fear the worst."
"As if we need another reason to charge back in there," said Noroun.
For a moment he wondered if "Organa" meant something to him, but whatever half-forgotten memory it summoned up was ephemeral next to thoughts of the friend who'd gotten him, and by extension everyone else, into the whole mess to begin with. Had the Empire, amid all the other problems before it, finally taken an interest in prosecuting wayward bounty hunters? It was almost enough to make him appreciate taking up an office job.
"No," Lando said. "Odds or no odds, I'm not risking you against those forces just to try and rescue two old friends, so skip the sympathy. Until I get debriefed on what I missed, anyway."
"It's only natural—" Eelev started.
"But," Lando said, "there are a whole lot more than two Bespinites gonna be living under the Empire's thumb if we don't move fast."
"This doesn't really change what we're focusing on," Klashe began rattling off to Noroun, "if anything, it makes it clearer." Lando began to wonder just how many times she'd given that speech in his absence.
"We'll deal with that later," said Eelev. "Do you think you can eat?"
"Maybe," Lando said, testing his left arm. It hurt too, but at least he could move it. "Is there anything decent?"
"By the standards of this place, sure," Noroun said. "That isn't saying much. Let me look." He stomped down the hall.
Eelev flutted over, glancing down at Lando's arm. "I don't know if you'll be holding a blaster any time soon. Plindon tried to drag you out of the battle when—well, anyway, we weren't sure how to bandage a human. Could get worse before it gets better."
"I don't really need two hands to fly a spaceship."
"That explains a lot," said Klashe.
In spite of himself, Lando laughed till his chest ached (admittedly, not a high threshold). It felt wrong to remember the joyrides that had been one of the unexpected perks of leadership, trapped in a lunar medbay, but Noroun wasn't there to criticize him.
He couldn't bring himself to wonder whether Han would have done the same in his position, but told himself that hangup was unimportant. The real absurdity was Han Solo in his position to begin with, administering a facility as complex as Cloud City's.
But maybe when he was stronger, he'd put effort into the work of imagination. Nobody was going to tell him he was too weak to do that. He had a feeling they'd all be needing something to laugh at in the days ahead.
"Sir," Sealmiu pleaded, "hear me. I come because I know you are merciful, I want no fight with you nor with—the Empire. But I do believe there is a threat, you must listen to me!"
"Silence," said the Baron.
Sometimes the windows of the Cloud City Chamber of Justice were transparent to the all-encompassing skylines, but even though she had come by day, the room was dark. A row of guards, homegrown, Imperial, and mercenary alike, had secured the doors. They knew that behind Sealmiu's bionic augmentations was a keen human mind, and despite her young age, it wasn't the first time she'd shown up on the city's radar. It was, however, the first time she'd secured an audience with Baron Calrissian himself.
"Can you produce this alleged 'evidence'?" he went on.
"I can," she said, "but I need your word that your guard won't strike."
"How naive do you think I am?"
"Let me explain," she rushed. "I was recently...scrounging for some way to defend myself, at a warehouse near Daw Murrvim's territory."
"So you admit you were trespassing?" He intended more to press her for reactions than to uphold Murrvim's right to possession; the gasboss may have been a loyal Imperial, but he clearly cared more about profiting from selling a drink or two on the side than making sure his lackeys were sober enough to secure the area and check for loose goods. That could have explained many things.
"So I came across an abandoned weapon, and I got concerned—it looked like nothing a good soldier would have, and I was afraid there might be rebellion fermenting."
"How naive are you? Bounty hunters looking for an edge up, security guards needing to keep clients in line, experimental troops on special ops, you can't think of anyone else who might need secret weapons? Come back when you're smart enough for those gizmo arms you wear."
"It isn't like that."
"And you wouldn't keep it for yourself?"
"If I kept it for myself I don't know if the Empire would let me live." Her face was still human, voice nasal and afraid.
Lando glanced over at the guard. "At ease," he barked, more for her benefit than theirs. They adjusted their stances to no practical effect, but the act of stomping around seemed to calm her down. She really must have been young. Probably that meant it was nothing of consequence, and she could be dismissed...
Sealmiu reached for the bulky carrying case she'd brought with her, big enough to hold a small bomb, and Lando glared. Then she produced a smaller beaded bag from within its depths. Within that, nothing more or less than a small silver tube.
"Yes?"
"I—do you recognize it?"
He squinted. "Are you able to provide a demonstration without causing anyone harm?"
"I need your word that you won't take reprisals. Please, I just want to protect the city."
He turned away, pacing the hall. "No one will hurt you so long as the weapon does no damage. I know that you respect the guards' authority."
Nodding, she tapped at the weapon, and a gash of blue light split the air. Tinjang, a lanky, monopode alien guard, gave a soft moan, and Sealmiu flinched.
"Enough!" Lando said, and she immediately darkened it.
"You understand?" she asked. "I couldn't just keep it."
Without looking at her, Lando indicated one of the guards near the end of the row; Dorelveer, a chameleoid whose scales naturally rippled through several different shades of color depending on her body temperature and emotions. Fortunately, her species was rare in Cloud City, and he was willing to gamble that Sealmiu wouldn't be used to them—and that Dorelveer would play along with his bluff. "Do you see the Tisnoid over there?"
"Of course..."
"She's a low-level empath and will know if you're lying, so answer this next question very carefully. Was there anything else with the weapon?"
"What? No!"
"No scabbard? No—corpse?"
"Nothing but Murrvim's bottles."
"Good answer," he said. "You did well to come here. We'll make sure that the area is patrolled more securely in the future, but there's nothing to worry about. Trouble would be if this were in the hands of someone who wanted to use it against—the government, and I don't see any of them around here, do you?"
"No, sir."
"I'll make sure this is destroyed." What else was he going to do with it, mail it to Darth Vader? They weren't exactly holonet-pals. If the Sith Lord wanted a new lightsaber, he could get his own.
"I can't thank you enough, sir. I'll just be going?"
"I should say not!"
She froze up.
"You're still a self-professed trespasser—oh, don't give me that—or the next best thing to one, anyway. I'm not going to let you walk free. I think we have a more suitable punishment in store for those who root up stray artifacts."
"You're saying I should have kept it, made myself a target?"
"I'm saying I want you on staff." At her expression—still astonished, but this a freezing that dared to thaw—he went on, "You clearly have some useful skills, and I'd feel more comfortable knowing they were being used on...the city's behalf. There's no way I'm ever going to trust someone who goes digging around back of Murrvim's and invests in those kinds of augmentations, not completely. But I'm sure we can set some terms that'll at least make it worth your while to consider it." If nothing else, she was a fair sight braver than Tinjang.
She nodded. "Make me an offer."
The details hardly mattered at that point. Where else was she going to go? She feared the city too much.
Even the hyperspace routes to Bespin were poorly travelled, by Imperials or underground voyagers alike. In real space, the same laws applied to everyone; nothing could travel faster than beams of light. Everything else had to take its time, and memories were shunted to the past, trapped behind the distance of years.
"Do you have a minute?" asked Mon Mothma.
"Aaaah," said Lando, because he was pretty sure that "a minute" was not going to translate to any standard galactic measurement of time even by the most generous standardization factors, "sure."
"Thank you," she said, and gave a forced smile. What smile wasn't forced? They were living in a war, the galaxy shrinking around them every day.
"The Alliance has been briefed on your recent exploits—" He braced himself to give any defense he can muster. How did she think she recruited as many competent soldiers as the rebellion boasted by then, who learned to survive under the Empire's gaze? Did she think Han Solo was some kind of paragon? So ready was he to spar back that he almost missed the second half of the sentence. "—and if you're willing to put up with some kind of organization, we could use a qualified general to command the assault on the Death Star."
Lando blinked. "A general? Me?"
"It's only natural, you've surely earned a distinguished rank. People look to you as a leader."
He laughed, and it was hardly forced at all. "I think we've seen that me fitting into a normal hierarchy is a recipe for disaster."
"Oh, well, between you and me I didn't say we were normal, did I?"
She had him there. "This Death Star, you say, it's a huge...space station? Like the one Luke blew up?"
"Indeed."
"And you think it's operational now? Still under construction? Who's all there?"
"The intelligence briefings didn't go into detail about station personnel, but the weapons are not yet operational. We expect it to still be under construction."
"So we could be dealing with Imperial military? Stormtroopers? Contractors, even?"
"None of them at the range likely to engage you, only fighter pilots running interference. I'm sure a little evasive action isn't beyond your abilities."
He nodded, but all he could remember was Cloud City. What would its citizens have been classified as? Cooperators? Mercenaries? All of them forcibly offered grandiose opportunities, and denied many more, based on forces they could not control. "With all due respect, ma'am, I think Luke's experience is what you need for this run."
"There's no need to be modest."
"I'm not. But—for better and for worse, I really have been taking an administrative, behind-the-scenes role. Your best chance is with someone young and fresh enough not to question his instincts. I mean, the man has magical powers! There's luck and then there's skill."
Mon Mothma considered the idea. "I'll see what he thinks."
Luke, apparently, didn't think much of Mon Mothma's suggestion. He'd brushed off the idea when Han had put it to him, apparently, and against that, what chance did Lando stand? Even Leia reported back that she had spoken to him, tried to remind him that he was once again the Alliance's best hope, and he had merely shuddered before committing. Then, said Leia, Luke turned as if listening to someone who wasn't there. "I almost thought..." she began.
"What?" Lando asked. "Some Force thing, yeah?"
"It must have been," she said. "Anyway, he says he'll do it. But don't push your luck."
"I won't," said Lando. It wasn't like he could blame anyone else for not wanting to accept the responsibility of blowing up a space station. Perhaps it was easiest to place the task on Luke's shoulders and assume that burdens, too, followed the laws of diminishing returns.
Luke did, however, get a flashy-looking pin, which was enough to make Lando reconsider his decision for a split-second before turning his mind to more weighty inquiries, like how the rebellion mustered the time and resources to invest in snazzy pins that deep in the middle of nowhere. And that was before one of the Alliance generals addressed Han as an equal. Strike team? What strike team?
But then Chewie had growled his allegiance, and Leia had volunteered, and Lando didn't have to look up to feel Mon Mothma's eyes on him. Hesitate then, and there would be no further chance.
Killing the troopers who were trying to shoot at his friends? That was something he figured he could still do. "Come on, you really think I'd miss all the fun?"
Chewbacca howled what Lando could only hope was approval, and Han just shook his head. "You're really not going to like the first step."
"What in orbit's the first step? Usually it takes me until at least the third step to start hating your plans." Lando noted, with some amusement, Leia was not fast enough to completely hide her smile.
"We let Luke borrow the Falcon."
"Whoa, whoa. Who's 'we'? I'm pretty sure I'd know if I had any more of a—stake—in that old piece of junk." In all the debts Han had undoubtedly racked up in it over the years, more like.
"We're...the rebellion," said "General Solo." "Aren't we?"
"Luke's part of it too," said Leia, as if trying to convince herself. "If the Falcon's the best way to take down the Imperial station, he'll see reason."
Or was she just confused about whatever Han's we meant in the context of him-and-her? That was the last thing the rebellion needed. "Right," Lando nodded. "If you say so."
Lando learned a lot about all his fellow passengers aboard the Tydirium that day. That, despite skepticism from every quarter, Han was right when he figured their crew would be unobtrusive enough to get waved through the shield even with an expensive and outdated code. "Something about interstellar trade; the value of the encryption doesn't depreciate as fast as the...hyperspace adjustments," he swore, "it has to work." R2-D2 only beeped and fidgeted, but they made it through.
That C-3PO's six million forms of communication included even the language of the Ewoks. "Perhaps it would be better if you did not partake of human flesh. After all, I cannot enjoy this with you, and it feels a bit of a waste to do so in my honor," he suggested, at first to no avail. But just when all seemed lost, as the chief had raised the spear to Han's throat, a sudden rainstorm had arisen above the camp, wild lightnings striking beyond the boundaries of the Ewok village. "Shelter! Please!" C-3PO demanded. "Before I rust!" The Ewoks, interpreting this as a divine request, had reluctantly paused their feast to drag him inside a stone hut, against his flailing. By the time the storm subsided, the organic guest of honor, Leia herself, was nauseous and in no condition to eat anything either. After deciding by squabbling consensus that it was The Munificent Threepio's will that the prisoners be released, the Ewoks eventually consented to hear him relay the account that had brought them there.
That when battle was breached, Chewbacca was a far more palatable ambassador of advanced technology to the Ewoks than C-3PO could ever hope to be. They had no trouble aiming their bows to parallel his, and exulted to see him commandeer a walker, turning the stormtroopers' own weapons against them. Fur and laser alike moved with precision through the woods, wreaking devastation on anything that got in their way.
And that Leia's aim with a blaster had improved considerably, over the years. Or at least, that her hesitation had died away. Perhaps of all of them, she had the least reason to falter, and could brace every shot with unquestioned loyalty. No matter how long it had taken her to reach that point, it seemed to be a slow but direct journey, with no extraneous casualties in her path that didn't have a very good reason for being there. But what did Lando know? He was too busy trying to deal with what he'd asked for: a shot at fighting one battle at a time, piling charges on the shield until it burned.
By the light of day, it wasn't always possible who was having the better of it beyond the atmosphere. Between the Ewoks and the Stormtroopers that had awaited them at the shield site, they'd fallen far behind schedule. But Luke and all the luck the Falcon had built up could handle some delays, couldn't they? Lando told himself again and again Luke was the right man for the cause, but he knew better than to trust his own speech.
Then an enormous Imperial ship drifted into view. It hardly looked like a Death Star at all—a Super Star Destroyer, if Lando knew the type. Still, he dared to hope that its presence meant the Empire was not controlling the flow of battle. Was it just a trick of the light, or was that really a rebel fighter arcing towards it, far too fast to stop? For a moment, both the great ship and the small seemed to burn with the same light—then they were gone, and Lando tore his eyes away before the afterimage could scar him.
"You don't think—" he began.
"That's not a Death Star," Leia snapped, "you saw the schematics."
"Maybe they reorganized their design to one that actually works!"
Han said nothing, only pointed behind them. Leia immediately whirled, blaster at the ready. "Easy, Princess," said Han. "Look up."
That was a Death Star, and it, too, was crumbling. For a moment, their sounds filled the air—Chewbacca's growls, R2-D2's beeps, the Ewoks' trills, and everything in between—and for once needed no translation.
Later, much later, a sleepless crew of rebels began making landfall. "The remaining squadrons need to detoxify as many invasive minerals as possible," Mon Mothma explained. "The impact of all these spaceships on a small moon is likely to be mildly destabilizing, but sustainable. Besides, I suppose most of them will cancel each other out."
"Remaining squadrons?" Han echoed.
"We sustained heavy losses," she went on. "Some unavoidable, others—well. I think a more devastating blow was struck to the Empire here than anyone expected."
"What do you mean?" Leia asked.
"Thanks to the heroic initiative of Wedge Antilles, it appears that both the Emperor and Darth Vader were killed aboard their ship today."
"How splendid!" said C-3PO.
Mon Mothma almost looked as if she was going to give a measured answer, but then turned back to a holomap. "Let's turn this planet around first, and hope the rest of the galaxy follows."
"Don't have to tell me twice," said Lando.
"Hey." Han had approached Luke, who was sitting in a corner, staring at nothing. "That was—two in a million, now."
Luke glanced up and looked past him, nodding at Leia. "We need to talk. Sometime."
"Okay," said Han. "That's fine. Whatever."
"Uh-huh?" Leia, who had already begun talking with Mon Mothma about the detoxification efforts, squinted.
Lando decided he was going to drink to Wedge's memory as soon as possible.
"Sealmiu Guldwynim," Justice Coorwen said, "you have been accused of the murder of Kapling Hhunngh. How do you plead?"
An impossible silence filled the chambers. Impossible, because Lando could not fathom why Sealmiu was taking so long to answer. There would surely be drone evidence of her presence in the district where the kapling's body had been found. More to the point, she had been caught in possession of a weapon only the kapling had had rights to. Plenty of witnesses would swear to their connection. Witnesses that came as high-up as they got in Cloud City.
And Sealmiu was smart. Not for nothing was she feared as a deadly bounty hunter. She had to be aware of the case against her. So why would it take her so long to concede the point?
"I believe I will be justified," she finally said, "in every action I took."
"Do you admit to bringing about the death of Kapling Hhunngh?"
She only paused for a moment. "I do."
A murmur spread throughout the courtroom. What, short of an instantaneous guilty plea so everyone could go home or to a concert or to wherever they really wanted to go, were the onlookers really expecting?
"Proceed."
Sealmiu began attempting to summarize the character of the recently-deceased kapling, interrupted very frequently by the urbseeker, Clert. Most of his objections were sustained by Coorwen. While indeed, alluding to Hhunngh's recent history might have been helpful in swaying public opinion—few people in Cloud City actually seemed to have been fond of the way the kapling had paced the city, arsenal on display—it had little relevance to a court of law. So far, it seemed as if Sealmiu would be compelled to stick to her own actions.
"When we met that day, the kapling began threatening me," explained Sealmiu. "It pulled the weapon on me and wouldn't let me go. I had to shoot in self-defense."
"Was anyone else around?" Clert cross-examined.
"Of course not, I'd have called for help!"
But it meant nobody else could vouch for her conversation, either. The drone footage was even more incriminating than Lando had realized; the two bounty hunters had been jawing in conversation at 17:26. On the next buzzby, four minutes later, the kapling had produced the weapon. But in the three-second interval for which the drone had been monitoring that region, neither seemed to be moving towards each other. By 17:34, Hhunngh was dead, and Sealmiu and the weapon were gone.
The burden of proof then shifted to Clert to demonstrate that Sealmiu was unlikely to have been acting in self-defense, that her claim was untrustworthy, and that the lull on the tape was evidence that the kapling had not initiated conflict. For all anyone else could know, it had been Sealmiu who had demanded to see it, before becoming enraged and producing her blaster. Sealmiu in turn objected to anything that was overimaginative speculation, and Coorwen sustained most of these as well. Both the justice and the urbseeker spoke rapid-fire, unhesitating in their parallel quests.
"The city," Clert announced, "will summon Lando Calrissian."
Yet another wave of shifts in place, spreading until it got muted by the dampening walls, with no chance for any other news to constructively interfere. Could the renowned administrator really have been a witness to murder?
Not exactly. Instead, Clert called the minds of the court to a night satellcycs prior. Could Lando explain where he'd been on that, seemingly far less fateful night?
The long delays at the beanery, the alien bartenders in elaborate, beaded uniforms. The quick, melodic undercurrents of Dushao's voice. The billiptic players upstairs arguing about whose turn it was to buy the next game. "Siomnac's."
And what happened to him there?
"I was approached by two individuals who trusted my authority to resolve a civil dispute."
Under penalty of perjury, could he identify them?
"The late Kapling Hhunngh, and the defendant."
Did he resolve the issue?
I thought so. "Yes."
What were the specifics of the case?
"A question of contract law. Sealmiu had hired the kapling to help clean and set up a new building she'd bought. The kapling found that lightsaber—"
He saw a lightsaber that day?
"A lightsaber, yes."
He might proceed.
I never learned the kapling's name. They rarely identify themselves as individuals away from their own kind, and they're so hard to pronounce. "Hhunngh wanted to keep it instead of throwing it out. Sealmiu wouldn't pay, she thought it belonged in a collection or something like that."
And how did he rule?
Whatever it would take to get me out of there in time for Dushao's next concert. "If the contract said the kapling could dispose of anything Sealmiu didn't want, the lightsaber was Hhunngh's for the taking. Hhunngh should have kept it."
Did Sealmiu ever go ahead and pay the contract?
"I don't know. After I gave the interpretation, they left."
So he had no pledge that they would abide by his ruling?
Sealmiu didn't seem particularly happy about the decision. But it wasn't like I expected to see either of them again. "Only that they gave their word."
"No further questions," said Clert.
His testimony was a dark sun, and Clert built another story revolving around the truth of days past. Sealmiu, embittered by the outcome, might well have sought out the kapling for herself, hoping to keep the streets clear of the dangerous alien who dared to carry the weapon of the ancient Jedi without any skill in the Force to match. Perhaps she had asked whether Hhungh still carried the fascinating artifact, demanding another glimpse for cultural edification, and only then produced her own. Sealmiu clung to her original story. Like a comet, starting from the same truth but then pointing in a different direction? Or a space station, artificial and liable to be blown out of the sky?
After a day of seclusion, Coorwen emerged with the answer. "Sealmiu Guldwynim, this court has found you guilty of unconscionable murder. As a violent criminal, you are sentenced to life in a maximum-security prison, or, pending behavior evaluations, guarded alternatives—"
"The corpjails?" Sealmiu snapped. "Those mines are a death sentence!"
She was once again a biased source, but it wasn't entirely made up. Thanks in part to the zeal of the law enforcement, Cloud City had very few high-risk offenders and correspondingly few places to put them, a void in part filled by the free market. Some corporations were willing to shelter miscreants in the long term provided that a few "rehabilitants" could be spared to assist on repairs in the gas mines, on tasks where droids couldn't fit. True, mortality was high, but some said it broke up the monotony. Whether a known bounty hunter had cause to complain was questionable.
Still, between Clert and Coorwen, nobody could say that Cloud City hadn't gotten two committed bureaucrats. Maybe they even made up for Lando's...shortcuts. It would be better if Dushao would still meet his eyes, but one couldn't have it all.
On her way out, Sealmiu turned, and once again her voice from behind the augmentations sounded all-too-biological and vulnerable. "What about—the lightsaber?"
Coorwen froze, faced with his turn to answer in the spur of the moment. "It's caused the city enough grief already. It will be destroyed."
"Look," said Lando, "let me handle this one."
"You think I can't handle this?" Han gasped. "It's almost like you don't trust me or something."
"Of course I trust you. There's no one else I would trust, if my back was against a wall, or an asteroid, or I had to pull off some kind of miraculous escape, moonshot run, you know? Don't answer that, of course you know."
Han looked mildly appalled at being silenced, but didn't press the issue.
"However, this isn't any of those things. We just need a little loan to help us get by. Couldn't be easier. Save your luck for when it matters, and I'll make do."
Han raised his eyebrows. But that was the trouble with the outer rim—the loan sharks were vicious. Especially those that weren't all that selachian-looking (though those that were, who had relatively few customers to pay them visits, were usually somewhat tolerant to encourage repeat clients). "Whatever you say. Assuming that this doesn't really matter, do I have enough in our budget for a drink?"
"Yes. One. Drink it yourself or buy it for someone cute, it's your call."
Han gave a nod, then climbed the steps to the Clubhaus.
Lando paced around for five minutes, hoping that no one would associate them—just in case. The rest of the neighborhood was equally unassuming. Almost every building was set with tall runoff pipes, emblazoned with the insignia of beasts native to the islands in the planet's northern hemisphere. They collected rainwater that would be prevalent in the wet season. The Clubhaus featured lots of fish spiraling around, and he wondered how many of those creatures could survive swimming through liquid as rarefied as that served inside the walls.
Finally, he followed a pair of droids into the establishment, and paced into the back, where he could meet his contact. "Evening, Calrissian."
"Evening, Verik." She was short for a human, and he didn't think any all-human could get hair that shade of blue, but it wasn't his business to ask.
They exchanged formalities—he'd already detected the weather as "dry," and she didn't seem responsive when he threw out teasers of other planets he'd been lucky enough to visit in his travels. It was time to talk business. "Kanjiklub can spot you forty thousand credits for two of our planecycs."
It wasn't a terrible start, but it wouldn't do for what he had in mind. He nodded slowly. "How much can I get for one?"
"For one? Any more than thirty, and we'd need to start talking about installing a transmitter for some kind of regular communication, or more restrictive penalties..."
"Of course." He didn't think they actually wanted to expend any effort or resources on such a technological venture any more than their clients wanted the intrusion, but they had to start somewhere before negotiating it away. More likely, the interest fees from those who failed to meet the terms would be the real threat. "What about twenty-five?"
"Twenty-five?" Verik didn't seem used to people trying to negotiate down with her—coming to her and not desperate for more credit, more time. But Lando needed someone to hold himself and Han accountable, and Kanjiklub, for all the resources at their disposal, didn't prioritize functional hyperdrives.
"I'm willing to negotiate."
Kanjiklub's idea of negotiation involved haggling down the last 611 credits, exactly, because Verik's immediate superior thought the new contract "more auspicious," then having her conduct an "inspection" of their freighter to make sure it could withstand any rigors of interstellar travel (at least, for one planecyc). She rapped on hulls, drummed her fingers on defense systems, and gave cursory notice to the existence of large and secure compartments. It was none of her business what Lando and Han were carrying within; if it could turn a profit and make sure her loan was repaid, all the better. She shot Lando a knowing smile before whipping out a crude magnetic detector and scanning the ship. In a way, it almost reminded him of his previous job in Cloud City, testing ships for safety. Maybe Verik had the better of it. At least she could quantify just how long she expected the cargo bay to hold together for it to be worth her time. Once they left planet, Lando and Han only would be names on a contract, if that.
"We'll sign," she finally decreed.
Lando examined the terms once more. It was worth the trouble to read carefully, to avoid a repeat of the Naboo catering debacle. "When the planecyc is up, you'll be able to meet us on any of these...nine planets?"
"Are these not to your suiting? We may be able to send representatives elsewhere, but—"
"No, no. I'm impressed at your coverage." He'd thought simple honesty would win him points, but admitting that the not-so-backwards syndicate was more than they seemed gave them just one more bit of power over him.
Verik played it off with a shrug, and he continued examining the fine print. They'd have to be smart about how they managed the credit, but two heads were smarter than one. Three if he counted Chewie.
"You're on."
"Here you go!" She produced a pen made from a strange feather, a bizarre contrast to the portaprint paper the contract was written on. Lando paused a moment—no, it wasn't the best deal he could get, not with all the sway and influence each of them still held, somewhere.
But they couldn't put a price tag on the thrill of the flight, on the ability to enjoy nights like those and haggling for its own sake, far from the blinding core of the galaxy. Han had told him they couldn't try to get a loan on Bespin. There were too many memories there, for both of them.
Lando Calrissian, he signed—nothing else—but then a parenthetical (Han Solo, Chewbacca).
Nen Verik, she wrote, and continued with such gusto he was a little worried she was going to display the names of every one of her fellows. Instead she settled on an enormous KANJIKLUB and left it at that.
"Thank you," he said. "See you in a planecyc."
It didn't take long to find Han, who was at the bar and had indeed ordered one drink. It was for a new acquaintance, of a decidedly masculine character. "Lando, I have great news," Han said, "I think this is the break we need."
"Is that so?" Lando said. "I already—"
"Bala-Tik here put up seventy-five thousand credits, for two planecycs! All we gotta do is baby-sit some pets."
"Since when are you in charge of finances?"
"Since Bala-Tik made me this offer. Look, it'd be crazy not to—"
"Crazy or a breach of contract that you've already signed?"
"Well, both."
Bala-Tik looked up from his drink and snickered.
"All right, all right. We'll just settle the loan I took and get moving, yeah?"
"What's the rush? Could be useful for contingencies. Backup—pet litter."
Bala-Tik gave a belch and teetered on his stool. Han stood up and backed away, Lando quickly stepping away from the bar as well. "Where are we supposed to pick these things up?"
"Spithnyak."
"Spithnyak? Who goes to Spithnyak?"
"People who want to make seventy-five thousand credits."
As they headed towards the exit, Verik caught Lando's eye again. "You're a friend of Bala-Tik's?"
Han sized up the situation in time to answer "I wouldn't exactly say that—" just as Lando was saying "No."
"One planecyc, Calrissian. Be there."
Lando had never had much occasion to be jealous of those who used the Force. Warriors who were pressed into service under the orders of the old republic were a mere childhood memory, and overheard conversations about ancient faiths and mystical powers were something to laugh with Han about.
As for Darth Vader, he was someone to minimize contact with if at all possible, and then Luke Skywalker had shown up on some telepathic quest and been rewarded with a missing limb for his trouble. Lando, and everyone else, had let that lightsaber fall forgotten. But when it showed up again, even the fear of a hypothetical Force-sensitive being burdened with the thing was enough for him to want it off his planet.
And even then, even having seen Luke and Leia's bond work wonders above Cloud City, and even having seen the almost-as-miraculous way that it slowly but steadily helped Luke regain footing on solid ground, in the crags of the Resistance outposts on D'Qar and then Arandaj, he was not sure he would have traded places with a Jedi if he could have. No matter how tempting it might be to be shirk the duty he'd backed into, there were responsibilities that the heightened senses of Leia and the Jedi ironically made them less suitable for.
Scouting the First Order's rumored gravity disruptors was such a task. The weapons were orders of magnitude smaller than Starkiller Base, but according to the specs Finn's crypto team had intercepted, they could neutralize the artificial gravity on a ship, rendering the crew helpless in deep space. If the technology was scalable, there was no knowing what it could do in close-quarters combat or deployed against larger-scale targets.
Force-sensitive individuals, the Resistance had agreed, were likely to maintain their balance even under adverse conditions—but less likely to realize when it would be safe or unsafe for everyone else. Moreover, their emotional abilities made them more of a risk to be identified by telepathic adversaries. It didn't seem like a project Kylo Ren himself would be guarding, but there was no telling whether one of the other elusive "Knights of Ren" were nearby. The investigation called for stealth.
And even at his age, he could still tread lightly. More to the point, so could Poe Dameron.
He had not expected to meet someone who would come to know his mind and heart so intimately, not after being pulled back to the same thankless stint too many times to count. But Poe had broken through the clouds and drawn him back into the world of rebellion. After the satellcycs they'd spent together, Lando felt like he knew without speaking when to pull Poe aside rather than let him get lost in thought—concern for his friends or futile resignation to fight in their shadow. If only because Poe would do—had done—the same for him.
Then there were the days where there was no need for silence, where Poe would dazzle with a lightning-fast rendition of The Ballad of Droid LY-05 or persuade Lando to reminisce about the Empire over a round of Firebluff. Despite Poe's awe of General Organa, he was prone to tuning out if Lando humanized the legend, so he wound up cracking jokes at Luke's expense instead. He could be seen warts and all, their honorary third in the exclusive fraternity of planet-destroyer-destroyers—even if he didn't want to attend any of the fraternity's other private meetings.
Not that, in hyperspace, they could get up to anything they didn't want the new-model droids recording. KT-7 lurched on its spindly tripod legs, R8-G1 slowly raised its modular head to peer around a corner, and VA-3 was resting in a low-power mode. BB-8, of course, had no particular training for the mission, but had refused to be left behind.
"Dah-dit, didididit dah," Lando muttered, almost out of habit.
No response. Of course, it was running one of those new compressed algorithms.
"Don't tell me that's what they call music on Bespin," Poe said without turning, faux-scandalized.
"It's not."
"Do I want to know?"
"Mmm." Lando walked across the deck (which wasn't very far), holding Poe's arms in his. "Do you?"
"I guess there are other things I'd rather know. What's Bespinite for gravity disruptor?"
"Windstorm?"
"Sounds like a bunch of hot air to me."
Lando bent down, giving Poe a quick kiss on the cheek. Let the droids try to parse that if they would. R8-G1 barely seemed to understand human body parts, or at least that they couldn't just be detached and replaced without incident (to be fair, it had been trained by Luke, which couldn't have helped).
But what they lacked in conceptual knowledge of biologicals, the theory went, they made up for in transmission power. Even as a failsafe, they'd be able to record the weapon data.
No, no point worrying about plan B. They could get it right the first time.
The first test was making landfall, which at least proved the First Order didn't have anything they could deploy with impunity at a distance. From there, it was a short walk to what their maps told them should have been the entrance to a geistmet tunnel system. BB-8 had taken the initiative to scout ahead, and whirred to suggest that the nearest access point was in fact in the opposite direction (or they'd overshot their landing, which wouldn't have been a surprise either).
So they turned and followed the spherical droid, Poe taking the first turn on the speeder bike. It had been impractical to fill the small fighter ship with a full complement of bikes, but most of the droids weren't proportioned to ride them anyway, and the biologicals didn't mind doubling-up if need be. "Can we haul it down the stairs?" Lando suggested.
But Poe had sped ahead, flinging himself into the dark underground—he'd spotted a ramp, and the others were left to troop down in his wake, catching up with him some distance into the tunnel where he'd skidded into a halt. BB-8, holding on the bike for dear connectivity, beeped quietly.
"He says he'll take that as a no," said Poe.
Lando shook his head. "Kids these days."
Poe cleared his throat.
"What? I was talking about the droidspeak. I can't keep up."
"Maybe you need a turn on the speeder."
BB-8 turned on his lighter, then held it up by what had once been a map of the underground. KT-7 swivelled and leaned in one direction, pointing one of its legs that way.
"All right," said Poe. "Let's go."
The underground transit had been well-developed enough on the rocky planet that they'd continued to evolve and thrive even as new technologies flourished high above ground. It was only the First Order's arrival and sudden co-opting of the technological resources there that had seen it so fortuitously abandoned. The resistance operatives slowly navigated their way through station after station, nibbling on rations in the dark of the geistmet. There was no sign of any remaining trains—those had been picked over for resources, presumably—but there were some winged mammals zooming through the caverns above them every so often.
KT-7 came to a halt at the bottom of a ramp that looked just like any other, but tapped its legs against the floor instead of proceeding. "Stop doing that, you power drain," fretted R8-G1.
BB-8 beeped inquisitively.
"And don't make me repeat myself."
"This is the place," said Poe. "We ready?"
Beeps and whistles of assent, and Lando's quiet "Yeah. Are you?"
"I mean, I could keep practicing on the speeder until I get a qualifying time for the Interplanetary Games, but—I'm ready."
They took the stairs to the first landing, but the corridors they found seemed almost as dark as the tunnels they'd left behind. "Do we know what time of their day/night cycle it is on this planet?" Lando asked. They'd tried to time it so that even with landing the spacecraft in the early morning and walking between stations, they'd have enough time to look around by their own biological clocks. But that didn't take the local planet into account.
"No. Think there's any chance this is left unguarded?"
"We should be so lucky."
The first door they found led to a washroom. The second, to an empty office with a few computers depowered; R8-G1 and KT-7 stayed back and started trying to hack into them.
The third door was somewhat heavily guarded, and after a quick but silent consultation, their blasters at the ready, they decided it was worth the risk to break through. Inside they found a few long black tables, interrupted by sinks. Nothing immediately stood out of the ordinary.
"Check the cabinets?" Poe suggested, indicating some doors beneath the tables.
Lando nodded, although they just seemed like...cabinets. They were entirely stationary! Perhaps it was a bit unfair—apparently cleaning out the accumulated junk that had built up over the generations from the Resistance's predecessors on D'Qar had been somewhat of a chore—but for a mobile smuggler, it looked rather low-grade.
All the same, they began rummaging through. "Found some blasters," Poe offered, setting a pile on the table.
"Are you sure?" Lando asked. The weapons looked longer and, once he'd tested the weight of one in his hands, heavier than blasters. Wouldn't advanced weapons researchers want to maximize stealth, not design objects that were harder to hide?
"No," Poe admitted. "But if it looks like a blaster and aims like a blaster—"
"I'd rather not find out whether it shoots like a blaster." Lando tucked the new weapon into his belt.
"I thought you said you didn't want to find out whether it shoots like a blaster."
"Better in my hands than theirs, isn't it?"
Poe shook his head. "You're worse than Finn."
"Anything down here?" Lando crawled into another cabinet, slightly larger than the rest, the kind of place where he'd have stowed a box of explosives on an overfull run. No dice.
And then, unmistakably, the noise that could only be real blaster fire. "The droids!" Poe yelled. Their hacking would have attracted attention... "VA-3, move!"
VA-3 turned around and raced out the void where the door had fallen, a glow of flame at its feet. It took a massive amount of power to charge on the ship, but was half-speeder itself in evacuation mode. Maybe they had been right to plan for failsafes. KT-7 could not have moved as fast, but it should have been able to transmit records of whatever it found on the computer before—
Focus. Lando slid the cabinet door open a crack to try and get a glimpse of the outside. There would be enough guards to overpower KT-7 and R8-G1, two resilient but noncombatant droids. Perhaps they would be stupid enough to assume the missing door had been the droids' work, but somehow he thought even they could make the deductive leap. And Poe—
Poe was not there because of being Poe Dameron, the Resistance's spy; Lando wasn't sure whether the First Order underlings posted there were even the type to recognize him. They certainly would not want to keep him for information.
And for all the jokes they got back on the base, Poe was plenty old enough for him. In a galaxy where death could come at an instant from any spaceship or blaster, planet-destroyer or far-too-old lightsaber, old enough to fight was old enough to die. No one's life was more valuable than anyone else's; if it had come Poe's turn to pluck the wrong string, the young pilot wouldn't have had it any other way. It was their curse and blessing that Lando knew without hearing, without seeing.
Yet he also knew how to win by breaking the rules, and he found himself with a weapon cold in his hand. It looked like a blaster. It aimed like a blaster.
He broke forward and shot, and a stormtrooper in the hallway flew up, bouncing his helmet off the ceiling and hitting the ground with a dull moan. So. There were gravity weapons, after all.
Hopefully word would reach the Resistance. Carefully taking aim, Lando fired two more shots. One, with the blaster in his weak hand, at a stormtrooper who had turned to see the threat. The other, with the gravity-weapon, at a sharp angle. At BB-8.
The light robot sailed much farther down the hallway, back towards the speeder and whatever VA-3 was finding, and in an instant, Poe was turning to follow. His gaze in the half-second was betrayed, griefstricken, but already, adrenaline guided his feet. Someday, Lando trusted, Poe would forgive him, and by the standards of their lives it wouldn't be a particularly miraculous event.
The stormtroopers moved in, a few scanning the room as if afraid the sudden attack belied a more numerous foe. Their loss. Still, as diversions go, he'd seen more fun ones.
A blaster caught him in the side and he wondered whether it would have been worth it to have felt the gravity weapon himself after all, just for the sense of one last flight.