CHAPTER 10
I.
Boushh paced up and down the short corridor between Slave I's prison compartments and the cargo hold. She paced like a caged animal, radiating anger and turmoil.
It had been a week now, and no word from Boba. She had bribed traffic controllers on Veraant, and in Mos Espa and Mos Eisley. Not one of them had detected any sign of a Firespray breaking atmosphere.
She broke stride and glared at one of the sealed compartment doors. Calrissian was behind that door. Whatever was left of him.
He knew something about Boba. And if he didn't, then he was still responsible for his being missing. Either way, he more than deserved what was coming next.
She produced a tool and thumbed it on. A small blue flame lit at the nozzle.
When this session was over, she would know for sure what he knew. He would beg to tell her everything he'd ever known, and to learn anything else he might be missing.
After all, what other response could there be to having the soles of your feet burned off?
She walked up to the compartment door, sizzling torch in hand. Its blue light bathed her wolfish helmet and reflected brightly off of the narrow visor. She keyed in the door release from a control pad on her belt.
The door slid upwards.
Lando lunged up with it like a vicious animal. His hands were bound at the wrists, and he swung both arms together like a club, smashing Boushh under the snout of her helmet. The blow lifted her off of the floor and she landed flat on her back. Her helmet was knocked off kilter, exposing the flesh of her throat.
Lando leapt onto her, his knees impacting on her abdomen, forcing a sharp wretch from his captor. He brought his arms up over his head, and in his shackled hands he held something small:
The pointed end from Boushh's broken torture stick.
He slammed it down into her jugular.
Boushh spasmed violently, but Lando's weight kept her pinned. After a few seconds, her flailing slowed. A few seconds after that, it stopped completely.
"Go to hell," Lando said hoarsely. He let go of the shiv. He pulled the helmet off.
A long shock of black hair cascaded out onto the deck. Cat-like eyes that had once burned with intensity were now blank and empty.
It was a woman. He had never entertained even a moment's thought that it could be a woman. It wasn't supposed to be a woman. He got off of her and sat heavily on the deck.
"Frack me."
Not many people understood Lando, or rather, not many people understood the beliefs and the code that governed his otherwise unstructured, undisciplined lifestyle.
Lando enjoyed women—just like any other man, only more so. He was generally considered a lady's man by his friends, and a womanizer by those who were not.
There was no arguing that he kept company—made time—whatever euphemism one favored—with a lot of women. Some people saw that as disrespectful.
The way he saw it was that he revered women. He wanted to experience as many women as he could that interested him—that fascinated him.
But whatever anyone made of that philosophy and practice, one point of fact was indisputable: Lando Calrissian never physically harmed a woman. The idea of attacking a woman, abusing a woman, even taking advantage of a woman, was completely repugnant to him. He was not a man who hurt women.
Until now.
He looked at her lifeless eyes, at the wooden stake jutting out of her neck, and felt ill. First Han and now this. Where would it end?
A slight noise caught his attention and he looked off to the right.
The small torch was laying on the deck, its blue flame casting a soft glow on the dark corridor. He slid along the floor to where it lay, and turned it off. He considered for a moment, and then looked back at Boushh.
This was no regular woman. She was going to burn me alive to help her cope with Fett's disappearance. That was what would make her feel better. She was a damned monster.
And with that, he pushed the issue from his mind. He didn't know it was a woman, he would have preferred that it wasn't, but at the end of the day, she got it better and quicker than she deserved. And he had business to see to.
He dragged himself over to the vat of water that he had had the pleasure of experiencing during their last session. He had no idea how long ago that had been, but he knew he hadn't had any water since. He reached a hand in and greedily brought it to his chapped lips. After several swallows, he made himself stop to catch his breath.
With the most immediate threat having been removed, he took a minute to examine his surroundings. He knew he was on a ship. He studied it's interior lines and infrastructure.
I'll be damned. This is a Firespray.
This is Slave I.
Lando, naked, bruised, and bleeding, pulled himself up to standing. All of his muscles were sore—for reasons beyond the obvious. He had spent agonizing hours contorting himself in his cell. He had finally been able to pull his bound wrists from behind his back to under his feet, and then back around front. He had palmed a wooden shard after the last beating. He had been crouched in wait, ready to launch himself in attack. Now the adrenaline was wearing off, and was being replaced by exhaustion.
He hobbled over to the cockpit ladder. He climbed up, emerging just behind the pilot's seat and the main canopy.
They were landed in a dark, rocky canyon. Beyond its walls, at the canyon's mouth, he could see a sliver of desert landscape and bright daylight.
Framed in the center of that view, just above the horizon line, were a pair of blazing suns.
Tatooine.
For having suffered worse than he had ever suffered in his life, this had just turned into one hell of a convenient side trip.
So Fett was on the Pursuer that jumped us at Tal Chora. The ship I felt was safe to pound on because Han would have to be with Fett on his ship.
Which meant that Han was with Fett on the other ship. A badly damaged ship, that now had gone missing. As much as it galled him to pray for Fett's safety, he did so, because it was the only chance of getting Han back.
For now, he needed to get some clothes and some gear, and make his way to Mos Eisley. He needed to get word to Chewie and Lobot, to let them know he was alive and that the plan was in motion. He'd copy Luke on the transmission.
Lando wasn't sure where they were relative to the space port, but he knew he did not want to arrive in a notorious ship like Slave I—that would be of no help in establishing his new identity as a small-time thug. There was also the issue of access. He struck a few keys on the console. As he suspected, everything was locked down, awaiting an access code that had been lost with his former host.
He went back down the ladder to the main hold. He walked around, but could not find any trace of his clothing or effects. Every door, every hatch, and every cabinet was locked.
He walked back over to Boushh's body, and began to search for anything of use. He found the keys to his handcuffs and took them off. She had a vibroblade knife tucked into her boot, but no blaster. Finally, he came up with the control pad. None of the buttons were labeled, or arranged in any obvious fashion.
His dilemma was this: if he started hitting random buttons, there was no telling what type of response he might get. He had to assume some of these keys initiated defensive measures. If he didn't find the one that opened the outer door on the first couple of key strokes, he could end up in a very bad spot.
That being said, he also couldn't just wait around for Fett to show up and find that he'd killed his partner. He would have to roll the dice, just like he always did.
But first, he needed some essentials. He was not foolish enough to try walking out into the desert without clothing or water.
He looked down at Boushh. She was fairly compact—there was no way any of her clothing was going to fit him, at least in its current state. He removed her armor plating, and then, respectfully, he removed her outermost layer of clothing.
His suspicions were correct- nothing came even close to fitting. He pulled the vibroblade from her boot-holster and went to work on the pants and shirt.
When he had finished, he had cut the sleeves off of the shirt and slit it down the front, creating a vest that would protect his back, but left his chest largely exposed. The pants were elastic in nature, and though they were way too short, they covered his lower half to just below the knee. He wrapped the severed shirt sleeves around his head at the ears, and around his neck.
He had no doubt that he looked absolutely ridiculous.
Next, he needed water. There was, of course, a vat full of water at his disposal, but no way to take it with him. He looked around for something to use as a container.
What he ultimately came up with was Boushh's helmet.
He submerged it upside down in the tank, and then lifted it out, water sloshing at the rim. Nothing leaked from the crown. He estimated there were at least a couple of liters within.
And so, with a body partially covered by rags, and what felt like a fishbowl under his arm, Lando took the control pad and aimed it at the outer door. He tapped the first key. No response. He tapped another, and then another.
Gas started hissing out of recessed nozzles in the ceiling.
"Damn it!" Lando held his breath and started frantically hitting buttons.
With a deep clang, the outer door slid up.
He made a dash for it, careful not to spill too much of the water. He made his way down the integrated gangway on the ship's hull and reached the cool rock floor of the shaded canyon. He looked back up the ramp. Green gas was billowing out of the door, but had already begun to fade into a light steam. The tanks must have emptied.
He turned and looked at the mouth of the canyon a few hundred meters away. One of the two suns had already dipped below the horizon. Night was approaching.
As he began walking, he heard the skittering of claws on stone. He turned back and saw a pack of large, dog-like scavengers approach the ship—womp rats, he believed they were called. The gas had largely dissipated, and the leader skulked up the ramp and into the hold. Lando had an idea of what would happen next.
A minute later, the womp rat backed out of the door, dragging Boushh's body by the ankle. When they reached the bottom of the ramp, the rest of the pack converged.
Lando turned back towards the horizon, and ignored the sounds of their feasting.
A minute later, he emerged on the sandy plains of the Tatooine desert. He scanned the terrain, and due east, he could see the faint glistening of a city. Very faint. It was at least fifty kilometers away.
He had spent the last several days having the hell beaten out of him, and this trek seemed like the last thing he could manage. But he had no choice.
When the second sun dropped behind the dunes, he would start walking.
II.
Wedge and Tycho sat across from Hobbie and Janson at a table in Yavin Victory's mess hall.
"I'm just saying there's something off about him, that's all," Janson said.
"Such as?" Wedge asked.
"He's different."
Wedge shook his head. "I think you're just getting tired of having your butt handed to you on a daily basis. I can relate. But there's nothing wrong with him."
Janson chewed quickly and waived his hand back and forth in disagreement. "It's more. That…" he swallowed the bite. "That light in his eyes—the whole 'I'm from Tatooine and I can't believe I'm the big hero' thing that we all love him for—it's gone from him. He's all solemn and business-like." Hobbie nodded in agreement.
Wedge set his fork down and looked at each of them. "Luke had his hand chopped off. His best friend was frozen in carbonite. And now, with this new damn Death Star coming, everyone's looking to him for an encore performance of the biggest fracking miracle in history. I think you might lose some of the spring in your step, too." He picked up his fork and went back to work on his dinner. "We all need to do two things: our duty, and let him pound on us for an hour a day. It's the way he's working through the stress." He looked back up. "He's Luke Skywalker. Give him some time—he'll come around."
Janson looked over at Tycho. "You have any thoughts on this matter, chatter box?"
Tycho continued chewing as though he hadn't heard Wes ask the question. He took a sip from his glass. Wes was about to repeat himself when Tycho began speaking.
"We've met the man on the other side of his moment."
Hobbie almost choked. "What the hell did you just say?"
Tycho explained. "Each of us here have a moment in our lives that shaped us. We had a feeling or an attitude or a direction that was completely changed by one defining event. Wedge wanted to be an engineer or an architect, until the moment when his parents were killed. I wanted to fly for the Empire and be a model citizen, until the government I served destroyed my home and everyone I ever knew and loved." He looked straight at Janson. "The old me—the one you never had the chance to meet—no one ever called him 'chatter box' in jest. You only know me the way I am now… on the other side of my moment."
Janson and Hobbie looked down at their plates silently.
"That's damn right," Wedge said quietly.
Tycho continued. "Something happened on Cloud City much worse than losing a hand, or even a friend. Maybe someday he'll tell us what that was. In any case, the old Luke isn't coming back. The man who's here now is it."
The four of them sat for long moment without speaking.
"Do you think we'll send off Zev and Dack?" Hobbie asked. "Give them their due?"
The send off was a Rogue Squadron tradition. When a comrade fell, the next time the remaining squad was assembled, they'd raise a glass and remember the best things about their lost friend.
"I don't know," Wedge said. "I don't think the boss can deal with it right now. But I think when the time is right, it'll happen."
"How's the food, gentlemen?"
They all looked up in surprise at Commander Luke Skywalker.
"Pretty good," Janson said, looking cautious and guilty.
"I'm glad you enjoyed it, because General Rieekan says there isn't much of it left."
"Are we making a run then, Commander?" Wedge asked.
"That's what we do," Luke answered. "Get a good night's sleep. Tomorrow we're hitting an Imperial supply ship. I'll see all of you in the hangar bay at oh-five-hundred."
III.
Chewbacca and Lobot walked up the Millennium Falcon's gangway without any energy or enthusiasm in their stride. The sun was coming up over the peaks of Veraant's pine-studded mountains, and they had just put in another all-nighter trying to pick up a lead on what happened to Lando. He had gone out to find a sabaac game nearly five days ago, and had never returned.
Their investigation had been problematic to say the least. Very few people could understand the Wookiee language, and Lobot was mute. They ultimately worked out a system where Chewie would grab someone—quite literally—and Lobot would hold up a data pad listing their questions. The individual, at Chewie's urging, would answer each question before being allowed to go on their way.
They had been able to determine that Lando had cleaned out the local high-stakes sabaac game, taken his winnings, and left peaceably. It was generally assumed that if he didn't make it back to his ship, he must have been jumped for the money. Mainport was hardly a sprawling metropolis, and Chewie felt confident that if Lando had been killed, they would have been able to turn up some trace of his body. As it was, he seemed to have simply vanished.
A small part of him—the pessimistic part—couldn't help but wonder if Lando had just taken his winnings and left, leaving the Alliance, the mission, and Han behind to start a less complicated life somewhere else with his fresh pile of cash. He didn't want to believe that, but he had been in this business long enough and been double-crossed often enough that he couldn't take the possibility off of the table.
Chewie walked across the Falcon's sparsely lit main hold. They had gotten the main computer and the hyperdrive back online, but habitat and environmental controls were still being run on emergency power. They would be able to leave this system at any time, but with Lando gone, the plan was shot, and they had no destination. He knew he could always contact Luke and arrange to go back to the fleet, but he couldn't bring himself to make that call—not without an operation to save Han already in motion. That was the very least his life-debt demanded.
He entered the cockpit, and his head knocked into the hanging dice as always. A flashing light on the console caught his eye.
Incoming holonet transmission.
He eagerly dropped into his oversized co-pilot seat and logged into the comm. system. A brief text message appeared.
LC ALIVE. LONG STORY. ARRIVED AT LAST STOP. PROCEED TO LIBRARY AS PLANNED. HIT UP FARMBOY FOR GEAR/MONEY FOR THE TRIP. WILL CONTACT AGAIN IN ONE MONTH. WAIT FOR MY SIGNAL.
And just like that, the game was back on. Chewie howled with elation, and ran back into the hold and threw his arms around Lobot. As it turned out, the cyborg did not like to be hugged. Chewie didn't let that bother him—he knew from experience that human ribs mended quickly.
Within minutes, they had lift off clearance, and had broken through the atmosphere into space. Chewie had used the algorithm Princess Leia had given them to locate the rebel fleet. It would be a long trip, but hopefully, he and Lobot could complete repairs by the time they arrived.
Off in the distance, Chewie spotted a burst of light caused by a ship emerging from hyperspace. He keyed for a scan. When the sensors got a fix, he growled in alarm at the readout.
MANDALORIAN PURSUER-CLASS PATROL SHIP. UNREGISTERED.
It was Fett's partner—had to be. Chewie reached for the defensive systems when a realization struck him: the weapons were all offline.
They would pass each other in less than twenty seconds. Chewie had taken the usual precaution of changing the ship's transponder code before their departure. There was always the chance they could pass for a common Corellian freighter, but the blast marks all over the hull made that unlikely.
In any event, the only other option was to run, but that would be an open invitation for attack. They had to play it close to the vest, and appear to be coming from a position of strength. Besides, they had beaten the hell out of that ship—chances were it was in worse shape than the Falcon.
Five, four, three, two, one.
The Pursuer soared past without making a move. It's hull was scorched as badly as theirs—it was definitely the guy they had tangled with at Tal Chora. Apparently he'd had enough of them and was happy enough to part company quietly.
An indicator to Chewie's right pinged and lit green. They had cleared Veraant's gravity well and could safely execute the jump to lightspeed.
It had only been two weeks since they had left the Alliance, but he was surprised to find how much he missed his friends. In a few days, he would see them again, and then they would take the next step in their plan to free Han.
He pulled back the lever, and the canopy was consumed by star lines.
IV.
Captain Devar walked past the stormtrooper standing guard outside of his cabin and stepped inside. The doors slid shut behind him.
A hard fist cracked him in the face, sending him reeling to the deck. A kick in the ribs lifted him off of his hands and knees and landed him on his back. As he reached for his sidearm, a magenta lightsaber blade ignited, the glowing tip stopping just shy of his face.
He had not had a chance to hit the lights upon entering, but in the muted glow of the saber, he could make out the mouth and cheek bones of a woman's face. An angry woman. He moved his hand well away from his holster.
"Madame agent," he said carefully.
"I'm going to give you a rare opportunity, Captain," Mara said. "You fracked me at Clak' Dor, and when you did that, you did it to the Emperor, because I am his instrument. It's his lightsaber you're cowering under—we're clear on this."
"We are clear."
"Good. This is how it goes: I'm going to let you tell me every aspect of what you did and why you did it and what it leads to, and then I'm going to leave and never come back. If there's any deviation from that scenario, I'm going to take off your hands and feet with my blade, and then slash your comm. system so you can't call for help. Then you'll crawl out of here on blackened stumps squealing for help. I recommend plan A."
"Fair enough," he said calmly.
"Who's operating you? The rebellion?"
"Is that your idea of a joke?"
The saber hummed as she inched it towards him.
Devar's face showed annoyance. "Did you do any research on this ship before you showed up and started ordering its senior officers around?"
"I'm asking the questions."
"Fine, then—I'll educate you. This ship operates at the behest of Lord Vader himself, and has since before the Battle of Yavin. He personally promoted me to captain after Lord Admiral Tion was killed. We captured Princess Organa's ship at Tatooine and brought her to the Death Star for interrogation. On this ship we fight under his banner, and his word is law. And no one is closer to the Emperor than he is—instruments withstanding."
"You're Vader's man, then."
"You're damn right."
"And Vader commanded you to sabotage my mission."
"Right again."
Mara kept her lightsaber trained on him, but looked up for a moment in thought. "But why would Vader want to botch an attack on Rogue Sqaud—
It clicked. She looked down at Devar.
"Skywalker."
He nodded. "All fleet captains are under standing orders to report any operations targeted specifically against Skywalker to Lord Vader. Missions that single out his squadron fall under that category."
"So you reported to Vader. Then what?"
"He said the plan was shortsighted, but had potential. The Rogues were not to be touched, but neither would he waste an opportunity to send them home with a care package."
"The thirty-six TIE fighters?"
"Yes."
She shook her head. Lord Vader was a brilliant strategist, she had to give him that. When the Rogues jumped back to their base, they had brought an entire wing of TIEs with them.
She flicked her wrist, making the blade hum threateningly. "And what else?"
Devar nodded in appreciation. "Very good. Obviously, even a large group of TIE fighters couldn't wipe out the rebellion on its own. But we arranged for something special, as per Lord Vader."
"And that was?"
Devar was under orders not to discuss operational details, but he had no desire to lose his extremities to a short-tempered errand girl—besides, there was nothing she could do to interfere at this late stage.
"There's a single TIE bomber among the fighters. It carries a biological weapon. It will unleash a plague on the rebels and wipe out the core of their command structure—a much greater victory, I daresay, than destroying one mere X-Wing squadron."
"True enough," Mara said. "But what about the issue of Skywalker's survival?"
"The wing commander has orders not to attack until Skywalker is offsite and—
He stopped.
"And what?" she demanded.
"And Organa is confirmed onsite. That last detail was communicated to us by Lord Vader just two days ago."
"Did he give any reason to wait on her specifically?"
He shook his head. "Lord Vader only explains himself to one man in this galaxy."
V.
Darth Vader sat in the cockpit of his TIE Advanced in orbit of Dagobah. A hologram of the Emperor was projected above his control panel. Vader had just given his report on the apparent fate of Master Yoda. The Emperor made no immediate reply. The silence drew out painfully.
"Do you believe he is dead?" the Emperor finally asked. His tone was flat, and gave no indication of his own position on the matter.
"I find it difficult to believe, my master," Vader rumbled. "But I also cannot reach any other conclusion given the circumstances."
"Nor can I. But I do not trust coincidence—particularly such a fortuitous one."
"Yes, master."
The Emperor settled back into his throne. "I became aware of Yoda's presence just before your encounter with Skywalker at Bespin. I suspect that once he began training your offspring, he could no longer effectively shield his presence in the force. I had felt him to a lesser extent since that time, and so I dispatched you to eliminate him." The Emperor shook his head. "That presence vanished just before you contacted me. I delayed a meeting with two of my top agents to meditate—to make absolutely certain he was gone."
"Then he is dead." Vader said.
"That is what the force tells me. Still…" Vader waited for him to finish. "I loathe being in doubt, to any degree. And there is way to address all lingering concerns."
"What is your bidding, master?"
"Resume command of the fleet. Keep well informed on the progress of my new Death Star's construction. Once it is complete, test it's prime weapon on this miserable swamp world our old friend saw so fit to expire on. That will resolve the matter beyond question."
"Yes, my master."
"One other thing, Lord Vader. I do not need the force to tell me that you wish to continue searching for Skywalker." He leaned forward. "Do so, but remember the war must take priority. For all practical purposes, every soldier of the rebellion stands between you and Skywalker. Crush them all, and when the boy stands alone, we will show him the true nature of the galaxy."
Vader immediately wondered if the Emperor had gleaned his plans for isolating Luke from his mind. And if he had, what other plans for the future might he have discovered in the process? He pushed those thoughts away quickly.
"As you wish," the dark lord said.
"Return to the Executor. Then contact me with the details of our next campaign against the rebellion.
Vader bowed his head, and the Emperor severed the communication. The shimmering light from the hologram vanished, and Vader looked up again at the stars beyond his canopy.
This was a dangerous time. He knew exactly what he wanted to do, to get his son back, to depose the Emperor, and to finally shape this sad galaxy into something that made sense.
The problem with seeing it so clearly was that there was no way to be sure the Emperor would not come to see it as well. And he could not defeat him alone.
For now, the mission he was given suited his own objectives perfectly. That being the case, he could work to his own ends, and maintain the appearance of total loyalty to his master in the process.
Vader keyed in the coordinates for the Executor and broke orbit from the murky world he was circling. He pulled back the jump-throttle, and launched into the brilliant tunnel of hyperspace.
Hopefully, appearances would be enough, until his moment came.
His moment, and Luke's.
To be continued…