Author's Note: My thanks to those of you who reviewed me, in particular you anonymous reviewers, since I can't send you replies. :P It'd be nice to hear from a few more of you readers out there, though…Anyway, I know it took me awhile, but here's your next chapter! Sorry, I know it's a bit short…more or less a connecting chapter. There's more on the way, slowly but surely. Still getting into the school year groove, I'm afraid. At any rate, hope you'll enjoy it! Tell me what you think, please…
…
Corellia was no ordinary system in the framework of the galaxy. On the purely astrographical side, the system boasted no less than five inhabitable planets, more than any other known system in the galaxy. It featured three indigenous sentient races on those five planets—in fact, many an anthropologist had hypothesized that Corellia was the home planet of the human race. Whether or not that lofty claim was the truth, Corellia was nonetheless possessed of a gem-studded galactic history second to none of the vaunted Core Worlds (except, perhaps, for Coruscant). Corellians had been among the first to venture forth into space, constructing massive space stations, discovering and developing galactic trade routes, even inventing the hyperdrive. Hundreds of thousands of years later, Corellia remained a mighty galactic attraction and a key trade system—billions visited the system every year, drawn by equally numerous reasons. Of all the features of the Corellian system, none was more central than the planet Corellia. The heart of Corellia was the capital city, Coronet, a galactic metropolis that echoed the cityscape of Coruscant. And the heart of Coronet, as any bona fide Corellian could tell you, was undoubtedly Treasure Ship Row.
Hence, of course, it was to Treasure Ship Row that an ambitious, inventive entrepreneur such as Lando Calrissian inevitably directed his steps.
Lando had been in Corellia for about two weeks now, having left Nar Shaddaa as soon as he could walk up the ramp of his ship without limping and calling down curses on Han Solo. It was, he reflected irritably, blasted lucky that he hadn't been killed jumping from Solo's landing ramp. But between jumping five meters onto permacrete and paying Darth Vader an uninvited visit, Lando would pick the jump every time. At least if you jumped, there was still chance you might live to complain about it. And live to complain about he had. Unfortunately, since Han Solo was in all likelihood strangulated worm fodder now, Lando didn't have anybody he could really complain to, and had been forced to get along with his life.
He was sure that if he stayed on Nar Shaddaa, the ghost of Han Solo would haunt him, merrily wrecking his every business venture—and besides that, Jabba was still pretty ticked with him over the incident of the Sienar hyperdrive. So Lando decided to move on to the next best place in the galaxy's seedy underbelly for an enterprising, creative businessman: Corellia.
The opportunities might not be quite as abundant as they'd been on Nar Shaddaa, but on the whole Corellia had treated him pretty well for the last two weeks. He'd been able to work his hand into the black market on ship hardware, selling off a number of quad cannons he'd managed to dig up and turning a tidy profit; and he'd struck up an acquaintance with a Bothan, who it turned out knew another Bothan who knew a Falleen who'd found a deposit of pyrolanium in the asteroid belts of Sykos Twelve, and who was looking to set up a mining operation and needed some financial partners. By all accounts, the market for pyrolanium was really prime—according to Talon Karrde, the Empire was eating up the available supply. Which was really no wonder—the stuff was a key ingredient for super-grade reactors, and with those new Super Star Destroyers that Sienar had started churning out for the Fleet, the Emperor probably had whole teams of lowlifes scratching the pyrolanium wiring out of computer chips to keep up with demand. Not that Lando was particularly keen on helping the Empire add brass knuckles to its iron fist, but if he didn't get in on the mine somebody else would. If he had to put up with Imperial oppression, he might as well have some money to console him…
Well, he still had a few days to decide about the mining venture. In the meantime, he was doing pretty well selling second-hand information. Karrde wasn't liable to be happy if he heard Lando was selling the information he bought, and Lando himself rather liked the guy, so he made a point of not cutting too much of a slice out of Karrde's market. By and large he confined his business operations to the Lucky Saber, a rather seedy underground cantina near Treasure Ship Row that did a brisk business outside of Karrde's usual circle. He'd made an arrangement with the barkeeper there; in return for a reasonable amount of credits, the fellow let him set up shop in one of the more secluded booths and referred any inquiring customers to Lando.
Given the clientele, though, these seedy underground cantinas didn't do any business worth mentioning in the day, and therefore neither did Lando. As he had nothing better to do this afternoon, and was still mulling over that pyrolanium proposition, Lando had plunked himself down in his booth anyway. He passed his time musing, making a couple fact-checking calls to the Bothan, and nursing a stout dose of whiskey until a pair of shadows and an eerily familiar young voice interrupted him.
"Lando?" somebody said excitedly.
Lando froze, and then slowly turned his head.
Standing there plain as day was Luke, the Jedi kid that had been tagging along with Han Solo all those months ago, who'd been a whiz at dejarik and who, at last report, Han Solo had been storming off to Darth Vader's castle in order to rescue. He was a little older, but despite having been kidnapped by the single most feared Jedi killer in the galaxy seemed none the worse for wear.
Lando was entirely too floored to respond. How the nine hells had Solo pulled off a jail break from Darth Vader's house? He glanced around the cantina in disbelief—but didn't see Solo anywhere. Standing at Luke's side, where that wild-brained teenaged Corellian ought to have been, was instead a girl, probably no older than Luke, with a long dark braid and big, somewhat alarmed dark eyes.
"Who is this?" she demanded in a low voice.
"A friend of mine," Luke told her. "Right?" This last was addressed to Lando.
"Uh, yeah, right," said he in a rush, finding his voice somehow. "Uh, sit down, why don't you?"
The two kids slid in the opposite side of the booth, the girl on the inside. "Didn't think I'd see you again," Lando told Luke.
Luke did not respond with the sort of ecstatic grin you'd expect from somebody who'd achieved an impossible escape from certain death. He just looked up with haunted blue eyes, and a chill ran down Lando's spine as he wondered what endured horrors had put that look there. "The bartender said you're selling information," he said instead, in a very serious voice.
Lando was yet again taken aback. "Uh, yeah, that's right," he said, and then added quickly, "but for you, no charge." He flashed both kids his most winning grin, hoping to lighten the atmosphere, cheer Luke up, but whatever was bothering the boy was too serious to be so easily abated. He nodded his thanks, but didn't get any farther as the bar droid made its appearance.
"Drinks on me," Lando said promptly. "Jawa juice for you, right, kid?"
Luke nodded again, looking just a tad less wound up. The kid really liked Jawa juice.
"And how about you, honey, the same?"
The dark-haired girl bestowed upon him a regal glare. "Bottled water, thank you," she said, rather loftily. "Preferably sealed." Lando raised his eyebrows, but relayed the order to the droid.
"So," he said as the droid wheeled off, "what sort of information do you want?" He was careful to be as professional as normal—Luke was a sharp kid, and if he was looking for an information broker Lando was pretty sure he had a good reason.
"I need you to find me a ship," the kid said. He pried a crumpled flimsy out of his jumpsuit pocket and handed it over. Lando flipped it open and found a long list of numbers—serial numbers, drive signatures, engine frequencies and emission stats, the whole bundle. On the reverse of the sheet were handwritten addendums, noting additional armaments, coloring, and so on. It wasn't long before Lando noticed a very critical fact.
"This is an Imperial shuttle," he observed, as calmly as he could.
Luke nodded.
Lando blew out a long breath. "You never ask an easy question, do you?"
Luke smiled, a slight smile, and one not very amused. "What, you can't do it?"
"I'm not saying I can't," Lando retorted. "I won't. If you want the itinerary for a Fleet ship, you have to hack into NavNet, and believe you me, that's a death sentence waiting to happen. I'm not sticking my neck out that far for anybody."
"Who said anything about NavNet?" Luke fired back. "Look at the schematics."
Lando reread the sheet more closely, and Luke leaned over to jab his finger at the scribbly handwriting. "Cannon placements, drop-down guns, cloaking shield, jacked frequencies, half-scrambled signatures. That's not Navy standards and you know it."
Lando leaned back critically. "So you think somebody stole a lambda shuttle?" he asked incredulously. "That'd be about as inconspicuous as stealing a Star Destroyer, kid."
Luke was interrupted mid-scowl by a new voice. "Hold on." The two of them spun heads to the corner, where the dark-haired girl had spoken up. "You don't think it was Imperials who did it, then?"
Lando stared. "Who did what?"
Luke sucked in a breath. "Whoever was on this shuttle kidnapped Han."
Lando stared for another second and then threw the flimsy down to the tabletop in disbelief, taking a long swig of his whiskey. "Boy," he said hoarsely, "you two just get kidnapped left and right, don't you?"
Luke rolled his eyes. Oh, like it's my idea?
"I asked a question first, thank you," the girl informed him, not sounding at all grateful.
"I don't know who did it," Luke snapped, half under his breath. The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the server droid, with Luke's bulb of Jawa juice and the girl's water bottle. Luke seized at the Jawa juice and the excuse to avoid further questioning from his feminine companion. Lando watched with sudden interest as the girl inspected her water bottle before twisting off the cap and sipping delicately out of it. Whoever or whatever else she might be, it was quite clear that she was no guttersnipe after the stamp of Han Solo—and probably a good deal less common than anybody else of Lando's acquaintance, too.
Why in the Empire would a girl like that be hanging around seedy black market cantinas with a miniature fugitive half-Jedi?
After a long silence, Luke finally spoke up. "Lando, the only way I'm going to find Han is if I find that shuttle," he said firmly, eyes locked on the table top. "I have to find him. He came back for me."
Lando fixed a stare on the kid until Luke raised his blue gaze to meet it. "Why would anybody kidnap your friend?" he demanded.
Luke didn't back down. "I don't know who did it."
Lando stared back for another solid minute before breaking it. "All right."
"You'll find the ship?" This was from the girl.
"I can't do it," he said, "but I know a guy who can."
Luke grinned at him for the first time. "A couple other things," he said brightly.
Lando groaned.
"Have you heard of a Master Yoda?" the girl cut in.
Lando relaxed a little. Tracking down people was a few hells' worth easier than sniffing out an Imperial starcraft, and generally a lot less threatening to his health. "Name sounds a bit familiar," he said, putting on some charm again. "I'll see what I can find out."
"And while you're at it," Luke added, "there's another being we're looking for."
"Another being?"
"Yeah, there's this homicidal green troll…"
…
Shifting. Scraping. A somewhat irritable sigh.
"A tad confined in here, don't you think?"
Silence.
"If you missed my point, that was more of a suggestion than an observation."
"Patience, a virtue it is."
Pause. More scraping and shifting.
"A suggestion also, that is."
Tangible sense of annoyance in the air…
"Unnecessary, this is!"
"My own counsel will I keep on what is necessary…"
A decidedly more irritable sigh. Somewhat longer pause.
"You know, I was a council member."
"On was, I believe the emphasis is."
Even more tangible sense of annoyance…
"Being as there's no council, your membership would also be past tense, I believe."
Dignified silence. Rather intense annoyance.
"Could we at least move down to the cargo hold?"
"Incorporeal, you are. Bothered by physical constraints, you are not."
"Well, no, but the view does get rather tedious after three days straight."
"Beginning to sound like your Padawan, you are…"
Very exceedingly intense annoyance. Decided sense of amusement.
…
The negotiations with Organa were tedious—the sort of thing that had always been Padmé's forte, and not that of her husband, regardless of whatever philosophical penchants he tended towards at any particular point in his life. Sick with dread though he was, Vader dared not rush anything as dire as this. The situation was already highly unpalatable, without his worsening it through inattention that the more experienced politician would surely seize to his own advantage. Though his insides seemed to twist with agony, he forced himself to see the ordeal calmly through its several hours.
For the discussion, if he could bring himself to term it such, did indeed take a great deal of time. Organa knew perfectly well what sort of deadly high wire he was treading, and was no more willing to rush the proceedings. The outside observer might almost have thought the atmosphere leisurely.
However, Vader's haste in returning to his flagship thereafter—not to mention the rather grisly deaths that befell several unluckily positioned stormtroopers en route—would quickly have disabused any being of that notion. He barreled through the corridors of the ship, flattening passing personnel against the bulkheads with the sheer tangibility of his rage, and sealed himself within his inner sanctum, ordering the com suite to connect him to Miyr at Bast Castle.
But it was the haggard face of Captain Landre, and not that of his administrator, which appeared in the projection. "My lord," he acknowledged.
He did not seem particularly surprised. In fact, the only word for his expression was resigned…
"Explain," Vader demanded sharply.
Never before had Landre demonstrated anything to him save impeccable professionalism and competency. Those qualities were not now lacking—but they had been joined by something Vader had not witnessed from him before.
Dread.
To his credit—depending on his next words, possibly the last bit of credit Vader would ever attribute to the man—Landre steeled his shoulders and responded as professionally as ever.
"My lord, there has been a significant incident."
Vader waited in black silence.
"An unknown spacecraft, possibly two, penetrated both system and castle security undetected, and proceeded to infiltrate the building."
"How far did this infiltration advance?" Vader hissed softly.
"To the confines of the uppermost floor," Landre answered him. "The intruders have escaped, with the exception of one, currently being interrogated. Several of my troops were killed, and the administrator has suffered mild injuries."
Brave man though he was, he paused and swallowed before adding a final sentence.
"My lord, I am unable to locate the occupants of Wings Three and Four."