notes: Guess who's not dead? Surprise!
Sorry for disappearing for so long, guys. I feel really bad. I can't promise I'll be updating super regularly right now - I have a few other WIPs as well - but I'd like to try to finish this fic. I really *want* to finish this fic. So. I'm going to keep working on it, posting when I can. I hope you'll bear with me as I do so.
Because it's been so long since I updated, I apologize for any inconsistencies. I've done my best to refresh my memory - but I didn't have the time or the spoons to reread 200k words before writing. Which might be lazy of me, but oh well? So I apologize, and I'd appreciate it if any of you caught anything that you'd tell me. This chapter also isn't edited - I need to hurry up and go to work, but I wanted to get this posted before I ran out the door. I hope you can forgive any mistakes!
And now, without further ado, here's the next chapter of Falling Stars!
notes 2: Chapter updated 4/22/20
CHAPTER 6
They landed on Nal Hutta early the next morning, in the middle of a rainstorm.
"I hate Nal Hutta," Han groused as he covered the burn on Luke's leg with water-resistant plasti-cloth. "It's either raining and humid, or hot and humid—and sometimes both at the same time."
"And let me guess," Luke said, swinging his now-covered leg stiffly off of the bed, "you hate humidity?"
"You're damn right I do," said Han, straightening and offering Luke a hand up.
Chewie breezed through the infirmary, howling something as he went. Luke looked at Han with upraised eyebrows, and Han scowled.
"He said "It's a swamp planet; what do you expect?""
Luke laughed, and tried to place some weight on his injured leg. His knee buckled from the pain and he bit back a yelp. He would have fallen but for Han's supporting hand grabbing hold of his elbow and steadying him.
"Thanks," Luke muttered, righting himself. He gingerly held his leg off of the ground, then hopped forward, toward the door leading out into the rest of the ship. Grimacing—his good leg was already beginning to burn from the strain—he hopped into the hall, Han still at his side.
They were halfway to the landing ramp when Luke sighed and slumped against the wall, shaking Han off. "This isn't going to work," he said. "I doubt I'll even be able to get off of the ship, let alone to...well, wherever we're going."
Han nodded. "Okay," he said. "Attempt at maintaining your dignity has failed. Time for Plan B."
"There's a plan B?" Luke asked, not liking the way Han had phrased it.
Han nodded. "Chewie." Then, turning back toward the heart of the ship, Han yelled, "Chewie, we're gonna need you after all!"
Chewie appeared a moment later, muttering to himself. He stopped, though, when he drew abreast of Luke. He howled something, bent, then scooped Luke up into his large and hairy arms, holding him like one would hold a baby.
"I see what you mean about my dignity," Luke said, grimacing.
Han shrugged. "It's that or I carry you, and I don't think either of us wants that."
Luke shook his head.
The trip to the clinic was long and damp. It was misting, more than raining—a fine, clinging mist that beaded in the hair and soaked through to skin and bone without making the clothes sopping wet—turning the world hazy and white around the edges. Luke spent the trip becoming increasingly intimate with the smell of wet Wookiee, and listening to Han grumble.
The streets were a mixture of pavement and mud, and were crowded with people even at the early hour. Bounty hunters mixed with slaves and merchants hurrying to their shops, and the drunk were as common as the sober. The buildings were made mostly of wood and were shingled to keep out the rain, the shutters flimsy and open to catch what little reeking wind there was. The gutters were filled with half-rotting refuse, mud, and garbage, and trees with low-hanging branches that wept moss and lichen clung to alleys and street corners.
Luke shuddered in his damp clothes. It was a depressing place, this world filled with rain and mud, and made him want to curl his face into Chewie's chest—even in spite of the smell of wet Wookiee fur—to block out the sight of haggard slaves poorly dressed, of drunks with sunken eyes, of streets so ill-cared for that they were half bog. It was somehow worse than even Tatooine, with its denizens covered in sunburns and its gaunt, hollow-eyed poor creeping from alley to alley, rooting around in garbage heaps. It was oppressive, and that oppression begat desperation and hopelessness so heavy that it weighed upon Luke's shoulders and chest, even after only less than an hour on-planet.
At last they reached the clinic. It was a white-washed building on a street corner, large windows on the ground floor enticing in the stinking breeze blowing from the west. Through those windows, Luke could just make out small cots covered in crisp white linens, and empty nightstands to one side of each cot.
A bell chimed overhead as Han pushed open the door. They stood in the entryway—a long but narrow room at the front of the building, with two doors leading off in different directions—for a long moment, mysterious puddles of water growing beneath Han's and Chewie's feet. After an uncomfortable wait, a droid appeared through the right-hand door, its domed head spotted with rust and its sloping shoulders seeming to slump.
"Welcome to Rush Valley Clinical Center," said the droid in a high-pitched, nasal voice. "How can I be of assistance?"
"My friend here was injured," Han said, gesturing toward Luke still in Chewie's arms. "We came to get him seen to."
"Right this way," said the droid, and turned back toward the door it had come through. They followed it into a short hallway, then through a second door and into the large room Luke had spied through the windows.
The droid led them to an empty bed halfway down the large room, passing by only a couple of cots filled with humans and humanoids. All but one of them were asleep as they passed, and the one that was awake did not speak; he merely watched them pass with too-large green eyes, set deep into a too-pale face framed by too-straight, black hair.
"You may place him here," the droid said, stepping aside and gesturing toward the bed with one spindly arm. Chewie nodded, then carefully deposited Luke on the cot, mindful of his leg, which had mercifully—because of the water-resistant wrap Han had placed on it—remained dry.
"Let me see the injury," the droid instructed. Han stepped forward and removed the wrap, revealing Luke's leg, the pants cut away so that there was clear access to the burn. The droid poked at it, making Luke hiss when he touched the outer edges of it, and then made a tsking sound that Luke could not quantify. "A doctor will be with you shortly," the droid announced, after taking a digital reading of Luke's heart rate, brain pattern, and pulse.
Han sat down on the cot beside Luke's with a sigh. "I've been here before," he told Luke. "They're good and trustworthy people. I wouldn't have brought you here otherwise."
Luke nodded. Then he asked softly, "Does that mean you trust me now?"
Han shrugged. "Kid, you saved our lives. Quite spectacularly, I might add. You risked your life to help us fight our way out, and you risked much more to help us escape. That, at least, deserves consideration from me. Plus I know Chewie likes and trusts you. And who Chewie likes and trusts, I like and trust."
Luke smiled.
"I'm still not sure if you're one of us," Han went on. "You still haven't proven yourself to that degree. But you're on your way."
"Thanks, Han," Luke said. "That means a lot to me."
Han shrugged, clearly embarrassed. "It's whatever," he mumbled, though he looked pleased.
Conversation lapsed between them, and Luke found himself looking around once more. The air smelled rank and sour-sweet from the refuse and garbage outside the windows, covering any antiseptic and sterility that usually accompanied doctors' and clinics. For that he was grateful. He did not want another incident like the one in Kitster's clinic.
Chewie warbled something, and Luke looked to Han with upraised eyebrows, asking him silently what it was Chewie had said.
Han looked confused, but he translated,"He asked how you're holding up. And if you were going to have another episode." He frowned, then asked, "What episode?"
"It's nothing," Luke mumbled, blushing, and then looked at Chewie. "No, I'm not," he said. "It doesn't smell sterile in here. And there aren't any doctor's tools around."
Chewie nodded, then spoke again.
"What about when the tools do come out?" Han asked for Chewie.
Luke shrugged. "Dunno. Guess we'll just deal with that when it comes to it."
Chewie nodded again.
"What episode?" Han asked for a second time, voice rising. "What happened?"
Chewie growled, and Han looked affronted. "I'm just concerned," he told the Wookiee.
Chewie rolled his eyes and patted Han on the head. Han ducked out from underneath the Wookiee's massive paw, grumbling to himself incoherently. "I don't need to be treated like a cub," he groused.
Chewie rumbled a laugh and said something else, making Han scowl.
"No, I don't."
Chewie rumbled again, and Han's scowl deepened. He opened his mouth to retort—only to be cut off by the arrival of the doctor.
To everyone's surprise, as soon as he rounded the foot of Luke's cot, the doctor stopped short and stared at first Han, then Chewie. He was a tall, slim man, with a closely cropped beard but clean-shaven head, and shocking green eyes.
"Solo!" he exclaimed. "Chewbacca!"
"Sorry to drop in on you unannounced," said Han uneasily, shifting on his cot. "I didn't think it would be a problem—"
"No, no," said the doctor, "it's not that. I thought you two were dead."
Han stared at him, shocked. Chewie huffed a question.
"Word on the street is that you two were killed by Imperials," said the doctor. "Clearly the word is mistaken."
"Obviously," said Han. He frowned, dark lines claiming his eyes and mouth. "Where, exactly, did you hear this?" he asked.
"I was out drinking," said the doctor, perching himself on the edge of Luke's bed and crossing his arms. "The gossip was everywhere: Han Solo and Chewbacca were captured and killed by Imperials. I have no idea where it originated."
Han shook his head. "Well," he said. "The gossip is wrong. We're alive and well—well, most of us. My friend here got shot. I was hoping you could take a look at it."
"Of course," the doctor said hurriedly, standing and turning to look at Luke, still sitting on the bed with his leg outstretched before him. "Let's see what's going on here."
The examination was quick but thorough. When he was done, the doctor straightened with a slight frown. "He needs bacta," he announced. "That's the only way this leg will heal properly. I'm amazed infection hasn't already set in; it's almost guaranteed with a burn this bad, unless you can get the patient to a hospital quickly."
Han looked at Luke, who nodded. "Alright," said Han, rising as well. "Let's get him in bacta."
~oOo~
Luke opened his eyes to the desert.
Tatooine's twin suns hung overhead, bright and brighter, shedding hot, bleaching light across the sand dunes. Heat waves rose from the ground, shimmering and undulating through the air, causing ripples in Luke's sight. It was high noon, and he should have been baking in the sunlight without any protective equipment—but instead he just felt warm, as if he was standing in a room beneath a heat lamp.
Turning, Luke saw his grandmother standing behind him, a broad smile on her lips.
"Well done," said Shmi, hugging him. "You have taken the first steps into a new and greater world."
Luke frowned. "What world?" he asked, pulling away so that he could look down at his grandmother.
"The world of the Force."
Luke shook his head. "But you told Leia that she shouldn't use the Force. That means I shouldn't either."
"Leia shouldn't use the Force," his grandmother said. "I never said you couldn't."
"But I'll just bring more death and destruction," Luke said with a shake of his head. "No, no. I can't use the Force. Not except in the most dire of circumstances."
Shmi sighed. "That is not your destiny."
"It is," said Luke. "It...it's dangerous. It's evil."
"It is neither evil nor good," his grandmother corrected. "It is merely a tool."
"Then why do you tell Leia that she can't use it?" Luke asked. "If it's just a tool, then why will she bring all to darkness and ruin if she uses it?"
"Because it is a tool that will be used against her," Shmi replied evenly.
"Then you don't trust her," accused Luke.
"No," said Shmi, "that is not what I said. I only meant that the Force will be used against her by the Emperor, if she were to utilize her full potential. If she uses it, she will Fall. She will succumb to the Darkness. Such is the way of her life."
Luke shook his head. "I think you underestimate Leia."
"You are blinded by your love for her."
"You're blinded by your mistrust."
"I cannot mistrust," said Shmi. "I cannot have bias." Her voice changed suddenly, growing rich and deep, manifold and ancient. "I am the Force. I simply am. I see all, know all, can sense all in heart and mind and soul. I can see that, if Leia were to use the Force now, after all she has suffered, she will Fall."
Luke shook his head stubbornly. "You're wrong."
"I am not wrong. I am never wrong."
"You're not infallible," said Luke. "You can't be. Even if you are some great cosmic force, you have to be wrong sometimes."
"Are you willing to risk that?"
Was he? Suddenly, Luke didn't know.
Shmi smiled, only it was not Shmi's smile. It was great and terrible, mighty and terrifying, eternity and infinity. Luke shuddered beneath it, feeling suddenly small and insignificant.
"You have to be wrong," Luke whispered. "There has to be something you're missing—some fact, some future you haven't seen or realized…"
"Perhaps," said the Force through the mouthpiece of Shmi. "Perhaps something will change, and a new future will emerge. But know this, Luke Skywalker: I have seen thousands of permutations of the future, and in every one that Leia Organa has used the Force, she has Fallen to Darkness."
"I won't let her," said Luke stubbornly.
The Force smiled again, Shmi's lips curling into a facsimile of amusement. "You will try—and you will fail."
Luke opened his mouth to retort—but before he could, he felt the world lurch around him, then begin to fade. "Wait!" he cried, reaching out for Shmi, for the Force. "No, I'm not done talking to you. I'm not—"
But the world had faded to grey and silver and white.
Luke woke.
~oOo~
Luke spent the rest of the day and the night resting in the clinic; the damage to his leg was healed, but the doctor said he needed time and rest to completely recover. Han and Chewie remained with him until nightfall, chatting with him and playing game after game of sabaac from the deck of cards Han produced from one of his pockets. Once the street lamps began to flicker on, however, yellow and dim, they rose and said their farewells to Luke, then made their way back to the Falcon.
Left alone, Luke sank back onto his pillows and drifted into a half-sleep, his mind fixed on Leia. They had talked throughout the day, as Luke played sabaac and as Leia walked purposefully around her small cell, pushing herself past the edge of her endurance.
I have to get better, she told Luke when he asked her what she was doing. I have to get stronger. I'm weak. So weak I can't even walk across a building without getting tired. I have to do something about that.
I'll help you, Luke promised.
How? Leia asked.
I dunno, Luke replied. I'll encourage you, if nothing else.
Now she lay on her bed, half a galaxy away from Luke lying in his, and they talked.
I've only had fresh fruits from our greenhouse, Luke told her. And those were only a few. We didn't have much room in the greenhouse for fruits—mostly just vegetables.
You should try some then, Leia said. Fruits are amazing. They were my favorite food—other than pie… She trailed off, then said softly, Before.
Luke sank deeper into her mind and fed her heat and a soft, golden light that he associated with the hugs his aunt would give him. He could feel Leia bask in it, her heart opening like a bud unfurling its petals toward the sun.
I love you, Luke, she whispered.
I love you too, Luke murmured.
They went back to talking about fruit.
The night was uneventful, and the day dawned early and grey and sticky. Luke was up and dressed by the time that Han and Chewie arrived at the clinic, ready to leave.
"I want to say goodbye to my friend," Han said, and disappeared through a side door in search of the doctor that had attended to Luke the day before.
Luke turned to Chewie. "Anything of interest happen last night?"
Chewie took the pad out of his satchel, which he had slung over one shoulder, and began typing. Once he was done, he handed it to Luke, and Luke read, We went out drinking, mostly to see if we could find the source of the rumor that we were dead.
"Learn anything?" Luke asked.
Chewie shook his head.
"Damn," Luke said, and this time Chewie nodded.
After that they waited in silence, Luke humming silently to himself and Leia, who laughed at the jibbering words of the children's song he was feeding her. She was once more walking around her room with savage intensity, pushing her sore and aching body to and beyond exhaustion.
You should be careful, Luke commented after a few moments. His song had ended, and now he was standing in perfect silence with Chewie beside him. You don't want to overextend yourself.
I have to get stronger, Leia said. I will get stronger.
And I believe you, said Luke. But you won't get stronger by ruining yourself.
That is true, said Leia, slowing. Fine. I'll stop for the day, she said, and collapsed onto her cot. Luke could feel her exhaustion, as well as the pain still radiating from her broken ribs and the burn marks from the lightning that the Emperor had struck her with.
You should really be more kind to your body, Luke told her. You're still hurt.
If I wait, Leia said, I'm afraid I'll lose my fire again. I have to keep pushing, keep fighting, or else I'll just...stop.
Do you want help? Luke asked.
With what?
With not stopping fighting, said Luke.
Yes.
Luke smiled, looking down at his feet. He was wearing a new pair of pants that the clinic had provided him—for an extra fee—soft and grey and tucked into the top of his boots. He wore a loose shirt cinched around his waist with a broad belt. He felt very much like a smuggler—and he was thrilled.
Okay, said Luke. Then I'll help you.
Leia drifted off to sleep, and Han returned a few moments later, grinning. "Alright," he said, putting a hand on the butt of his blaster, "I paid and said bye. Let's go."
They left the clinic, crossing over the threshold and into the street. It was raining again, fat, wet droplets of water that soaked hair and skin and cloth as soon as touching it. Luke wrinkled his nose, as much at the rain as at the smell that assaulted him: sickly sweet refuse and bog, mixed with the wet smell of Wookiee and the sour smell of drunken vomit.
"Well," Luke said, hurrying to catch up to Han, who was walking at the front of their trio. "What are we doing?"
"First thing we're doing," said Han, "is getting you a proper weapon."
Luke's eyebrows shot up his forehead. "Really?" he asked. "Like a real blaster?"
Han laughed. "Like a real blaster, Kid," he said.
The streets were more mud than pavement, sucking at their feet and clinging to the cuffs of their pants—or, in Chewie's case, his paws and fur. They walked down the street together, sticking close to one another, with Luke in the middle so that he would not get lost for staring around at the shops and the people walking in and out of them.
Such a vast array of humans and aliens Luke had never seen. He had been more focused on the pain in his leg the day before, and so had not paid much attention to his surroundings—now, however, he did. He saw the ramshackle buildings with cracked wooden walls and flaking shingles; he saw the slaves in drab garb and collars, saw the merchants of a thousand species hawking their wares and their shops, saw the smugglers and thieves and bounty hunters flocking the streets with blasters on their hips and swaggers in their gaits.
"Here," said Han at last, coming to a halt outside of a short, squat building stuck between two pubs. A sign hanging over the door read Tyelko's Blasters. "This is the best blaster shop in this sector of Nal Hutta," said Han, pushing open the door.
Luke followed him into the shop, Chewie behind. The inside was dimly lit and smelled of blaster oil and ozone. Shelves and racks lined the walls, each hung with various models and makes of blasters that gleamed in the grey light filtering in through the windows at the front of the shop.
From behind a counter at the back of the shop stepped a tall, pointed-eared humanoid, with long, curling blond hair and startlingly green eyes. At his heels trotted a hound, with thick, curling black fur and a strong jaw.
"Welcome!" cried the man—then he caught sight of Han, and exclaimed, "Solo! You're alive?"
Han grinned. "Very much so, Tyelko."
Tyelko hurried forward, the hound still at his heels, and embraced Han, then shook Chewie's large right paw. He caught sight of Luke then, and raised his eyebrows.
"And who is this?" he asked, turning to look at Han.
"This is Luke," said Han, gesturing to Luke. "He's my new crewman."
Tyelko's eyebrows rose a little higher. "Taking on more strays, Solo?" he asked.
Han shrugged. "The Kid's proved himself. Which is why we're here. We need to get him a blaster—a proper weapon that he can use for at least ten years, if he treats it right."
Tyelko grinned. "I've got plenty of options, if that's what you're looking for. One moment..."
He moved around the shop, taking blaster after blaster down from the racks and shelves and carrying them over to the counter. He set them down in rows, arranging them so that they were neat and orderly.
After a few moments of silent watching, Tyelko beckoned Luke over to the counter.
"I want you to pick up each of these," he instructed. "Feel its weight, its fit in your hand, its recoil. There's a target set up in that corner," and he turned and pointed to the back corner of the shop, which had been hidden behind a shelf. There, Luke saw that a target had been set up against the wall. A dozen burn marks showed where other blaster bolts had struck it recently. "So just shoot at the target, and feel its power and recoil. Then, once you've tested them all, we can decide which one you like best."
Luke picked up the first blaster. It was small—a holdout blaster—with a narrow muzzle and a thin handle. It fit his palm and fingers awkwardly, and he knew in an instant that this was not the one for him. All the same, he lifted the blaster and fired it at the target. He struck it dead center. Tyelko's eyebrows once more crawled up his forehead.
"Well done," he said. "Now, how did that feel?"
"It's a bit small," Luke hedged, not wanting to come out and directly say that he hated it.
But Tyelko seemed to understand, for he smiled and whisked the blaster out of Luke's hands. "Next one," he pronounced, and thrust the next blaster into Luke's fingers.
This one was larger than the first—though not by much—with a long and flared muzzle. Luke lifted it and shot. It felt weak in his hands, without luster or gravitas. He shook his head, and once more Tyelko took the blaster away, putting it beside the first on the corner of the counter.
One after another, they tried the blasters Tyelko had pulled down from the shelves. And one by one, they were discarded. Some were too large, others too small; some were too strong, others too weak. None of them felt right to Luke.
At last only one remained. Luke picked it up, with Tyelko, Chewie, and Han watching him intently, and he lifted it. He fired once, twice, three times at the target, hitting within a centim of each of his other blaster shots. The blaster recoiled against his palm, and the muzzle flashed with red light.
It was a sleek, elegant thing, with graceful curves and a short muzzle, a round and flared handle, and a guard around the trigger. The butt was made of polished wood, the rest of gleaming, silver metal.
It felt perfect.
Grinning, Luke turned to Han, then Chewie, then lastly Tyelko. "This is it," he said happily.
Tyelko raised an eyebrow. "You are sure?" he asked.
Luke nodded.
"Huh," said Tyelko.
"What?" Luke asked.
"Well, not many actually like the TS-6803," Tyelko said. Leia perked up in his mind. "Unless you're Alderaanian."
"Why unless you're Alderaanian?'
Tyelko shrugged nonchalantly. "It's the standard model for Alderaanian peace keepers," he explained. "And, for whatever reason, Alderaanians have a tendency to prefer that model over others." He peered at Luke suspiciously. "You aren't Alderaanian, are you?"
Luke frowned.
"No, why?"
"Nothing, nothing," said Tyelko, but he eyed Luke warily until Han spoke up.
"So how much for the blaster?"
Tyelko named his price.
"That's absurd," Han scoffed. "And here I thought you were an honest businessman."
"You won't find a better price this side of Nal Hutta," Tyelko informed Han coolly. He still, Luke realized, had not taken his full attention off of him; he was turned halfway in Luke's direction, and his eyes kept flicking back to Luke every few seconds. It was enough to make Luke shift uncomfortably, and feel grateful for the weight of the blaster in his hand.
They began to haggle. Luke watched the exchange with interest, and then with growing irritation. Neither Tyelko nor Han seemed to want to budge.
"I'm not buying it then," Han finally exploded.
"Now calm down," Tyelko said placatingly, lifting a hand to calm Han down. On the contrary, it seemed to make him angrier. "I never said I wouldn't budge," Tyelko went on, dropping his hand. "I only meant that I wouldn't put it so low for a customer I didn't respect."
Han scowled. "And how long have we known each other, Tyelko?"
Tyelko laughed. "Ever since you were a little monster of a lad on Shrike's ship."
"So," Han drawled slowly, "I'd say if you respect anyone, it had better be me. You've seen me survive from boyhood to adulthood in one of the most savage underbellies this galaxy has seen in the last millennia, finally getting my own ship and loyal first mate in the process."
Tyelko grinned. "That I have," he conceded.
"So," said Han. "Perhaps we can renegotiate the price?"
At long last, they came to an agreement. Han handed over a fistful of credits, and Tyelko proudly pronounced Luke the new owner of the blaster in his hands. He went behind the counter, then disappeared through a door in the back wall, only to return a moment later carrying a holster and a small metal box. When Luke opened the box, after accepting both it and the holster from Tyelko, he found a cleaning and maintenance kit for his new blaster.
"Thanks, Tyelko," he said with a smile, unbuckling his belt and sliding the holster onto it. He tied it around his leg, and then slid the blaster—which he had set on the counter—into the holster. It fit, and felt, perfect.
Tyelko clapped Luke on the shoulder. "If you ever need another blaster," he said, "you know where to find me."
Luke grinned. "I do." He hesitated, then said, "See ya." He turned toward Han and Chewie, who were watching him. "Ready?"
"Yeah," said Han, lifting a hand in a silent salute to Tyelko.
They left the shop, Tyelko and his hound watching them go. The rain had slackened while they were inside, turning from a steady downpour to a fine mist that coated the hair and skin, and sank through the cloth of their clothes to seep into their bones. The sky was just as overcast as it was before, though the sun had risen enough to turn the slate grey clouds to pearl.
Luke took in a deep breath, feeling the weight of the blaster on his hip, and smiled. Then he quickly caught up to Han, falling in step with him, and asked, "So what now?"
"Now," said Han, "we try to figure out just who started that rumor about us being killed."
"And how do we do that?" Luke asked.
"We start asking around," said Han. "Someone will know something."
"And where do we go to ask those questions?"
Han laughed. "You always so full of questions, Kid?" he asked.
Luke shrugged and Chewie warbled a chuckle.
"To answer your question, though," said Han, "we start in the tapcafes. If we can't find anything there, we go to the docks. If we still can't find anything, we take to the streets and start listening."
Luke nodded. "What can I do to help?" he asked.
"Keep your ears peeled," said Han. "Listen and be quiet. You're inconspicuous, and no one knows you're part of our group yet. So, I may send you in first, alone, to scope out and listen and ask some questions."
Luke nodded again. "Okay. Just tell me what to ask and I'll do it," he said fiercely.
Han grinned. "Sounds good, Kid."
They walked in silence through the muddy streets for a few minutes, before Han abruptly veered to the left, angling toward a tapcafe squashed between two taller buildings. It was as ramshackle as all of the other buildings, with peeling paint and condensation and rain on the cracked and dirty windows. A sign out front, in too-bright neon lights, read, The Drowned Sailor, and beneath it was a flashing sigh reading OPEN.
"Alright," said Han, coming to a halt a few paces to the right of the door. "Here's the plan. Chewie and I will go in first. Someone in here should recognize us enough to make a comment. Luke, you come in a few minutes after us, and sit a little bit away from us. Listen. See if anyone says anything that we don't hear."
Luke nodded. "Okay."
Han smiled and clapped Luke on the shoulder. "Okay," he said, echoing Luke, and looked at Chewie. "Let's go."
He and the Wookiee left Luke and walked into the tapcafe, the door sliding open and shut, cutting off Luke's brief glimpse inside. What little he had seen was drab and dark, and not at all somewhere he particularly wanted to spend much time. But all the same, he had a job to do now—a job he would not fail.
Luke counted to 300, then strode to the door. It opened before him, and he entered into the tapcafe. It was as dark and drab as he had glimpsed, with low lighting and sticky, dirty tables scattered throughout the cramped main room. A bar stood against the far wall, about chest-high, with racks upon shelves of bottles of alcohol behind it. Three lamps hung over the bar, shedding weak, yellow light onto the stained and cracked countertop, adding their glow to the weak, purplish light that filled the rest of the tapcafe.
Glancing around, Luke caught sight of Han and Chewie sitting at a table right next to the bar. They were engaged in animated conversation with a Twi-lek wearing a smeared apron and holding a dirty cup, which he seemed to have been cleaning and then forgotten when Han and Chewie walked in.
A few other patrons were scattered around the tables—more than Luke had expected on this dreary morning. "Then again," he thought, pushing the words toward Leia who he could feel resting in his mind, "maybe that's why they're here. What better way to wile away the rainy hours than drinking, right?"
Leia grinned weakly and shook her head, but did not reply.
Luke claimed a seat a table away from Han and Chewie—just close enough to hear what the barkeeper was saying, but not so close that it was obvious he was listening in. Another two patrons—who were both deep in their cups—were sitting together to the table behind him, and another three were huddled together at the table to his left. It seemed that everyone had clustered toward the bar, where they could get their drinks faster and easier.
"I'm just saying," Luke heard Han say, "I don't know who started the rumor. And clearly it is a rumor, because we're here and perfectly fine."
"Didja get captured?" the barkeeper asked.
Han laughed. "If we'd been captured by Imperials," he said, "do you think we'd be sitting here right now talking to you?"
The barkeeper waved the hand holding the rag he'd been using to wipe the cup with. "Fair point," he said. "But still—why would anyone start the rumor that you'd been captured by Imps if you weren't?"
Han shrugged and Chewie growled. "That's what we're trying to figure out," Han said. "Not to exact vengeance or anything—just to know who's starting these rumors."
The barkeeper sighed. "Well I'm afraid I don't know who started it," he said. "I'd tell you if I did. But I have no idea. By the time I heard it, it had spread through most of the city—I only learned about it from some of my patrons. I overheard them talking about it."
"Hm," said Han. "I see." He stood, finishing off the drink Luke only just saw he was nursing. "Well thanks, Bir," he said. "We'll probably be back."
The barkeeper—Bir—gripped Han's hand in a firm shake. "Good to see you, Solo," he said. "And you too, Chewbacca. For what it's worth, I'm glad you're not dead."
Han laughed, as did Chewie. "So are we," said Han.
They left the tapcafe, talking quietly together, ignoring Luke. Luke watched as Bir left the table they'd been sitting at, gathering up their now-empty cups, and returned to the bar. The sound of running water trickled through the room, and Luke guessed he was finishing washing the dirty cup.
The door slid shut, and the flash of daylight was cut off, leaving Luke in darkness once more.
"Now what?" he asked Leia.
"Hang around a bit," suggested Leia. "I'm sure they'll wait for you."
Luke nodded to Leia, then raised his hand and called, "Barkeep?"
Bir looked up, noticed Luke, then hurried over. "Hello there, young man!" he exclaimed, coming to a halt beside Luke's table. "What can I get for you?"
"Uh," Luke said, suddenly realizing he knew next to nothing about alcohol.
Bir grinned. "New to drinking?" he asked.
Luke grinned, blushing faintly. "That obvious?" he asked abashedly.
Bir laughed. "Fresh meat on Nal Hutta?"
Luke shrugged. "Just never been here before," he said, trying not to give away how green he was.
"I'll get you something you'll like," Bir promised, and disappeared.
Luke glanced around at his fellow patrons. The two deep in their cups were listing to one side, silently drinking. The three beside him, however, were leaning together and whispering fiercely.
"What are they saying?" Leia asked.
Luke pricked his ears, straining to listen to what was being said. For a moment there was nothing but the hiss of their voices, indistinct and little more than murmurs of sound—and then, suddenly, as if a switch had been flipped and the static on the holoscreen resolved into its images, Luke could hear them.
"—looking for him…"
"But we don't wanna tip Solo off."
"I still think we should tell him—"
"I agree."
"Fine. Fine, we go and warn him."
"Now?"
"We don't know when Solo will find out the answer to his questions. I say now."
"Okay, okay."
The three stood, somewhat unsteadily, and walked toward the tapcafe door.
"What do I do?" Luke asked Leia, panicking. "I don't know where Han and Chewie are. And they'll be obvious…"
"Go after them," Leia said quickly. "Follow them."
"Won't they notice me?"
"Just be careful," said Leia.
Luke stood and walked calmly but purposefully toward the door leading out of the tapcafe. It had slid shut behind the last of the three figures just a few seconds before. The door opened before him, and he caught a glimpse of the three friends disappearing into the crowd.
"Quick!" Leia urged.
Luke strode forward, pushing his way into the crowd, not taking the time to wonder where Han and Chewie were. He caught a glimpse of the back of one of the three friends' shirts—red, with fading white print reading STRONBREW ALE on it in a circle, a frothing mug of ale imprinted beneath the words.
Down one street, then another, Luke followed them, then another, then another. As the minutes passed, the roads narrowed, the buildings grew taller and more dilapidated, crowding the sky and closing it out. The rain began to harden again, fat, wet drops splashing onto Luke's head and shoulders. Still, though, he followed the back of the red shirt.
They turned one corner, Luke a dozen paces behind. They turned another, into an alley. Luke hesitated—and saw that there were only two of the three friends. He whirled—and found himself face-to-face with the friend in the blue shirt. He was holding a vibroknife and grinning wickedly.
"So," said the tall, dark-haired man, "why are you following us? Tell me quick, or you're dead." Behind Luke, he could feel as much as hear the two other friends close in, the swish-click of their own switchblades flicking out.
Luke gulped and grinned, suddenly wishing he had told Han and Chewie what was happening.
"I just—"
"He came in after Solo and Chewbacca," said the friend in the yellow shirt. "I'll bet he's with them."
"No," protested Luke. "No, I—"
"Then why are you following us?" cut in the leader in the blue shirt.
"I wasn't!" Luke exclaimed. "I was just—"
"You were following us," said the man in the red shirt. He turned to the leader and said, "I say we just kill him. He's in league with Solo and the Wookiee."
"I'm not," Luke insisted. "I—"
The leader shrugged. "No harm, no foul," he said. "No one will miss a green brat." He grinned. "Sorry, kiddo," he said. "But your time's run out."
He advanced, knife out, and behind him, Luke could feel the others closing in as well.
Luke whirled and tried to run. The leader lunged after him, reaching out to grab at Luke's shirt. His fingers snagged in cloth, and Luke stumbled at the sudden resistance and fell, sprawling, to the hard ground.
They were on him in an instant, kneeling on his legs and arms, grinning down at him with gruesome intent. The leader leaned down, pressing his knife to Luke's throats.
"Any last words?" he asked.
In Luke's head, Leia screamed in terror and rage.
"You don't want to do this," Luke gasped, trying not to speak to loud or move too much, afraid of cutting himself on the vibroknife pressed against his jugular.
The leader looked confused. "I…what?"
"You don't want to do this," Luke said, more firmly.
The leader hesitated, then sat back.
"Boss?" the friend in the yellow shirt asked.
"I don't want to do this," said the leader in the blue shirt.
"But, Boss—"
"None of you want to do this," Luke said in a sudden rush. He did not know what he was doing, or how this was working, but it was. It was.
The other two looked confused, just as their leader had done. Again, Luke repeated, "None of you want to do this," stronger and more certain. "You want to get up off of me."
To Luke's surprise, the three stood, looking baffled but calm.
Luke stood, trying to brush himself free of mud. It did not work, and he gave up. He turned to the others. They were standing still and confused, looking at one another with bafflement.
"What now?" he asked Leia.
"Run," said Leia. "Run while you have the chance."
So Luke ran.
