Galaxies Apart

Four

Bzzt.

"…well, really. I mean, there was no need for that sort of over-reaction, was there? Honestly, he's quite temperamental…"

Artoo bleeped to himself in exasperation. His welding tool continued its patient traversing across the latest wounds to his counterpart's golden metallic plating, already criss-crossed with thin scars.

Threepio carried on, mostly to himself. "…when he gets like that there's simply no reasoning with him, is there? I told him only yesterday that his 'revolutionary' holochess strategy simply could not prevail"

Artoo warbled pointedly.

Threepio huffed. "Yes, well I don't call pulling your opponent's arms off a very revolutionary strategy, no matter if he succeeded in doing it or not. And then to claim a victory, by default…!"

Artoo's welder completed its journey across Threepio's shoulder. The smaller astromech model gave a small, relieved bleep of satisfaction, and began to roll away. "Hey!" Threepio called after it. "Don't you leave me here to rot, Artoo Detoo, with an animal like Chewbacca loose on this flying deathtrap!"

Artoo paused to get off a parting shot, before motoring merrily on to his repairs on the hyperdrive. Almost everything on the Falcon these days was in a state of disrepair. The ship had never had what you would call a 'professional' servicing under its current captain, and so Artoo was in constant demand on one emergency job or another.

For his part, the little droid was quite happy with this arrangement. Sadly his humanoid counterpart was less so. Then again, Threepio would have needed a long run up to be depressed.

Han had never liked Threepio. For that matter 'Goldenrod' had taken an instant dislike to the smuggler from the fateful moment when the two met three years ago. Strange that now Artoo remained still on the Falcon.

Threepio, of course, wasn't the same droid who Artoo had known for so many years. That particular model had perished along with the rest in the superlaser blast that had eradicated Yavin IV. No, this was the second incarnation of C-3PO, formed using a 'blank' assembly model and Artoo's counterpart chip.

Not many humans knew that an integral function of the counterpart arrangement was to keep a chip containing the sum memories and accumulated algorithms of the partner, updated every twelve hours by proximity signals.

Solo had known. Even at that, he had been under no obligation to re-create C-3PO. He'd done so anyway, for reasons best known to himself. So the squat little robot worked as hard as he could for the enigmatic rascal, even if sometimes he was a little short-fused.

Artoo never paused to wonder if Han had thought about the counterpart arrangement. Didn't wonder if Han hadn't lain awake for more nights than he could remember turning the universe over in his mind, wondering why artificial life should have the capacity, the ability to continue in some shape or form while organic life, so fragile and precious, perished in the blink of a laserbeam.

Leia had had no counterpart.

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Han's pilot seat had evolved a series of bumps and rises over the years, which exactly matched the contours of his back. He had always been able to tell his mood from how well the seat fitted.

Right now, he was shifting irritably.

"Chewie?"

The Wookiee in the co-pilot's chair didn't respond. Han glanced over and saw why.

"Chewie!"

The two-metre frame of his friend and partner jerked into consciousness. Chewie growled softly and rubbed his head, eyes nailing Han to the cockpit wall.

Even in the timelessness of deep space, Wookiees were not 'morning' people.

"Did you tear one of Goldenrod's arms off, again?"

Chewie shrugged, suggesting that the incident had not been ranked highly on his list of priorities. Han sighed softly. "Try not to let him get under your skin so much, will ya? A few more games of chess and all he'll be good for is attaching to the dorsal array as a mascot."

That earned him a glance from the Wookiee which spoke volumes. "OK, so he annoys me too," Han admitted readily, "boy, does he annoy me," he added quietly, "but…well, it's like he's…"

Chewie nodded and growled softly, closing the subject in his own way.

What Han had been reluctant to say was that Threepio was the only real link Han had back to her.

Han's mind began to drift back a few years, to the rather unceremonious farewell with Luke that had ended with Artoo being presented to him.

Han had felt more sorry for the droid that day, with its mournful whistle, than for the sullen farmboy who'd completely changed since the last time they'd spoken.

Whose fault was that, Han?

He flinched. He had aged over the last five years - it was a long time to be on the run from the biggest gangster this side of the Core. Jabba, incredibly, had raised the bounty on Han's head eleven times since the original incident.

He was now worth the astronomical sum of one hundred and seventy-seven thousand credits. There were some days he felt like bringing himself in.

He was, in effect, a virtual prisoner inside the Falcon. There were very few characters out there who would be immune to the lure of a bounty like that.

Five years ago Han Solo would have turned in several of his closest friends for that sort of money, wrapped up in a bow. Well? He had been a smuggler, not a charity worker.

He hadn't grown up wanting to be a smuggler. He'd had his heart set on becoming the man at the helm of one of those huge ships - the Calamarian star cruisers, or even a Star Destroyer.

As an Imperial cadet, Han had set his sights high. On his room wall in the functional barracks he'd affixed a beautiful holo of the ultimate challenge. The Super Star Destroyer Executor, not long out of the yards and the largest warship ever built. In his dreams he'd flown her countless times.

He'd never even been all that interested in space battle. To him piloting in a dogfight meant you'd already failed; he'd always thought that a top-notch pilot should be able to steer his way out of trouble. He was a brash flyer, but not exactly battle-eager.

When he'd chosen the Falcon from the small fleet of ships Lando had possessed for his prize, it was certainly not for her beauty. The Falcon was the starship equivalent of a pregnant Hutt; no matter how you dressed it up it was still one ugly mother.

He'd chosen it because one experienced glance from those would-be pilot's eyes had told him that this thing was fast. Han had been deducted marks while in training after, in a simulation program, he'd flown his TIE Interceptor at top speed the entire time. He'd also set a record time for successful completion that day.

Ironically, the program had been set inside a huge canyon, a mission to protect TIE Bombers until they reached the targets at the mouth of the crevasse. Exactly what the Alliance had done at the Death Star.

He cursed himself, of course, for stalling that day. Had he turned back a few minutes sooner…Leia might still be alive, the Death Star wouldn't have gone on to obliterate Yavin IV and the five other worlds it had murdered since.

Yet it had all seemed so perfect.

The station's defences in complete chaos with the fate of a quarter of a million people hanging in the balance, he'd been able to coast in with nothing more to deal with than a few gun turrets.

He'd spotted the TIEs and the X-Wings right away. Communication was not an option - the last thing he wanted was to alert the Imperial grid and possibly startle Luke into making a fatal mistake.

His heart had sank as one of the X-Wings had blown, but something had told him that it wasn't Luke's. The automatic targeting on the Falcon's turbolasers would have taken six seconds to lock on. Han knew his young friend wouldn't have that long. He'd brought the Falcon down at a steep angle and switched the guns to remote manual operation.

Then he'd fired for all he was worth. When one had blown, from luck or judgement, he hadn't been able to contain his joy. The other two became tangled and Luke was clear. Han had told him as much.

And Luke, the farmboy romantic from a backwater planet recently turned space adventurer…had missed.

He had missed.

Han shivered. The memory was far too fresh, even now. Afterward, Skywalker had sworn that both torpedoes had entered the exhaust port.

Well…he would have, wouldn't he?

Han knew full well that had they done so he wouldn't be sitting here thinking about apologising to Goldenrod right now. He would have been-

The voice in his head was silent.

The Falcon flew on.

Unknown to those on board, the Force was far from finished with them yet.