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Chapter 22
Burn It Away
I submit there's nothing more dangerous than a memory buried. Which other foe, beaten time and again, continues to manifest? Its funereal shroud can be shed in an instant, releasing it anew to wreak havoc on the living. And this, too, I submit (though with far less conviction): only the light of our eyes can burn it away.
The Boy's blood-stained boots clopped on the floor. Slightly deformed knuckles tapped his leg. Landon saw his wife's cheekbones, his own strong jaw. But nothing of either of them presented beneath.
Landon was stripped bare. Gone was the armor of sarcastic surety. Fear, regret; somehow they were one, like a ship dropped out of hyperspace inside an asteroid.
"Hi, Dad," the Boy snarled.
"Han..."
"Nothing to say? You fucking coward."
Landon's eyes squeezed shut before opening wide. "Han, why are you here? Do you know who he is? Do you know what he's done?"
"And who are you?" Han growled. "How many people have you killed? He knows the answer. How about you, Dad?"
With each silence, Han's confidence grew. His eyes screamed the fury he held from his voice. "It took years to prepare, but I knew it was worth it. I will beat you into nothing. Cut the pain from my heart."
He gnarled, "But before I do, I have a lot of things to get off my chest. And you're going to listen."
Neecho reveled in Landon's ghostly pallor. He swelled with pride for Han's triumph.
"Let's start with my mother," Han moaned in a broken voice. "The one who stayed. The one who never gave up. Do you know what she did without your blood money? She worked at a garbage dump. Those aren't regulated on Nar Shadda. A man could dump anything. Like contaminated ships carrying disease." Han faltered, raising a fist to his mouth. The memory he thought dealt with punched up through the ground. "And now—" He cleared his throat. "Now she's lying in a hospital, sleeping through her life."
Landon flinched back. His chest felt hollow. He pictured her face. That expressive face reduced to white canvass; smooth, pure skin crinkled by nothing; her womb, an empty locker, denied the repeated use she'd always intended.
Han said, "There was no one to protect me. I fell in with pirates, running spice from the Kessel mines. They didn't trust me with anything. I was just a mascot. When I lost my shine, they left me for dead."
Landon felt tears rolling down his face.
"For a while, I ate garbage," Han said. "I begged for credits. But after months of being spat on, I finally realized I could take what belonged to people. And I was good at it, Dad. It's in my blood—the one thing you gave me."
Miler's heart constricted. In his mind, he was back in that smoky cantina. "I'm sorry." Han snapped his head at him. "I'm so sorry," Miler said again. "I lost both my parents. I ended up in tha' life, same as you. People don't understand ya didn't have a choice."
"Your father died. He didn't leave you."
"Aye," allowed Miler. "I can't imagine. What your father did is unforgivable. But you have a choice. Ya can take your pain an' paint the stars. Or ya can clench it in your hand, so it scars your palm, and promise yourself that it ends with you." He leaned forward, shackles snapped to their limit. "I wanted more. A life with meaning. That's why I joined the navy."
Han's forehead crinkled. Neecho touched his shoulder and grunted at Miler: "Meaning is not given. It does not come with rations. It is derived from within."
"I'm makin' a difference," Miler said
"Are you? The Republic is dying. The Sith are winning the war. And you're not even fighting it. You'll die on this table for another man's sin."
Landon yelled, "You son of a bitch! My only mistake was trusting Diablo!"
Neecho's breathy cackle sent a chill down his spine. "Diablo? I wouldn't dignify his call. But the Sith know how to strike a deal."
Miler's stomach plummeted. The saboteur. Someone took great pains to get them to Axxila. Landon's capture was planned from the beginning. Now Miler's panic expanded to Aayla, Obi-Wan.
Neecho read his face. "Kenobi does not concern me. I leave him to the Hutts," he waved off. "I have what I want. For Han, and for me."
Father regarded son with abject fear. Landon blinked, and croaked, "What are you going to do?"
"I'm going to kill you," Han said.
Axxila owed its habitability to an energy shield. Without it, the fierce swirl of dust—remnants of an ancient volcanic event—would make the air unbreatheable. The shield's optical effect colored sunsets blue, contrasting the hot light that squeezed through the dust.
A shopkeeper shut down his register, admiring the sky. He smiled to himself before tumbling over a table. Diablo, the culprit, scrambled up and kept running.
Julian hurdled the table, hot in pursuit. He aimed his blaster, but it wouldn't keep steady. His only choice was to catch him. He found another gear, sprinting faster.
Diablo saw a hotel at the end of the street. He burst through the door, knocking over the bellman.
"Hey! What are you—!"
Diablo broke for the staircase. The bellman stood up—until Julian bowled him over.
"So sorry!" cried Julian. He bolted up the stairs.
Diablo stopped at level four, streaking through the hall. He shoved a guest against the wall and ran to an elevator. His clawed hand mashed the control arrow. He could hear Julian sprinting down the hall.
The doors opened. Diablo gasped to find Quinn wielding a lightsaber. The green blade sizzled inches from his beak.
Palmer grinned at Quinn's side. "I bet you didn't think that fool knew a Jedi."
The room was submerged in the Republic database. On one wall were profiles of Neecho and Augustan.
We like the word "monster." It's comfortable to think that, while we all have potential for evil, there's some things we'd never do. In any case, it fit Neecho pretty well. At fifteen, he killed his father for his empire. When his mother claimed the throne, Neecho killed her, too. So began his brutal career.
Neecho's holograph stared vacantly at Aayla. She imagined Miler at the Duros' mercy. Would he be tortured, beheaded? The Dark Side touched her thoughts.
"Over here!" said Padme.
Aayla spun around. Three disparate landscapes hung in the air. The first was a jungle; the second an ocean; and the third a cave exterior. "What are these?"
"Neecho's compounds," said Padme, hastening to add: "At least according to Republic intelligence."
Axxila held little interest for the Republic. Long ago it gave up on making allies of the Hutts. Any intelligence was shaky at best. "It's our best bet," said Obi-Wan. "I suggest—"
Red lights and klaxons filled the Dawn Tangent. The intercom crackled. R2's shrill voice rang from the speakers.
"Proximity alert!" Obi-Wan said.
He made a beeline for the cockpit. Outside the window, an armed junta was approaching. The combined force of droids and bounty hunters, at least seventy in all, seemed to swallow the landing pad. Obi-Wan blanched. Did his crew give him up under interrogation? Or was this the work of the saboteur?
"Oh my god," Padme mumbled.
Obi-Wan pinned her with a look. "Have you ever fired a turret?"
Landon's head snapped back, cracking the table. The sweet crunch of cartilage dulled the pain in Han's fist.
"Stop it!" cried Miler.
Han's left cross broke Landon's nose. Blood poured from his misaligned nostrils.
Miler shouted again, straining to get free.
"Don't judge me," said Han. "You were never tested like I was."
"Dammit, man! You're not better than yer dad 'cause ya gave 'im a wallop! Can't ya see you're bein' used?"
Neecho caught a brief glimmer—Doubt? Sadness?—on Han's young face. He couldn't abide it, not when nirvana impended. "I tire of your moralizing!"
Miler implored Han: "Think about what you're doin'! What would your mother say? Your mother who didn't change!—when she had every cause to. What would she say?"
Han looked off. His stomach quivered.
Neecho growled, "She would say it is justice! And you will not stop it!" His head snapped to Augustan. "Kill him," he demanded.
Landon's head hung on his chest. He was numb, and cold, no longer himself but a distant third-party, standing at a window dirty and tinted, so he didn't know what was real and what was imagination, but what he saw he didn't like, because he was not a good man; he never had been; he saw his mom, The Promise he made her; he believed in The Promise, but as he could no longer keep it, he wouldn't allow it to destroy a good man. "Kill him."
"No..." croaked Landon. "Leave... him alone. He... isn't... part of this."
"How touching," sneered Neecho. "You abandoned your son, yet you stand with a brother."
"You—" Landon coughed. "—have me. You're going to kill me. Let him go." He implored his son: "I abandoned you—and your mother. I'm going to die. And I deserve to die. But he's never done anything."
Miler was stoic, but Han watched his breath burst in and out.
Neecho sighed. He squeezed Han's arm reassuringly. "Take this one to the surface," he ordered Augustan. "He is no longer needed."
Han's shoulders relaxed.
"No!" cried Miler. "You can't—!"
Augustan slapped him in the face. He took his jaw in his hand. "If you try anything, I will bash your skull in."
Augustan led him by the neck. Miler stumbled to the door. "Landon!"
A watery smirk crossed Landon's face.
"See you around, kid."
Obi-Wan and Aayla met the junta outside. It was a force of droids and freelance bounty hunters.
Some brandished blades, others blasters. Those who favored close combat stood out front. Jango Fett was their leader, a grizzled Mandalorian trusted by the Hutts. His arrogant malice washed over the Jedi. It might have been enough to stagger a padawan.
"Salutations," said Obi-Wan.
Jango's modulated voice rang from his helmet: "We can do this the easy way or the hard way."
"You're right about that."
"I'd prefer the full bounty. But corpses still pay."
Obi-Wan lifted his hand in a signal to Padme. The ship's turret powered on, swiveling its aim to the center of the group. He held back a grin to see her come through.
The junta didn't move. A defiant Jango drew his blaster.
"The hard way, then," Obi-Wan said.
Aayla's blade ignited. Cocking it back, she looked at her friend. "Old times?"
"Old times."
The air erupted with blaster fire. Dozens of bolts rained on the Jedi. They deflected like dancers, leaning and spinning. Effortless as it looked, the acrobatics were taxing. A bolt slipped through, singing Aayla's shoulder. She hissed and pressed on.
Back on the ship, Padme measured the enemy. It wasn't lost on her the power she held. But all notion of grace was purged by her purpose.
She wiped her palms, took a breath. She squeezed the trigger.
The turret shook and recoiled, hurling light at man and machine. Droids exploded in a shower of sparks. A dozen bounty hunters were thrown through the air. Arms and legs fell far from their owners.
Padme swallowed her horror, fired again. "Error," said the computer. "Weapon malfunction." Padme gasped, squeezing again. "Error. Weapon malfunction." She grabbed her comlink: "R2! The turret's not firing!"
Obi-Wan's blade drew glowing lines through the air. He was still outnumbered, but his odds had improved.
He rushed the contingent with close-quarter weapons. He blocked a Rodian's sword. Then spinning around, he halved him at the waist. Obi-Wan ducked a Gammorean's ax and quickly impaled him.
With one thought through the Force, the rest scattered like dolls. He threw his saber like a spear, pinning a man to the ground. He stomped his head before recalling the blade. Then he swiftly dismembered the rest of his foes.
He snapped his head at Aayla shouting. She was grappling with Jango. The last droids and one Bothan circled around them.
Obi-Wan leapt overtop. He broke the droids into pieces to hurl at Jango. Pummeled by metal, Jango went tumbling. Aayla cut down the Bothan—leaving Jango alone to face two Jedi.
They twirled their sabers, taking a stance.
"It's over," said Obi-Wan. "We have the numbers."
Jango's jet pack ignited. He soared from their reach, screaming "die!" through his helmet. Two projectiles launched from his wrist. Obi-Wan and Aayla leapt to each side. Debris exploded from a crater, cutting at their skin. They looked in a daze as he readied another shot.
Jango held out his wrist—before a blinding light wiped him from the sky. Charred segments of armor, and body, pelted the landing pad. The remains of the jet pack harmlessly simmered.
Obi-Wan stared at the carnage before turning to the turret. Padme's expression in the window dampened his pride.
Hearing movement, he found Palmer, Quinn, and Julian approaching with a crate. They stepped through and around scattered parts of the bounty hunters. Julian was aghast at the gruesome tableau.
"Good work," said Obi-Wan.
"You, too," Palmer replied dryly.
Obi-Wan grimaced, leading them to the ramp. "I'll explain on board. We have a lead on Miler. Once R2 installs the regulator, we'll get our crew back."
Julian frowned at Jango's remains. "If they're still in one piece."
Augustan shoved him in the back. Miler grunted, portraying a weakling, marveling to himself at Augustan's arrogance. Without a blindfold, he memorized the layout of Neecho's compound. From its empty halls, he knew it wasn't the palace. It must be a black site where Neecho did dirty work.
"Take him to the surface," Neecho had said. That meant Miler was underground.
"You choose your friends poorly," Augustan sneered. "Solo was dead the day he left here."
Miler smiled discreetly. "Maybe so. But you'll die, too—someday. Have ya thought when that'll be?"
"Not for a long time."
Miler knew all along Neecho's mercy was a ruse. He was marching toward disposal. "Define 'long time.'"
"Fifty years from now, in a comfortable bed. With Twi'lek concubines stroking my body."
Miler's eyes darkened. He thought of Aayla, and his promise.
Halfway down the corridor was an emergency bulkhead. On the wall was a small panel, with a red switch labeled 'Lockdown.'
Miler stopped short, looking smugly behind him. "Y'know what the worst part of dyin' is? It's unpredictable."
Miler whirled, throwing a headbutt. Augustan growled and kicked him in the chest. It launched Miler backward. On his way to the floor, he flipped the red switch, falling safely beyond the bulkhead. Augustan lunged while a door deployed from the ceiling.
"Ahh!"
The door smashed him to the ground, pinning him on his stomach. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't think. His armor snapped, followed by his spine. Augustan's eyes bulged from the pressure. His feline tongue wagged from his mouth.
"You choose your friends poorly," Miler said darkly.
He looked down the corridor. Still shackled, he couldn't afford to be seen. But the level appeared empty. He liked his chances.
He ran to a T-junction, taking a left. Suddenly the nondescript metal that encased every corridor was replaced by glass. The ceiling, floor, and walls were like one large window. An endless ocean sprawled out before him. Neon starfish winked through the water.
Miler blinked back his shock. His eyes snapped to an elevator ten feet away. A ticket home! A giddy smile engulfed his face.
"I'm going to die. And I deserve to die. But he's never done anything."
Miler's smile faltered. He shut his eyes, but it was too bright from the ocean for Miler to see black.
"Brave heart," he said. The job wasn't done.