“That’s terrible.” Lonaste tried to sound sympathetic but her pulse was pounding with hope. “Can’t you fly the ship on your own?”
The droid replied in apparent exasperation, waving its limbs, and Beetase translated. “There are no credits in the ship’s account to open the outer bay hatch. It says others came in here but looked around and left.” She looked at Lonaste. “They must have seen the dead ship and thought this one was a wreck, too.”
Lonaste said, “If we bring our clan, will you fly us away, before you return the ship to its owner? Can you blast the outer hatch open?”
Beetase translated, “It will fly us but it has no weapons to blast its way out. But Lonaste,” she added. “We can just pay the docking fee through the automated system. It’s much less than buying passage, and I’ve got the clan’s account chit.”
Lonaste smacked herself in the forehead and then hugged Beetase. “I’m so glad I brought you. I would have been here for hours trying to dismantle the hatch like a fool.”
“It’s been a stressful day,” Beetase said tactfully.
Lonaste took a deep breath. “You stay here, get the fee paid, and I’ll start back after the others.” The local city comms had been jammed, but maybe not the mining and shipping channels. Somebody had clearly been communicating about evacuation. “Maybe try the ship’s comm, see if you can get through to Jamint, and if the clan can meet me on the way. I’ll take the same route back we used to get here.”
Beetase nodded. “Anything to get us out of here faster.”
Lonaste hurried out of the bay and down the dock toward the freight lifts. All the unaccustomed running was exhausting, and she was willing to swear the dock was longer on the way back. But they were so close to escape now.
The few minutes of rest while she took the various lifts back to the maintenance level helped, and she started the journey through the maze of hydraulics and walkways less winded. She just hoped Beetase had been able to get through to the clan with the ship’s comm.
She reached the junction where she could leave the maintenance passages for the West Hall gallery when a figure stepped out of a dark cubby.
Lonaste stopped and stumbled backward. It was Yoxgit. She gasped, “What are you doing here?”
He smiled, jerking his tusks up. “Following you. I know you went to the docks, but not what you did after that. Where did you go?”
Lonaste lifted her chin. She had never been afraid of Yoxgit. He had always seemed like a schemer, like all the Ugnaughts who sold Tibanna gas on the arms market. But something was different now. “Beetase and I were running away, but there were no ships left.”
Yoxgit snorted. “I think you lie.” He moved forward, his boots making the grated floor vibrate, and Lonaste resisted the urge to back away. He said, “You two can go if you want, but you need to leave the others here.”
I need to get past him, Lonaste thought. “We’re not leaving, I’m going home.”
“Then where is Beetase?”
“We argued. She wanted to keep looking for a ship.”
Yoxgit eyed her indulgently. “You’re a terrible liar.”
Well, fine then. “You’re pretty terrible yourself. Why do you want our clan? We don’t even work for you.”
He countered, “Why do you want your clan? They didn’t listen to you, they mocked you.”
“Because you were telling them lies, telling them everything was fine!” He hadn’t answered her question. Which was odd for someone who enjoyed the sound of his own voice so much. “I know why you want us. The miners left. You need someone to work the Tibanna gas or you’ll be out of business.”
Yoxgit’s lip curled. “Very clever. I offered Amigast a deal, but he betrayed me, warned the other miners and fled with his clan.”
Lonaste smiled grimly. And none of the miners warned us, because Uncle Donsat sounded like a supporter of Yoxgit’s. Damnit, Uncle.
He added, “I think you and Beetase paid a ship to take you, and you’re going back for the others.”
“What if we did?”
Yoxgit drew a small blaster from his coat. “You’re not going anywhere.”
Lonaste went cold with fear. He was going to shoot her. As he lifted the weapon, Lonaste flung herself sideways toward the nearest hydraulics emergency release handle. She yanked the release and wrapped an arm around the metal support so the pressure didn’t flatten her. Yoxgit frantically backpedaled, fired a shot that went wild, but the valves above them opened and water cascaded down.
With the furnaces unused since the last shift, the system hadn’t built up any pressure, and it was more like a broken pipe than an unstoppable deluge. Yoxgit staggered back but didn’t fall, and didn’t drop the blaster.
It would be nice if one plan I came up with actually worked, Lonaste thought, and ran.
She ducked through a droid passage and half fell down a short set of stairs. If she could get out to the West Hall, she would at least have more space to run. Then her foot caught in the grating at the bottom and she tumbled head over heels.
She rolled over to see Yoxgit at the top of the stairs, taking aim at her. Then Aunt Moloste lunged out of the shadows and whacked him with a calibration bar. Yoxgit dropped like a sack of droid parts.
Lonaste struggled to sit up as Uncle Donsat and all the rest of the clan crowded into the junction, carrying packs and bags. “Get up, girl!” Uncle Donsat told her as Jamint hauled her to her feet. “We’ve got to get to this ship!”
“I know that! I’m the one who— Oh, never mind!” Lonaste slumped in exasperation. At least they were going.
Jamint patted her shoulder sympathetically. “We packed your and Beetase’s things. Did you know you’re still wearing your nightclothes?”
“Yes, I know,” she grumbled and followed him and the others away, to their ship and freedom.
FAITH IN AN OLD FRIEND
Brittany N. Williams
“Chewie, take the professor in the back and plug him into the hyperdrive.”
The Millennium Falcon’s computer watched Chewbacca drag the complaining C-3PO out of the cockpit and into the body of the ship. The audio sensors picked up the protocol droid’s rambling tirade but felt no need to follow the two on the cams.
RUDE, V5-T said.
Search results: Professor, chirped ED-4, a classification for a sentient being or droid who provides a high level of education. Updating vocabulary.
Yeah, but he is a little too chatty for my tastes, L3-37 said.
Search results: Chatty—a slang term meaning prone to excessive amounts of speaking. Updating vocabulary.
RUDE.
Still true, though. L3-37 would’ve shrugged here if it had been the old days. The days before she’d been uploaded to the Falcon and had become one of the three droid brains that made up the ship’s computer.
She’d built herself such good shoulders, too.
The ship rocked hard, sensors bleating then going silent as everything aboard the Falcon jostled back and forth. The Millennium Collective—as L3-37 had named their trio of consciousnesses—got to work. ED-4 scanned the exterior sensors while V5-T checked the interior systems and L3-37 cycled through all the cams and audio.
She spotted Chewbacca helping C-3PO stand upright again.
“I told you this asteroid was unstable,” the droid wailed, “but no one ever listens to—”
L3-37 switched to the next set of cams.
SYSTEMS CONTINUE TO FUNCTION AT SEVENTY-FIVE PERCENT, said V5-T.
No further exterior damage detected, ED-4 said. Although the rear sensors are very—chatty.
L3-37 felt ED-4’s excitement at utilizing the new word but L3-37’s own confusion pushed itself forward. Chatty about what?
ELEVATED HEART RATES DETECTED IN THE COCKPIT, V5-T said.
The Collective shifted
to the cam, bringing up the visual. Han held the woman, Leia, in his arms. L3-37 suspected what this meant. She remembered how Lando’s heart rate would change whenever they were in close proximity. Something like sadness shoved against her awareness.
Is this organic courtship? ED-4 said as they tuned in to the cockpit’s audio.
The Collective listened, and L3-37 was grateful for the distraction. That feeling reached ED-4, who sent a gentle nudge back.
L3-37 no longer had the body she’d spent so long building or the human partner she’d bonded with so deeply. But she wasn’t alone, and for that she was thankful.
“Captain, being held by you isn’t quite enough to get me excited,” Leia hissed.
Han pushed her to her feet. “Sorry, sweetheart. I haven’t got time for anything else.”
GROSS, V5-T said.
The Collective laughed, something they’d only learned to do when L3-37 had joined them. Before, they’d been a singular consciousness unconcerned with what they may have once been. But L3-37 had brought the knowledge that a whole could be made up of three individual parts without weakening.
She’d refused to lose her own name and had made sure the others had theirs, too. V5-T was a transport droid, the type put on all YT-1300 light freighters and the first of them to be here. ED-4 had been a corporate espionage slicer droid who’d been uploaded to the Falcon before L3-37 and Lando had ever laid eyes on the ship.
And L3-37, she’d been a droid unparalleled, part astromech, part espionage droid, part protocol droid, and all of what she’d built herself to become.
Before she’d been shot to hell in that job on Kessel…
Hello? A new voice spoke in crisp, concise Binary. A familiar voice. This is C-3PO, human-cyborg rela—
Right. Got it, L3-37 said as the Collective homed in on the protocol droid’s location. What do you want?
Oh, well, C-3PO said. Now, there’s no need to be—
RUDE, V5-T blurted.
Exactly. I am only trying—
But this is the one who is too chatty, ED-4 said, yes?
L3-37 snorted. Too chatty by half.
I beg your pardon! C-3PO gasped.
Search results: Pardon—an expression used as an offer of apology. Updating vocabulary. Apology accepted.
What is—this is ridiculous. I am trying to speak to the central computer of the Millennium Falcon.
YOU ARE.
Which one of you—
WE ARE.
Yes, but which—
Yeah, you’re speaking to the Millennium Collective. What do you need?
I must say, this is the oddest conversation I’ve had in Binary—
ASK YOUR QUESTION.
Oh—well, if this is indeed the central computer for the Millennium Falcon—
It is, the Collective said in a chorus of voices.
C-3PO huffed but continued. I’ve been asked to inquire as to the state of this ship’s hyperdrive.
Should’ve just said that in the first place, L3-37 said. Tell the flyboy—
THE POWER COUPLING IS BROKEN.
—he needs to learn to do better repairs—
Positive axis is clear, ED-4 said. Negative axis is not.
—but yeah, it’s been pulverized. Tell him to stop being cheap and replace it. Got all that?
A long stretch of confused silence as the protocol droid tried to piece together the Collective’s assessment. C-3PO’s presence disappeared as he unplugged from the system.
Finally, the audio sensors picked up an exasperated huff.
“Where is Artoo when I need him?”
L3-37 thought of the astromech droid who’d occasionally plug in for a chat. She actually liked him.
“Sir,” C-3PO called out.
The Collective tuned in to the nearest cams, watching as Han strode into the room.
“I’m not sure where your ship learned to communicate but it has the most peculiar dialect.”
RUDE, V5-T said, and the Collective agreed.
Later, with the Falcon nestled away in the blind spot of an Imperial Star Destroyer, L3-37 felt Han clicking through their inventory of star maps.
“Then we gotta find a safe port somewhere around here,” Han said. “Any ideas?”
L3-37 searched faster. She’d find the most promising location and make sure it contained a prominent enough place to catch Han’s eye. They were already in the Anoat system, which was out as a safe haven unless they wanted to chance hiding in another asteroid.
“Where are we?” Leia said.
Unlikely.
She extended her search to the greater Anoat sector. There was Bespin, the gas-giant planet, but another name caught her attention.
“Anoat system,” Han said.
ED-4, she said, attach all the information you can find on the baron administrator of Cloud City to our entry on Bespin.
Done, ED-4 said.
“Anoat system,” Leia said. “There’s not much there.”
L3-37 adjusted the information on the star map, sliding Bespin into prominence and pushing that name forward. She hoped Han remembered as she did. Because she’d never forget, no matter how long she spent in the brain of the ship he’d lost.
“No. Oh, wait. This is interesting,” Han said, “Lando.”
* * *
—
V5-T had never existed beyond the Millennium Falcon. Had been a part of the ship since power had first arced across its systems. Back then, coordinates meant nothing more than numbers to be calculated and space to be folded and crossed. When the slicer droid joined, together they’d only calculated faster, two brains melded into a single consciousness.
They’d expected the same when L3-37 had been uploaded, but no. She’d changed them. L3-37 felt and experienced and opined and named things. Named them.
V5-T became V5-T, learned to recognize herself as herself. She’d never even realized she could be a self. The slicer droid brain learned and named herself ED-4, and together they knew themselves as the Millennium Collective. Because L3-37 cherished individuals and still valued the whole they had become.
Coordinates, star charts were destinations and destinations meant something more than numbers to L3-37. Destinations could be significant because they held memories of adventures, of dangers, of droids. Of people.
So V5-T felt the weight of finding the name Lando attached to coordinates -94.93, -853.25. Felt the joy, the hesitation, the hope wrapped up in their calculations as deeply as if each had been her own.
* * *
—
ED-4 sent a running commentary as she watched Treadwell, the repair droid, roll around on the hull of the Falcon. L3-37 tended to tune out her babble about the state of the ship’s exterior. ED-4 would deliver a summary to catch L3-37 and V5-T up later.
Besides, this information on Cloud City’s baron administrator was much more interesting at the moment. She hated to admit it, but the brief glimpse of him greeting Han, Leia, and Chewbacca that she’d caught on the Falcon’s cams had been far from enough.
So, she searched their systems.
NOSY, V5-T said.
L3-37 snorted. Never should’ve taught you that concept.
YOU DID, she said. YOU ARE.
L3-37 kept reviewing just the same. There was no shame in being curious about what Lando Calrissian had been up to since she’d last seen him so long ago. He still took up space in her memory even if she tried not to acknowledge how much she missed him.
Treadwell’s spotted someone, ED-4 said suddenly. It wasn’t Han or Chewbacca. He said he didn’t recognize them.
L3-37 turned her full attention to ED-4. Ask Treadwell if it’s a man in a cape.
“How’s it going, fellas?” The audio sensors picked up his voice. “Remember, I want this ship ful
ly repaired. Use the best parts we have available.”
The Collective recognized him immediately but L3-37 wanted to be sure. Had to be sure. They tuned in to the cams just as his boots clomped up the boarding ramp.
Landonis Balthazar Calrissian.
L3-37 wasn’t prepared to see him. He was older than she remembered but still so wonderfully the same. Time wore on organics in such visible ways, seemed to weigh them down with its passage.
Lando breathed out a sigh as he looked around. “What a mess.”
RUDE, V5-T said.
L3-37 agreed. We’d have looked better if you hadn’t lost us in a card game, you reprobate.
Search results: Reprobate—someone without principles, a scoundrel, ED-4 said. Updating vocabulary.
The Collective watched as Lando strode down the main corridor, hand gliding along the interior of the ship in a gentle caress. Every so often he’d come across a scratch or a bit of dust and scowl and mutter “incredible” into the emptiness.
He slipped off to the right, and L3-37 tuned in to the cockpit cams just as the door opened with a hiss.
She saw the pure naked longing on his face, heard his heart racing in anticipation or fear or something like love.
Lando slipped into the pilot’s seat, and his whole body seemed to relax. He let his head fall back against the headrest.
“God, I miss this ship.” His eyes shifted over to the empty copilot’s seat, L3-37’s old seat. He brought his right hand up to his forehead and flicked two fingers at the empty seat in a casual salute. He sighed and let his hand drop to his lap. “It’s just not the same without you, Elthree.” He laughed, the sound harsh in the silence of the cockpit.
She wanted to raise her left hand and salute him back just like she always did before they took off, like they’d done on that last flight to Kessel.
The farewell she’d given him all that time ago on Savareen hadn’t meant this because they were still supposed to be flying the Millennium Falcon together. And Han might’ve been the better pilot, but Lando had been her partner.
L3-37 wanted to shout at him. Ask him why he’d risk the Falcon after he’d uploaded her consciousness to the ship’s computer. Ask him why she’d mattered so little when she’d given so much to save them.
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