Last Shot_Star Wars

by Daniel José Older

  Han stood there feeling somehow naked. “Uh.” He looked down to make sure he really did have his flight suit on. Yes. Yes, he did. And yes, yes he had. “What happened to Sana Starros doesn’t bluff?”

  “I was bluffing, you gorg dropping!”

  Chewie put his hands over his face and moaned.

  “Not helping, Chewie,” Han growled. He rounded on Sana. “And how exactly was I supposed to know that? Hm? Do you think I can read minds?”

  “I think you can figure out that I would never put that much money into the ether! What’s wrong with you?”

  “What’s wrong with me?” Han seethed. “You’re the one who got us into this mess! What did you think was going to happen, dealing with the Gotra? That they were just going to hand you the money and everything would be fine? Does that seem like the Gotra way to you? You, little Miss Nar Shaddaa herself, raised among gangsters, of all people, should’ve at least known better than to tangle with the Gotra without a pla—”

  Han had watched Sana’s eyes tighten and her fists clench as he was talking; he even saw her wind one of those fists all the way back, and he by all rights should’ve raised his arm or at least jumped out of the way, but even with all those obvious signs, it just didn’t seem plausible that the next thing to happen would be him getting laid all the way out. And yet there he was, a few seconds later, stretched across the dirty floor of the Falcon, watching the ceiling spin past his crumpled nose.

  “I had a plan,” Sana seethed. “My only mistake was involving you in it in any way. Drop me back on Takodana, Chewie. I gotta go handle whatever mess has developed now thanks to Mr. Fast-to-Trash over here.” And with that, she stormed out.

  “That thettless it,” Han mumbled through the taste of blood in his mouth, “she’th in love with me.”

  “PLEASE,” HAN SAID AS HE maneuvered them over Grava’s cloud cover and then blasted out into the outer atmosphere, “tell me you had that damn bone-and-metal game rigged.”

  “Han, old buddy!” Lando said, throwing up his hands and laughing. “Do I look like the kind of—”

  “You actually look exactly like the guy who gambled my life away, yes,” Han said.

  Lando shut up. Han pulled down the hyperdrive lever a little harder than necessary. The sparkling stars slid into sharp lines around them.

  “Those were the worst months of my life,” Lando said. “Bar none. If you think for a second that I had a choice in the matter, or that there was a single second during that time that I didn’t hate myself for what I’d done—”

  “I don’t,” Han admitted. A few moments passed as the stars went spiraling by. “And I know you did what you had to do. You saved way more lives that day than the one you gambled away. Including Leia’s.”

  “Well,” Lando said, “I still felt awful about it.”

  “I mean, you should. But you still did the right thing. I’m…sorry I brought it up.”

  Lando shrugged it off. “You still get to be mad, Han. Even if I did risk my own life coming back to get you. There’s no expiration date on dealing with things like that.”

  “Yeah,” Han grunted. “Still…sorry.”

  “And anyway…” Lando readjusted himself in the seat and grinned over at Han. “Yes.”

  “Yes what?”

  Lando reached into an inner pocket of his cape and pulled out the little sack of Vazaveer fichas they’d knicked on Frander’s Bay. “Yes, I rigged the hell outta that creepy little game of theirs.” He plopped it on the control panel with a chuckle. “I do kinda feel bad for ganking that old Toydarian’s special toys, though.”

  “I know you palmed the Octopent and then smooth-dropped Poppy’s one in front of yourself on the last round,” Han said. “But that was your backup. How’d you make sure you’d even get there? And don’t say luck.”

  “Bah, I hate luck.”

  Han grinned. “Spoken like a true gambler.”

  “First of all, I always plan on some jackhole crying best of three when things don’t go right for them on round one.”

  “Well, that’s a given.”

  “So…” Lando pulled out a small shiny block.

  “What’s that?”

  “Slivian iron.” His grin stretched even wider. “Magnetized.”

  “You…”

  “That little skull on the Octopent is mounted on a base piece made of steel. Those other metals contain only lower concentrations of iron. So this guy was my lodestone. I ran a couple of test runs to figure out just how far away it’d have to be, because this thing is powerful.” He held the iron block over the sack, sending a tiny clinking shiver through it. “And then kazam!” He lowered it closer and the sack flew up to meet the lodestone with a clank. “I had my play.”

  “Very nice,” Han said. “Then you let it fall at random for round two so it wouldn’t seem too obvious.”

  “Indeed, my friend. Indeed.”

  “One for the history books.”

  Lando let out a self-satisfied chuckle, but Han’s brow stayed furrowed.

  “You’re worried,” Lando said.

  “Of course I’m worried,” Han said. “Gor’s been one step ahead of us every!” He slammed the control panel. “Step!” Again. “Of the way!”

  “I know,” Lando said shaking his head. “But if anyone can take care of themselves, Kaasha, Chewie, and Taka can.”

  “Don’t forget Korrg,” Han muttered. “No one’s getting the jump on that little monster.”

  Truth was, Lando was worried, too—thoughts of Kaasha being hurt kept spinning through his mind, and the weight of tens of thousands of lives might also be in the balance, if those maniacs could be believed. But he’d grabbed the droid’s head, and that meant there was something he could do, and that, above all else, was what kept the demons away. “Keep us on course for the rendezvous point,” he said, patting Han’s shoulder. “I’m going to see what I can get out of this droid.”

  Soldering the charred datafiber into something usable wasn’t such a big deal, and once he’d done that it was pretty simple to wire Balthamus’s head into the holoprojector. And then, with a few clacks on the keypad and a very satisfying bleep, a rainbow array of information unraveled in 3-D before Lando’s wide blinking eyes.

  “File, file, file,” Lando muttered, sorting through what felt like an infinity of anatomical illustrations, mechanized device plans, and accounting logs. “Who would’ve thought an evil droid cult henchman’s internal files could be so dull?”

  Finally, a starmap flashed over the holoprojector, then another and another. Lando let out a chuckle. “Heeeere we go.”

  The first two were your basic galactic layouts, the major systems, Mid and Outer rims, all that. It was the third that had Lando with his face scrunched up, eyes narrowed, lips pursed when Han walked in and asked how it was going.

  “I…think…” Lando said, then nothing.

  “That good, huh?” Han shook his head and headed back to the cockpit. “We’re not far, might wanna get ready.” The door slid closed.

  “I…think…” Lando said again. The holomap swirled with vast nebulae and swinging constellations. They all looked familiar, but Lando couldn’t quite put his finger on where he’d seen them before. “What are you?” he whispered.

  No answer came, and whatever corner of the galaxy it was kept on with its slow rotation, sending a liquidy haze of colorful lights spinning across the dim room.

  “Where are you?” Lando stood, his cape swishing pleasantly against him as he rose, and scratched his goatee. “The Pau’an needed us to access Grimdock’s datafiles.” Lando began a slow strut around the holomap, his boots announcing each clacking step in the quiet cabin. “The Grimdock datafiles tracked the location of the Phylanx. But the Phylanx wasn’t there. Which means the Phylanx either was sending out the incorrect data, or had already left by the ti
me the message got to where it was going—the Imperial techs on Grimdock. Admiral Fastent’s team.” His steps came faster now. The star systems spun in the opposite direction; each star twinkled extravagantly as it spun round and round.

  The droids and acolytes on Grava had been so pleased with themselves. They’d been expecting the visit from Han and Lando. Which meant Gor expected them to go there. And probably followed the Vermillion to wherever it was going. The last known transmission point of the Phylanx. Lando jogged to the other side of the holomap and crouched by the keypad. With a few clacks, the galactic map Peekpa had showed them earlier blinked to life on top of the still-spinning one projected out of Balthamus’s head.

  The whole thing became an unintelligible mess. “Right, right,” Lando muttered, typing a few more directions into the keypad. “Just show me…” The Phylanx transmission points lit up, pulsing bright red, as the rest of the map from Grimdock faded into the background. Balthamus’s map still spun, still looked vaguely familiar but mostly nonsensical, like a song you could remember the melody to but none of the words.

  “Kriff,” Lando muttered, and then a crooked quadrangle of stars spun past its own smaller reflection. At least, that’s what it looked like happened. Lando slammed the PAUSE button on the keypad and jumped to his feet. He stepped forward, stuck his head all the way up into the overlapping holomaps, and squinted.

  “Yes,” he said hoarsely. “Yes.” The stars echoed one another. Balthamus’s map was a detail. Or maybe…Lando stepped back, then to the side, squinting one eye then the other. Maybe it was a series of details. He cocked his head, crouched back down to the keypad, and clacked in a few more directions, splicing off the echoing section where its edges seemed to dim slightly, and then laying it directly over the larger map. One of the Phylanx’s blinking red markers lay right in the middle of the sector.

  “There you are!” Lando yelled.

  “There who is?” Han said, walking in from the cockpit.

  “Something,” Lando said, squinting again as the next few moves he’d have to make to complete the puzzle began to take shape. “Something…”

  “Yeah, well, you should take a break and come look at this.” Han retreated back to the cockpit.

  “Look at what?” Lando said, following quickly behind. He slid into the copilot’s seat and gazed out at a scattered debris field. “I don’t see anything.”

  “Exactly,” Han said. “This is the rendezvous point. They’re gone.”

  “THERE HAS BEEN ANOTHER BREACH at the southern perimeter, master,” the droid said.

  Fyzen had been standing at the lip of the canyon, arms crossed, staring at the still-dark sky as day broke slowly across the Utapaun badlands. “Good,” he said softly. “Seven and thirteen are in need of limbs.”

  “I don’t think they’re Amani,” the droid said. “I think they’re other.”

  Fyzen studied the droid for a moment, a simmer of unease roiling through his gut. This was Number One, whom Fyzen had come to consider his right hand, the first and most trusted of the Original Dozen. Greesto’s arm, now grayish and with some mottled signs of decay, still hung from Number One’s right shoulder. “Other?”

  Nearby Amani tribes had been hurling wave after wave of their best warriors at the canyon hideaway with varying degrees of ferocity ever since Fyzen and two of his droids had sneaked into one of their camps late one night and snatched up four of their young. Unlucky. It had been two-thirds of the chief’s brood they’d taken and then butchered for parts, and those toadstool-shaped reptilian savages suffered no insult to their great leader. They were all bloodlust and vengeance, even at the cost of an entire generation of their fighters.

  Worse: They’d proven somewhat worthy opponents. Cleverer than their primitive appearance and pathetic croaking indicated. Gor had lost two of his fourteen droids in the first run-in, although he’d wiped out the entire regiment of Amani and then the village they’d come from. That had only incensed the surrounding tribes more, but Gor had been ready for the second assault: He’d installed perimeter sensors (that fully supplied transport they’d crashed in had proved a near-endless source of supplies), and laid several explosive traps that annihilated the first eight rows of tribesmen. The droids made quick work of the rest, with minimal damage.

  There’d been several skirmishes since then, and a few droids had been injured, but watching from a cliff edge during the most recent tit-for-tat, Gor had come to realize that there was a greater benefit to these little battles than he’d previously understood. They were practice. He and his droids were being prepared. He could feel it in his long hollow bones, and the truth of it crystallized even more a moment later as a flash and bang erupted from the battle below. His droids had backed the Amani warriors into a tight angle between two rock formations and then simply detonated both of them, crushing the Amani in the landslide.

  None of this has been an accident, Gor thought. Not my abduction, not my triumph over my captors or the Utai. Not Greesto’s death or my survival.

  And now, as the unknown intruders advanced toward them across the plains, Fyzen calmed his own flash of anxiety by reminding himself that not a single moment since he’d been stolen from the safety of the demonstration chambers of the Prasteen Braak had happened by mistake. “Prepare the counterassault,” Gor said. “Whatever this is that’s coming, today will be a very bad day for it indeed.”

  Shadows rumbled toward him through the dim morning. Transport vehicles, Gor realized as they approached. Not unlike the one he’d been reborn from the wreckage of. A slight grin quirked across his long face. How fitting.

  The four vehicles stopped in a cloud of dust in front of Gor. The first sun was rising slowly behind them, but it was what the plains people called a wet sun—diminished by distant nebulae; the day would be a gray one.

  Pau’ans seemed to unfold themselves from inside the transports. They wore balaclavas and carried heavy weapons. Wandering Star.

  “Fyzen Gor,” the one in the middle said, with laughter in his voice.

  Fyzen bristled at the man’s arrogance; said nothing.

  “I am Cli Pastayra, head of the fourth directorate of the Wandering Star syndicate.” He pulled down his balaclava to reveal the exact sneer Fyzen had imagined him to have. “You don’t even want to put on some clothes to welcome your guests?”

  Fyzen looked down at his long, emaciated body, the ribs poking out through his pale-gray skin, the stark continents of discoloration the suns had ravaged him with. He wore a bloodstained rag around his waist and nothing else. He hadn’t been seen by another civilized creature in almost two years. Slowly a grin spread across his face. Watching these self-assured criminals get crushed would be a delight indeed. To them, he was a castaway, nothing more. A wildman, lost in the wilderness. Probably, stories had been made up about what had happened to him.

  For a flickering moment, Fyzen wondered where his parents were, how they had coped with his disappearance and probable death. What would they think of the desert pariah he had become?

  He shook his head. What did it matter?

  “Nothing to say?” Cli Pastayra chided. “Very well, I will speak. I have heard stories about you, Fyzen Gor. Wild and impossible stories. I admit, I did not expect to find you alive, let alone standing on two feet. You don’t look well. Still: If you live, that means perhaps there is some truth to these wild tales of a brigand with murderous droids. Could it be?”

  Fyzen didn’t move, didn’t flinch. He felt his heart rate start to gallop, though, felt the flesh on his neck shudder over his rippling pulse.

  “I wonder,” Cli said, his smile widening. Then he nodded, and half a dozen of his gunners drew chain whips and advanced on Fyzen.

  Fyzen didn’t budge, knowing what was coming, but somehow this all felt wrong, terribly wrong. Somehow, even in defeating these thugs, he would be playing into their plan; he was sure o
f it. He was revealing his hand, and that was all he had, really.

  With a flicker and whir, refurbished medical droids lurched out from underground bunkers on either side of Gor. They closed with the Wandering Star attackers, easily deflected their swinging chains, and then made quick work of them, slicing, stabbing, and finally beheading each with the kind of cruel precision no organic could display in the thick of so much brutality.

  Cli held his ground but the other Pau’an gangsters stepped back, uneasy. It wasn’t just that these droids had so easily massacred their gunners, Gor realized. It was that they each had organic limbs in place of one body part or another. It was a macabre sight, of course—most of them were the gangly green-and-yellow arms of Amani tribesfolk—but one that Fyzen had grown used to, come to relish in fact. It was grotesque perhaps, but it was also genius. Why should organics be gifted with droid parts when they were injured but not the other way around? Organics were always falling apart, their failing flesh suppurating and cluttering toward disintegration.

  Droids were forever.

  Anyway, it was also a simple question of practicality: Organics were a natural and seemingly unending resource of the badlands; droids were a finite one. Using a spare robotic limb for a droid amputee would’ve meant taking it from another droid, and taking anything from a droid was forbidden, it was a sin. Gor knew this in his core; he didn’t have to read it in a manual or on some sacred tablet. It was simply a truth of the galaxy.

  The droid squadron turned to the Pau’an gangsters. There were fewer droids than Wandering Star, it was true, but these were just the front guard. More waited in reserve, of course, including Number One. And anyway, the droids were superior warriors, of this Gor had no doubt. They were advancing in slow, deliberate clomps toward the invading organics when a terrible thundering rolled out from the distance. Out over the badlands, an F-99 radon gunship rattled into view—it looked like a hovering tank. Fyzen grimaced at it, understood immediately that this was why he’d been uneasy. It was the certainty that they’d somehow been outflanked before the battle had even begun. And of course, they had. The Wandering Star rarely let themselves be caught off guard; certainly not in a fight they themselves were picking.