Star Wars: The Jedi Academy Trilogy II: Dark Apprentice

by Kevin J. Anderson

  He was a protocol droid, fluent in over six million forms of communication. He was able to perform an incredible number of diverse tasks—all of which seemed more appealing at the moment than baby-sitting a pair of wild two-and-a-half-year-olds who saw him as their plaything.

  Threepio had taken the twins to the snow-play area at the bottom of the ice slopes, where they could ride tame tauntauns. Little Jacen and his sister Jaina seemed to enjoy the spitting, cumbersome creatures—and the Umgullian rancher who had brought the furry animals to Coruscant seemed delighted to have the business.

  Afterward Threepio had stoically endured as the twins insisted on making a “snow droid” of him, packing layers of snow around his shiny body. He still felt ice crystals caked inside his joints. As he enhanced the output from his optical sensors, Threepio thought that his golden alloy had taken on a decidedly bluish tinge from the low temperature.

  On a sledding slope the twins spun around, giggling and shrieking as they bounced against padded restraints in a child’s snow skimmer. Threepio waited for them at the bottom, then began the long trudge back up the hill so the children could do it all over again. He felt like a low-capacity labor droid with too little computing power to understand the drudgery of its own existence. “Oh, how I wish Master Solo would get back soon,” he said.

  At the top of the ramp he secured Jacen and Jaina snugly into their seats. In tandem they looked up at him with rosy-cheeked faces. Humans claimed to find the winter chill exhilarating; Threepio wished he had outfitted himself with more efficient low-temperature lubricants.

  “Now, you children be careful on the ride down,” he said. “I shall meet you at the bottom and bring you back up.” He paused. “Again.”

  He launched the children in the spinning snow skimmer. Jacen and Jaina laughed and squealed as feathers of snow sprayed down the slope. Threepio began to move with a rapid gait down the long ramp.

  When he reached the bottom, the twins were already attempting to unstrap themselves. Jaina had managed to disconnect one buckle, though the attendant at the equipment-rental station had assured Threepio that the restraints were utterly childproof.

  “Children, leave that alone!” he said. He refastened Jaina’s restraint and switched on the hoverfield beneath the snow skimmer. He grasped the handles and began to climb back up the slope to the launching platform.

  When he reached the top, both twins shouted, “Again!” in unison, as if their minds were linked. Threepio decided it was time to lecture the children about overindulgence in enjoyment, but before he could formulate a speech with the appropriate levels of sternness and vocabulary, a crowded shuttle skimmer arrived. Han Solo emerged, pulling back the hood of his gray parka and balancing his turbo-skis on his left shoulder. Kyp Durron followed him out of the transport.

  Threepio raised a golden arm. “Over here,” he said. “Master Solo, over here!”

  “Daddy!” Jaina said. Jacen echoed her a fraction of a second later.

  “Thank heavens,” Threepio said, and started to unfasten the restraints.

  “Get ready to go,” Han said as he marched forward, his expression unaccountably troubled. Threepio reached forward, about to begin his litany of complaints, but Han dropped the bulky turbo-skis into the droid’s arms.

  “Master Solo, is something wrong?” Threepio tried to balance the heavy skis.

  “Sorry to cut your vacation short, kids, but we have to get back home,” Han said, ignoring the droid.

  Threepio straightened. “I’m very glad to hear that, sir. I don’t mean to complain, but I was not designed for temperature extremes.”

  He felt an impact against the back of his head as a large lump of snow splattered him. “Oh!” he said, raising his arms in alarm, barely managing to keep hold of the skis. “Master Solo, I must protest!” he said.

  Jacen and Jaina giggled as they each picked up another snowball to throw at the droid.

  Han turned to the twins. “Stop playing with Threepio, you two. We have to get back home.”

  Down in the repair bays of the revamped Imperial Palace on Coruscant, Lando Calrissian couldn’t imagine how Chewbacca managed to cram his enormous furry body inside the Falcon’s narrow maintenance crawlway. Standing in the corridor, Lando saw the Wookiee as a tangle of brown fur wedged between the emergency power generator, the acceleration compensator, and the anticoncussion field generator.

  Chewbacca let out a yowl as he dropped a hydrospanner. The tool bounced and fell with a series of ricocheting clangs until it landed in a completely inaccessible spot. The Wookiee snarled and then let out a yelp as he banged his shaggy head on a coolant pipe.

  “No, no, Chewbacca!” Lando said, brushing back his sleek cape and sticking his arm into the maintenance crawlway. He tried to point toward the circuitry. “That goes here, and this goes there!” Chewbacca grumbled back, disagreeing.

  “Look, Chewie, I know this ship like the back of my hand, too. I owned her for quite a few years, you know.”

  Chewbacca made a string of ululating sounds that echoed inside the enclosed chamber.

  “All right, have it your way. I can work the access hatches on the outside hull. I’ll retrieve your hydrospanner. Who knows what other junk we’ll find there?”

  Lando turned and made his way to the entry ramp, stomping down into the cacophony of shouted requests and engine noises in the starship mechanic bay. The air smelled oily and stifling, tainted with gaseous coolants and exhaust fumes from small diplomatic shuttles to large freighters. Human and alien engineers worked on their ships. Stubby Ugnaughts clambered inside access hatches and chattered at each other, requesting tools and diagrams for fixing troublesome engines.

  Admiral Ackbar’s carefully picked crew of Calamarian starship mechanics oversaw special modifications to small vessels in the New Republic fleet. Terpfen, Ackbar’s chief mechanic, wandered from ship to ship, status board in hand, verifying requested repairs and scrutinizing the work with his glassy fish eyes.

  Lando pried open the access hatch on the Falcon’s outer hull. The hydrospanner clattered out and fell into his outstretched hands, along with burned-out cyberfuses, a discarded hyperdrive shunt, and the wrapper from a package of dehydrated food.

  “Got it, Chewbacca,” he shouted. The Wookiee’s answer was muffled inside the cramped access hatch.

  Lando looked at the scorch marks along the Falcon’s battered hull. The ship seemed to be one massive collection of patches and repairs. He ran a callused hand along the hull, caressing the metal.

  “Hey! What are you doing to my ship?”

  Lando jerked his hand away from the Falcon and looked around guiltily to see Han Solo approaching. Chewbacca bellowed a greeting from the maintenance crawlway.

  Han’s face reflected a thunderstorm of bad moods as he strode across the debris-strewn floor of the mechanic bay. “I need my ship right now. Is she ready to fly?” Han said.

  Lando put his hands at his side. “I was just making some repairs and modifications, old buddy. What’s the problem?”

  “Who told you you could make any modifications?” Han looked unaccountably angry. “Chewie, we’ve got to fly right away. Why did you let this clown mess around with my engines?”

  “Wait a minute, Han! This used to be my ship, you know,” Lando said, not knowing what had provoked such anger in his friend. “Besides, who rescued this ship from Kessel? Who saved your tail from the Imperial fleet?”

  See-Threepio hastened stiffly into the mechanic bay. “Ah, greetings, General Calrissian,” he said.

  Lando ignored the droid. “I lost the Lady Luck rescuing your ship. I’d think that deserves a little gratitude, don’t you? In fact, since I sacrificed my own ship to save your hide, I thought maybe you’d be grateful enough to give me back the Falcon.”

  “Oh, my!” Threepio said. “That is an idea that might warrant some consideration, Master Solo.”

  “Shut up, Threepio,” Han said without glancing in the droid’s direction.

>   “Looks like you’ve got an attitude problem, Han,” Lando said with a grin he knew would annoy his friend. But Han had stepped over the bounds of common courtesy with his snappish accusations, and Lando had no intention of letting him get away with it.

  Han looked ready to explode. Lando couldn’t figure out what was bothering him. “My problem is you’ve been sabotaging my ship. I don’t ever want you touching her again, do you understand? Get your own ship. Seems to me that with the million-credit reward you got at the blob races on Umgul, you could buy just about any ship you want and stop messing around with mine.”

  “An excellent idea, sir,” Threepio added helpfully. “With that amount of money, General Calrissian, you could indeed buy a fine ship.”

  “Be quiet, Threepio,” Lando said, putting his hands on his hips. “I don’t want to buy another ship, old buddy.” He stressed the last two words with thick sarcasm. “If I can’t have the Lady Luck, I want the Falcon. Your wife is the Minister of State, Han. You can have the government provide you with any sort of transport you want—why not get yourself a new fighter right from the Calamarian shipyards?”

  “I’m certain that could be arranged, sir,” Threepio agreed.

  “Shut up, Threepio,” Han said again, keeping his eyes on Lando. “I don’t want any old ship. The Falcon is mine.”

  Lando glowered at Han. “You won her from me in a sabacc game, and to tell you the truth—old buddy—I’ve always suspected you cheated in that game.”

  Han became livid, backing away. “You’re accusing me of cheating? I’ve been called a scoundrel before, but never a cheat! In fact, it seems to me,” he said in a low, threatening voice, “that you won the Falcon yourself in a sabacc game before I came along. Didn’t you also win the Cloud City Tibanna gas mines from the former Baron Administrator in a sabacc game? What could you possibly have used as collateral for a bet like that? You’re a dirty no-good swindler, Lando. Admit it.”

  “And you’re a pirate!” Lando said, stalking forward, his fists bunched at his side. He had made his reputation as an expert gambler.

  Chewbacca growled from within the Falcon, making loud clangs and thumps as he extricated himself from the cramped passage. He stumbled down the entry ramp and stood gripping the piston supports.

  As Han and Lando closed to within striking distance, Threepio wriggled in between them. “Excuse me, sirs, but might I make a suggestion? If indeed you both won the ship in a sabacc game, and if you are contesting the results, could you perhaps simply play another game of sabacc to settle this issue once and for all?” Threepio turned his glowing optical sensors first at Lando, then at Han.

  “I just came down here to get my ship,” Han said, “but now you’ve made it into a point of honor.”

  Lando glared at Han without flinching. “I can beat you any day of the week, Han Solo.”

  “Not this day,” Han said, lowering his voice even further. “But not just sabacc. We’ll make it random sabacc.”

  Lando raised his eyebrows, but met Han’s gaze stare for stare. “Who’s going to keep track of the plays?”

  Han jerked his chin to the side. “We’ll use Threepio as our modulator. Goldenrod doesn’t have enough brains to cheat.”

  “But, sir, I really don’t have the programming to—” Threepio said.

  Han and Lando snapped in unison, “Shut up, Threepio!”

  “All right, Han,” Lando said, “let’s do it before you lose your nerve.”

  “You’re going to lose more than nerve before this game is over,” Han said.

  As Lando set up the cards and the sabacc table, Han Solo ushered the last of the off-duty bureaucrats toward the door of the small lounge. “Out. Come on! We need to use this place for a while.”

  They grumbled and objected in a variety of languages, but Han assisted them through the entryway with gentle shoves. “File a complaint with the New Republic.” Then he closed and sealed the door, turning to Lando. “You ready yet?”

  This was far different from the stuffy, smoke-filled parlors where he used to play sabacc, such as the underground game where he had once won a planet for Leia in an attempt to buy her affections.

  At the sabacc table Lando spread out a handful of rectangular cards with crystalline screens sandwiched between metal layers. “Ready when you are, buddy.” But he looked uneasy. “Han, we don’t really have to do this—”

  Han sniffed the air, frowning at the cloying smells of deodorizing mists and ambassadorial perfumes. “Yes, I do. Leia’s been in an accident on one of her diplomatic missions, and I want to escort her back home, not some hospital ship.”

  “Leia’s hurt?” Lando said, standing up in surprise. “So that’s what has been bothering you. Forget it, take the ship. I was just kidding anyway. We’ll do this some other time.”

  “No! We do it now, or you’ll never be off my case. Threepio, get in here. What’s taking so long?” Han said.

  The golden droid scooted in from the back-room computer station, looking flustered, as usual. “I’m here, Master Solo. I was just reviewing the sabacc-rules programming.”

  Han punched his selections into the console of the bartender droid, smiling as he selected a fruity, prissy drink for Lando—complete with a blue tropical flower as a garnish—and a spiced ale for himself. He sat down, slid the drink across the surface to Lando, and sipped his ale.

  Lando took a swallow of the mixture, winced, and forced a smile. “Thanks, Han. Should I deal?” He held the sabacc cards in his hand, leaning over the table’s projecting field.

  “Not yet.” Han held up a hand. “Threepio, double-check to make sure those card surfaces are completely randomized.”

  “But, sir, surely—”

  “Just do it. We want to make sure nobody gets an unfair advantage—don’t we, old buddy?”

  Lando managed to retain his forced smile as he handed the deck to Threepio, who ran the cards through a scrambler at the side of the table. “They are completely mixed, sir.”

  Threepio meticulously dealt five of the flat metallic cards each to Lando and to Han. “As you know, this is random sabacc, a combination of variant forms of the game,” Threepio said, as if reciting the programming he had just uploaded. “There are five different sets of rules, shifted by chance, and changed at random time intervals as determined by the computer’s random generator—that’s me!”

  “We know the rules!” Han growled, but he wasn’t so certain. “And we also know the stakes.”

  Lando’s deep, flinty eyes met his across the table. “Winner takes the Falcon. Loser takes Coruscant public transit from now on.”

  “Very well, sirs,” Threepio said, “activate your cards. The first player to reach a score of one hundred points will be declared the winner. Our first round will be played according to …” He paused briefly as his randomizing function made a selection from the scrambled list of rules. “—Cloud City Casino alternate rules.”

  Han stared at the images appearing on his cards as his mind raced to remember how Cloud City Casino rules differed from the Bespin Standard form of the game. He stared at a mixed-up assortment of the four suits in sabacc—sabres, coins, flasks, and staves, with various positive and negative scores on each.

  “Each player may select one and only one of his cards for a spin-change, and then we tally to see who comes closest to a score of positive or negative twenty-three, or zero.”

  Han scanned his cards, concentrating, but found no set that would add up to an appropriate tally. Lando wore a broad smile—but Lando always carried such an expression when he gambled. Han took a sip of his bitter spiced ale, swallowed hard, and chose a card. “Ready?” He raised his eyes to look at Lando.

  Lando pushed the small scrambler button on the bottom left corner of a card. Han did the same, watching the image of the eight of coins flicker and re-form into a twelve of flasks. Together with a nine of flasks in his hand, he added to twenty-one. Not great. But when he saw Lando scowl at his own new card, he hoped it
would be good enough.

  “Twenty-one,” Han said, slapping his cards on the table.

  “Eighteen,” Lando answered with a scowl. “You get the difference.”

  “Change of rules! Time has elapsed!” Threepio said. “Three points in favor of Master Solo. Next round is by … Empress Teta Preferred system.”

  Han looked at his new hand of cards, delighted to see a firm straight—but, if he remembered right, under Empress Teta rules the players swapped one card at random, and when Lando reached over to pluck a card from the right side, Han hoped to replace it with a Commander of Sabers—but the hand failed. Lando won the round and came out with a small lead, but before they could tally the scores, Threepio chimed in with another “Change of rules!” This time, scored under the Bespin Standard system, Lando’s lead doubled.

  Han cursed to himself as he stared at a chaotic mess in the next hand, not knowing what to bid, what to throw away. Before he made his decision, though, the random clock in Threepio’s electronic brain forced him to call another rules change. “Corellian Gambit this time, sirs.”

  Han whooped in delight, for under the new rules the suits fit together with a completely different pattern. “Gotcha!” he cried, laying down his hand.

  Lando grumbled, showing a wild card that, while valuable only moments before, now cost him fourteen points under the new scoring system.

  Han crept ahead over the next several hands, then lost ground when rules changed back to Cloud City Casino style, which deemed all wild cards forfeit. Han reached forward to snatch one of Lando’s cards, just as Lando selected one of his cards to change at random. They both froze. “Threepio, tell us again which rules we’re playing under.”

  “New time interval anyway,” the golden droid said. “Change to Bespin Standard. No, wait—new time interval again! Back to Empress Teta Preferred.”

  Han and Lando looked at their new cards again, minds whirling in confusion. Han took another sip of his spiced ale, and Lando drained his fruity concoction with a grimace. At the bottom the bright-colored flower had begun to sprout writhing roots that crawled on the bottom of his glass.