A Forest Apart: Star Wars (Short Story)

by Troy Denning

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  A Forest Apart

  Troy Denning

  BALLANTINE BOOKS

  NEW YORK

  Contents

  Title Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  About the Imprint

  Excerpt from Star Wars: Tatooine Ghost

  Copyright

  Copyright

  About the Author

  Also by this Author

  Introduction to the Star Wars Expanded Universe

  Excerpt from Star Wars: Legacy of the Force: Betrayal

  Timeline

  Chapter 1

  Across the skylane from Chewbacca’s quarters rose Sasal Center, its forty spires ringing an open-air mezzanine as large as the Well of the Dead back on Kashyyyk. Beside the center stood Wauth Complex, more massive than Korrokrrayyo Mountain itself. On the other side loomed the mirrsteel needles of Ooe’b Towers, as tall as wroshyr trees and webbed together by a tangle of pedestrian bridges that always reminded Chewbacca of the mazes down in the Shadow Forest. It would have been wrong to say that he enjoyed living here on Coruscant, but he had come to think of it as home—perhaps even to see the shape and mystery of the forest in its soaring lines and durasteel depths.

  At Chewbacca’s side, his life-mate, Mallatobuck, was staring down through the transparisteel, mesmerized by the great rivers of traffic flowing along the skylanes below.

  “Is this what they do for fun on Coruscant?” she asked. Her blue eyes and honey-colored fur were as beautiful as the day Chewbacca had pledged himself to her. “Circle the world in airspeeders?”

  “Oh no,” Chewbacca joked. “I ordered the traffic for your visit.”

  “Be careful. You know I believe whatever you say.” Mallatobuck spoke without looking away from the window. “Still, I think traffic is the one thing I will miss. It is like the Cascade of Rrynorrorun. Endless. Calming.”

  “Endless, yes—but calming?” Chewbacca shook his head. “You have never tried to make a three-lane climb, Malla.”

  “I have not,” she agreed, “because I thought you valued the lives of your mate and child.”

  “I do. You know I would never let you drive.”

  “Let me?” Malla rowled. She regarded him with mock anger. “With such talk, you’re lucky to be the father of my child.”

  “Very lucky.”

  Chewbacca grinned and pulled her to his side. Malla had waited fifty years for him to return from his adolescent wanderings, then married him knowing that he had pledged a life debt to Han Solo that would prevent them from sharing a home. In moments of vainglory, Chewbacca thought it must have been his strength or battle ferocity that had won her devotion. But deep down he knew better. Deep down he knew he was just the luckiest Wookiee alive.

  He checked his chronometer and—sad at how quickly their last hours together were passing—said, “It’s almost time.”

  “I’ll see if Lumpy has finished gathering his souvenirs.” Malla turned to leave, then stopped and pointed at a plastoid shoulder case in the middle of the hall. “That’s odd.”

  Chewbacca started toward the hall. “Lumpy?”

  Malla caught his arm. “Galactic Rebels,” she sighed.

  Chewbacca curled his lip. “Does he play it this much at home?”

  “More,” Malla said. “Here, at least he has the real thing.”

  “Real thing?”

  “You,” Malla said. “You have noticed how he idolizes you?”

  “I am in his hologame?” Chewbacca began to think this Galactic Rebels was not so bad.

  “Sort of.” Malla’s tone was exasperated. “He pretends to be you.”

  Chewbacca smiled. “What is wrong with that? A cub should respect—”

  “It is more than respect,” Malla interrupted. “Chewbacca, you cast a long shadow—and longer from here than if you lived in Rwookrrorro with us. Lumpy tries so hard to be the son of the ‘Mighty Chewbacca’ that he bores his friends and angers his adversaries—and when they challenge him to back up his words, he is always the one who comes home bloodied and quiet.”

  “Always?”

  Malla nodded. “It has grown so that he hardly goes out.”

  Chewbacca’s jaw dropped.

  Again, Malla nodded.

  Chewbacca scowled at his study door. “I see.”

  A strong mate like Malla made it easy to believe Lumpy was not suffering because of his father’s absence, but the truth was that a life debt placed a burden on an entire family. There were some things that even the best mother could not teach a young Wookiee as well as a good father—and when it came to handling the troubles Malla was describing, no father would be a better teacher than Chewbacca.

  Chewbacca returned his gaze to Malla. “Lumpy shouldn’t go home with you.”

  Malla’s brow shot up. “He shouldn’t?”

  “He needs to spend time with his father,” Chewbacca said, certain of himself. “No more than a standard year or two. At his age, he shouldn’t be gone from the forest too long.”

  “No, er, yes . . . I mean, you’re right. About the forest.” Malla blinked several times, then, as her composure returned, her expression grew more thoughtful. “What about you? How will you manage?”

  “I am his father. I will manage.” To Chewbacca, that was all the answer needed—but he knew Malla would want details. “I have room, and I am sure the Princess will let me borrow Threepio on occasion.”

  “A protocol droid? Trying to control a young Wookiee?” Malla shook her head. “Not without a stun baton.”

  “I suppose not,” Chewbacca admitted. “But there is our embassy. It’s not far from here, and Princess Leia is on good terms—”

  “You are on good terms with our embassy.” Malla patted his cheek. “Sometimes, you are almost humble.”

  Though humble was no compliment to Wookiees, Chewbacca did not bother to protest. “So you agree?”

  Malla thought about it, then said, “It would do him good to see that your life is not one long holoadventure. He needs to see that you spend most of your time doing normal things—like maintaining the Falcon, or hiding in the corner with Han at diplomatic ceremonies.”

  Chewbacca gave her a sidelong glance. “Is that what you think?”

  “No one’s life could be as yours is portrayed over the ’Net. You—and Han Solo, too—would be dead ten times over.” Malla took his hand, then nodded. “It might be good for him.”

  Chewbacca smiled. “Then it’s settled.” He started for his study door. “He will stop playing these games, and I will teach him to win a clench challenge.”

  “What?” Malla strode after him. “How will that solve anything? Teaching him to clench fight will only make Lumpy talk about you more—and give him the skill to force others to listen. And taking his games away will only give him one less thing to talk about that is not you.”

  “He is going through a stage,” Chewbacca said. “It will end when he learns confidence, and confidence will come with victory.”

  They reached the study door, and Malla caught Chewbacca by the arm.

  “Our son is already trying to be you. That is the problem.” Her voice was so low Chewbacca had to lean down to hear. “What you must do, my mate, is teach him to be himself.”

  Chewbacca considered Malla’s words for a moment, then nodded. “Agreed. He must learn to be himself . . . and win the clench challenge.”

  He stepped through the door into his study, where the image of an auburn-furred Wookiee was snarling atop the holocomm pad, a long line of statistics arrayed below the picture and the name lumpacca floating above. The plastoid c
hair in front of the workstation was empty, and a message flashing in one corner was threatening to end the session unless the player responded in thirty seconds.

  “Lumpy?” Chewbacca called.

  When there was no answer, he went to the other door and looked across the hall. The refresher was open, and the interior was dark. The same was true of the two sleeping rooms.

  Chewbacca had a sinking feeling. “Lumpy?”

  A muffled crash echoed around the corner, and Chewbacca’s worst fears were confirmed when he stepped into the hall and found the door at the end standing open—the door that connected the back of his apartment to the back of the Solos’ apartment.

  Malla came up behind him and looked past his shoulder. “Our son went through that door?” she gasped. “Lumpy?”

  “He disobeyed us.” Eager as he was for Lumpy to find his rrakktorr—the defiant, adventurous heart of a Wookiee—Chewbacca was less than pleased to see that the cub had chosen to start looking for it in the Solos’ elegant apartment. “If he is starting his rebellious phase, his timing is awful.”

  “It can’t be Lumpy,” Malla insisted. “He’s never even shouted at me.”

  “It has to be Lumpy. The Solos aren’t home.”

  The Provisional Council was hosting a state dinner that evening to welcome the New Republic’s newest member worlds. Leia, C-3PO, and Winter were all at the Imperial Palace overseeing preparations. Han, putting his own preparations off until the last minute as usual, was trying to find a haberdasher who could outfit him with civilian formal wear on short notice.

  Chewbacca started down the hall. “Lumpy! Don’t touch any—”

  A louder crash sounded from the depths of the apartment.

  “That doesn’t sound good,” Malla said. “How angry will Princess Leia be?”

  “That depends on what he’s smashing. If it’s the singing lamp the Jumerians gave her as a wedding present, she might even thank him,” Chewbacca said. “Let’s just hope he hasn’t broken Han’s bottle of Ithorian Mist. That would be bad.”

  Chewbacca entered the Solos’ apartment—a showpiece of Alderaanian elegance, even here in the back—and led the way to a small larmalstone vestibule. From this central hub, doorways opened into Leia’s office, the sleeping and dressing chambers, and a huge refresher suite that included an exercise area, steam closet, and tub units that could pulse, stew, bubble, and mineralize occupants into a state of languid bliss.

  Outside Leia’s dressing chamber lay a shattered perfume vial, the amber treasure it had once contained now puddled on the floor. Inside, the room was littered with spilled cosmetics, everyday jewelry, serving silver from the formal dining area, a holocomm from Leia’s office, and a framed set of thousand-credit chips Han kept as a souvenir of the time he broke the bank in a Pavo Prime casino. A frantic clatter was coming from one of the spacious clothes closets that opened out of the back of room.

  As Chewbacca started inside, Malla caught his arm and whispered, “This is not like your son.”

  “I am very glad to hear that,” Chewbacca said. “If it were, I would have to—”

  “No, Chewbacca—I mean Lumpy does not have a destructive heart. He would never do a thing like this.”

  Chewbacca glanced over the mess on the floor again, and the sinking feeling he had experienced earlier turned to fear. The security system had been instructed to recognize Malla and Lumpy as unrestricted guests, but a sentry droid should still have arrived by now to investigate the crashes.

  “Someone has disarmed the alarm system,” Chewbacca whispered. He pushed Malla gently toward the other side of the vestibule. “Find a comlink and inform building security.”

  “Of course.” Malla turned back toward Leia’s dressing chamber. “When I’m sure our son is safe.”

  Knowing better than to stand in the way of Malla’s maternal instinct, Chewbacca grunted and stalked into the closet. His son was on the floor, removing rare Alderaanian dinnerware and expensive office electronics from a slashed rucksack and hastily stuffing them into one of Leia’s gown bags. In the back of the closet, a gaunt milky-skinned man stood next to a hole in the wall half a meter square. He was pointing a hold-out blaster at Lumpy’s head.

  “No farther, Wookiee.”

  The man’s voice was a ragged rasp—at least Chewbacca thought it was a man’s voice. The intruder’s peaked ears were sticking straight out from a hairless, emaciated head, and he had a rawboned frame so thin it looked barely adequate to carry his tattered utilities. Chewbacca could not be certain of the gunman’s species, let alone his—or her—gender. The small blunt nose and high cheeks suggested a human female, but the long chin and thin gray lips seemed more masculine.

  “Another step, Furboy, and I burn your whelp here a third eye.”

  Lumpy spun around, his eyes wide and his child’s soft fur lying flat against his head. The sight was a powerful confirmation to Chewbacca of how badly he needed to spend some time with his son. The slashed rucksack suggested a struggle, and Lumpy was nearly as large as the scrawny figure guarding him—and probably twice as strong. Had he known how to handle himself, the thief would never have had a chance to bring the blaster to bear, and the cub would have been free to flee—or attack, if he chose. Instead, he seemed unsure of himself and almost ashamed, as though he believed he was to blame for this mess.

  “Caught yourself a burglar, I see,” Chewbacca said. He felt Malla pressing at his back and eased forward to make room. “You did well. Han and Leia will be grateful.”

  Lumpy’s eyes lit with pride, but the thief snarled, “Quiet! Another word from any of you unskinned pelts and—”

  “My mate will rip your arms off,” Malla rumbled. She tore a handful of gowns off Leia’s racks to make room for herself beside Chewbacca. “Release our son.”

  The thief, who clearly did not understand a word of Shyriiwook, made the mistake of shifting his blaster toward Malla. “Nobody has to get hurt here.”

  Chewbacca ignored him and stepped half a meter forward. “Lumpy, come—”

  “It’s okay, Dad!” Lumpy launched himself at the thief. “I got him!”

  But Chewbacca could see that Lumpy didn’t have him—the young one’s head was down, and his arms were low. The thief sidestepped the attack easily, grabbing Lumpy by the wrist and spinning him around into a one-arm choke so smoothly that Chewbacca reconsidered that flying leap he had been gathering himself to make. Fearing that Malla would not have the experience to recognize how dangerous this intruder was, he placed a restraining hand on her elbow. She tried to shake it off, but he would not let her.

  The thief, who had missed none of this, smiled. “Good boy, Fang. Now, like I said, nobody has to get hurt.”

  Pointing the blaster at Chewbacca’s chest, he used a toe to sort through the half-filled garment bag, then dragged out a government datapad and flipped it neatly into the air. The arm wrapped around Lumpy’s neck lashed out almost too quick to see and caught the datapad, and before Chewbacca could move, the thief had Lumpy back in a choke.

  “Go outside and close the door while I disappear down that.” The thief gestured at the hole beside him. “Come back in three minutes, and your cub here will be safe and sound.”

  Malla started to retreat out the door, but Chewbacca pulled her back. “We aren’t leaving him alone with our son,” he growled. “The next thing he will want is ransom.”

  “Go on!” the thief ordered.

  Chewbacca shook his head and held his hand out, then raised a single finger. “Lumpawarrump, I want you to come to me.”

  The thief fired past Chewbacca’s shoulder into Leia’s gowns, and the acrid stench of melted shimmersilk filled the closet.

  “The next one hits.”

  Chewbacca shook his head and raised a second finger. “Now, Lumpy.”

  “Don’t be scared,” Malla said. “This is no time to disobey.”

  “I’m not scared,” Lumpy insisted—despite his flat fur. “See!”

  He gra
bbed the arm around his neck and pulled forward, but his legs were too straight to flip a leaf-dummy, much less someone as dangerous as the thief. Chewbacca shoved Malla in one direction and threw himself in the opposite, and the panicked thief—finding even an eleven-year-old Wookiee too much to handle—began to spray blaster bolts everywhere.

  “Bend your knees, Lumpy!” Chewbacca yelled. “Then pull!”

  Lumpy bent his knees—then collapsed beneath the thief’s weight. Chewbacca sprang up and, hurling an armful of smoking shimmersilk ahead, flung himself at the back of the closet.

  Halfway there he crashed into Malla, and they landed a meter short of Lumpy’s captor.

  “Last chance, Furboy.” The thief’s pearly eyes were locked on Chewbacca’s. “Back off, or your—”

  Chewbacca lashed out, knocking the would-be hostage taker into a set of shoe shelves. The hold-out blaster clattered into the corner, but the thief did a half twist and came down on his feet, still clutching the stolen datapad.

  Chewbacca lunged. With Malla and Lumpy packed tight next to him, he was too slow. The thief skipped over his outstretched arm, bounced off the floor, and swung into the hole feetfirst.

  Malla swept Lumpy into her arms, and Chewbacca scrambled past them, thrusting an arm into the hole and jamming his fingers against the opposite side of a service run. It couldn’t be more than half a meter wide, barely large enough to fit his shoulder. He rose on his knees and swung his arm around inside, finding pipes, conduit, and ventilation tubes—but no thieves.

  “Gone like a kkekkrrg rro,” Chewbacca reported. He turned to find Lumpy clutched to Malla’s breast. “Are you all right?”

  An odd expression of shame flashed across Lumpy’s face; then he frowned up at his mother and separated himself.

  “That thief is the only one hurting,” he said. “I had him—until he pulled that blaster.”

  Chewbacca laughed. “Isn’t that always the way?” He stepped away from the hole and clamped Lumpy’s shoulder. “But you did well, Lumpawarrump. That was no ordinary thief.”

  Lumpy’s mouth dropped open. “It wasn’t?”