A Forest Apart: Star Wars (Short Story)

by Troy Denning

  “No!” Lumpy pulled away and, angling past Chewbacca, leapt onto the adjacent pipe. “He needs me to—”

  The clean-out door slid open, and four pale hands shot out to grab Lumpy by the ankles. Malla screamed. Chewbacca tossed his datapad to her and fumbled the blaster into his hands. Lumpy slammed face-first onto the pipe. His eyes bulged in fear. He stretched a hand toward Chewbacca, then slipped through the opening and disappeared.

  Chapter 3

  The overpressure pipe—barely large enough to hold Chewbacca even on his hands and knees—opened into the shadowed chasm of a midlevel skylane, where a stream of haulage traffic was drifting slowly along, backlit by the neon displays of a tapcaf gallery hanging off the massive Wauth Complex opposite. Below the gallery, the trunk of the building descended into the black depths of the city, its facade broken at random intervals by ever-more-squalid balconies and mezzanines, the lights in its windows growing increasingly dim and infrequent. Chewbacca saw no sign of Lumpy, but that hardly meant the cub was gone.

  Chewbacca pushed his blaster barrel, crushed when he’d used it to prevent the clean-out panel from closing, through the mouth of the pipe to make sure the shock field was off. When there were no sparks or crackles, he cautiously stuck his head outside to inspect the surrounding area. Pitted as they were by centuries of acid rain and foul air—especially this far down—the walls were eminently climbable.

  He saw only the mouths of the adjacent overpressure pipes, protruding about a meter from the lichen-scaled walls.

  Behind him, Malla asked, “Anything?”

  “Not yet.”

  Ignoring the achy protests of the muscles he had wrenched pulling open the clean-out panel, Chewbacca rolled to his back and saw the bottom of a long airspeeder descending toward him. It might have belonged to building security, except that one of the floater pads was exposed and leaking a blue glow. The Sullustan security captain would never tolerate a vehicle in such disrepair.

  Chewbacca pulled himself inside and immediately ran into Malla. “Back up!” he said. “I think we have—”

  “Trouble,” Malla finished, leading the crawl backward.

  The airspeeder settled in front of the overpressure pipe, wobbling wildly as the driver struggled to maintain control with the malfunctioning floater pad. The vehicle was armored in black plastoid, with a boxy passengers’ compartment in back and an empty gun port behind the driver’s cabin. Atop the roof, the protective dome of a weapons turret had long ago been lost, leaving only the smooth durasteel mounting ring.

  Standing behind the turret’s heavy blaster was a haggard Devaronian in a tattered cloak. His sharp teeth were brown and rotting, his horns scaled from a dozen kinds of vitamin deficiency, and his flesh as pale as that of the thief who had stolen Princess Leia’s datapad. He shouted at the driver to bring him around, then waited as the vehicle’s wobbling tail began drifting toward the mouth of the overpressure pipe. Chewbacca stopped his retreat, then snorted in disgust and started back toward the mouth of the pipe.

  “Chewbacca,” Malla began. “I know you are angry, but—”

  “There is nothing to worry about.”

  The Devaronian opened fire, spraying the side of the building with bolts. He missed the pipe entirely, but a ricochet did hit his own wobbling vehicle. Chewbacca reached the mouth of the pipe and dropped to his belly, covering his crooked blaster so the turret gunner would see only the muzzle.

  “That’s enough!” he roared.

  Though it was doubtful the Devaronian understood Shyriiwook, the fellow’s eyes went straight to the blaster tip. He stopped firing and crouched inside his turret.

  “That was just a warning,” the Devaronian yelled. “If you want to see your kid again, go home and forget about the Princess’s datapad.”

  Chewbacca estimated the distance to the airspeeder at no more than five meters.

  “Do what I say, and he’ll be back in your apartment at midnight,” the Devaronian continued. “Interfere, and you’ll have him back in pieces.”

  Without looking away from the Devaronian, Chewbacca said, “Brace me, Malla.”

  “Brace you? You can’t be thinking—”

  “It is no different from tree leaping,” Chewbacca said.

  “Chewbacca, you haven’t lived in a tree for fifty years!”

  The Devaronian started to add something else; then his gaze dropped to Chewbacca’s blaster tip, and he ducked out of sight.

  “Now, Malla!”

  When Chewbacca felt Malla jam her hands into soles of his feet, he grabbed the sides of the pipe and launched himself at the airspeeder. It dipped its nose and started to turn away, but he was already there, dropping down from above and belly-slamming onto the roof even before his stomach began to flutter.

  The airspeeder shuddered and listed up on one side, but Chewbacca managed to extend his climbing claws and hook a set over the turret’s mounting ring, then held on as the driver struggled to bring the vehicle under control. An instant later, Malla came down opposite him, catching the mounting ring with both sets of climbing claws, her weight leveling the airspeeder as her body swung gracefully into the passengers’ box.

  “Nice jump,” Chewbacca said.

  “You’re right, it is like tree leaping.” Her eyes were round with fear. “Except the target moves more.”

  The Devaronian popped out of the turret, pointing a blaster pistol at Malla. Chewbacca caught him by a horn and pulled him onto the roof of the passengers’ box.

  The Devaronian howled and rolled, trying to bring his blaster to bear on Chewbacca. Malla grabbed a leg and ripped him out of Chewbacca’s grasp, then hurled him away behind her. The last Chewbacca saw of him was a pale figure spinning down through the hover traffic.

  The airspeeder entered a shallow dive, then began to pitch and wobble madly as the driver inside tried to throw them free. Chewbacca looked across the roof at Malla.

  “Can you hold on?”

  Malla glanced at the tiers of streaming skylanes below. “Like a leaflizard in a cyclone!”

  Chewbacca grunted his approval, then hammered his fist into the door window. The transparisteel was too strong to break, but the startled driver turned to look—and that was all Chewbacca needed. In one smooth motion, he pulled himself onto the roof and squeezed headfirst down through the turret.

  The driver—a yellow-skinned Rodian whose dish-shaped sensory antennae were inflamed and flaking—glanced in his mirror. He cried out in alarm, then reached for a blaster rifle holstered to the back of his seat. Chewbacca braced one hand against the floor and, with the other, plucked the weapon out of the Rodian’s grasp.

  “Don’t move,” he growled, still upside down.

  “What?” The Rodian’s voice was buzzing on the edge of panic. “Who speaks Wookiee?”

  Chewbacca pointed the blaster rifle at his head.

  “Okay, yeah, okay! I know what you’re looking for.”

  The Rodian returned both hands to the steering wheel and began to steady their dive—at least as much as the dilapidated vehicle would steady. He caught Chewbacca’s eyes in the mirror.

  “Hey, Shaggy,” he said nervously. “We don’t have the smoothest ride here, and you don’t look so steady. How about pointing that somewhere else?”

  Chewbacca growled and bared his fangs.

  “Stupid question?”

  Chewbacca nodded.

  The Rodian returned his attention to the windshield and carefully leveled them off. Chewbacca dropped the rest of the way inside, then slipped aside so Malla could join him.

  Inside, the airspeeder stank of mildew and unwashed bodies. It seemed to be some sort of prisoner transport. Five seats lined each wall of the passengers’ box, all facing the rear and equipped with stun-cuff restraints for both legs and arms. Behind the front seating area were two guards’ chairs, mounted on swiveling bases so that the occupants could watch prisoners or fire through an adjacent gun port with equal ease. There was no sign of Lumpy—a fact Malla
noticed immediately.

  “Where’s my son?” she roared at the driver.

  Chewbacca laid a hand on her shoulder. “He’s taking us to him, I think.”

  “You think?” she growled. “Let’s be sure.”

  Malla pulled Chewbacca’s datapad off its utility clip, then slipped into the front passenger’s seat. She punched a few keys, then held the display up in front of the Rodian.

  The screen read, “Tell me where my son is or I’ll rip out your antennae.”

  “It’s safer if I don’t tell you,” the Rodian said. “Just forget about the Princess’s datapad, and your son will be returned safe—”

  Malla typed another message and shoved it under the Rodian’s snout. “Both antennae!”

  He was unfazed. “I’m serious. That kid is a real handful. If they find out you’re coming anyway, they’ll figure he’s more trouble than he’s worth.”

  Chewbacca grabbed an antenna.

  “They’re taking him to the DC!” the Rodian blurted. “I’m supposed to meet them there.”

  A beep sounded from the equipment console. The Rodian glanced down at a dark vid display and banged it with his fist. A hazy map appeared and instantly began to fade, but the image lasted long enough for Chewbacca to glimpse a green descent arrow.

  The Rodian began to drop through tiers of traffic. Slowly at first, then more rapidly, the lights lining the skylanes began to wink out. Even the traffic began to thin, winding through the dark chasms in flickering snakes of running lights.

  “What’s the DC?” Malla typed.

  The Rodian began to stutter. “De-de-det . . .”

  Chewbacca twisted the antenna.

  The stuttering grew worse. “T-t-t . . .” He developed an eye twitch.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Malla asked.

  “What do you think? Look at him—he’s deranged.”

  Chewbacca was pretty sure that the Rodian and his companions where what some called “underdwellers,” dispossessed people who had fallen so low—economically and spiritually—that they could live only in the twilight depths of the city, eking out a meager existence in the perilous margins where civilization sank into savagery. What they wanted with Princess Leia’s datapad he could not imagine, but he did feel certain that solving the mystery would be an important step in finding Lumpy—as well as serving the New Republic and honoring his life debt to Han.

  “Tell him the New Republic already knows about tonight,” Chewbacca said. “Tell him that is why we must recover Lumpy in the next ten hours.”

  A look of alarm flashed through Malla’s eyes, but she typed the lie without hesitation. She understood that Chewbacca had duties to both their son and the Solos.

  The Rodian’s free antenna turned outward. “You know about tonight?”

  Chewbacca began to pull the antenna he was holding.

  The Rodian’s twitch became a general tremor, and the airspeeder began to weave as though piloted by someone under the influence of intoxicants. “I . . . I . . . can’t tell you.”

  “Tell him we know about It, too,” Chewbacca said, recalling the name Lumpy said they used for their leader. “Tell him the New Republic can protect him from It.”

  The airspeeder dipped into an oncoming traffic lane, drawing a sharp hiss from Malla. She braced for impact—then sighed heavily as they dropped half a tier and scraped across a rubble-strewn pedestrian bridge that had remained hidden until it was illuminated by the airspeeder’s headlights. Then they dropped another half a tier, settling into a half-empty skylane.

  “Are you sure you want to say that?” Malla asked.

  “I am sure.” Chewbacca set the blaster rifle aside, poising himself to reach over the seat. “It will be interesting.”

  “Katarns are interesting. Shadow creepers are interesting,” Malla objected. Still, she began to type. “I like dull. Dull and safe.”

  She held the display up for the Rodian.

  He read it, then flecks of foam began to appear at the corners of his mouth. “Nobody can protect me!” He turned to stare at Malla. “If you really knew It, you would—”

  Chewbacca saw the Rodian’s hands tense and yelled for Malla to take the wheel, then jerked him out of the driver’s seat just as his hands made a violent twisting motion. The airspeeder veered and began to wobble, nearly sliding into an air skid before Malla brought the nose back on course.

  “Chewbacca! This thing is going to—”

  “Calm down.”

  Chewbacca tossed the Rodian into the passengers’ box, then squeezed into the driver’s seat and took the controls. The airspeeder handled like a mad rancor, its rear corner dropping and jumping as the damaged floater pad kicked in and out. He barely steered them around the wreckage of a dangling balcony, then slipped back into the near-empty skylane.

  “Things are not that bad.”

  “Not that bad?” Malla shook her head in disbelief. “You and Han must be playing sabacc with Hutts again!”

  “They have Lumpy,” Chewbacca said. “But we have their driver.”

  An alarm light flickered to life on the instrument panel, though the label beneath it was too covered in grime to read. Chewbacca cursed and began to listen for trouble sounds; then the roar of rushing wind filled the passengers’ box behind him. He glanced into the mirror and saw the Rodian standing on the edge of the open rear door.

  “You don’t know It,” the Rodian said, and stepped outside.

  “I hate it when they do that,” Chewbacca growled into the mirror. “The coward’s escape.”

  “Chewbacca, how can you be so calm?” Malla continued to stare through the back door. “Without him, we are like a blind mallakin searching for its chick!”

  “I am hardly calm—just unworried. And we are not quite like a blind mallakin.” Chewbacca pointed through the windshield at a set of amber running lights half a kilometer ahead. On the right side, three out of four were dark, and the entire left side was flickering erratically. “We can see our chick’s tail feathers.”

  Malla peered through the windshield at the running lights, then sighed and settled back into her seat. “I am sorry, Chewbacca. I forget that you are a master at this.”

  He shrugged. “Han keeps me in practice.”

  Chewbacca followed the running lights down another half a dozen traffic tiers, being careful to maintain the same distance as had the Rodian, always fighting to keep control of their vehicle. The skylanes grew completely deserted, then—as they dropped another level—nonexistent. The trip became a pitching, serpentine ride through a darkness as black as night, dodging over sagging bridges and dropping through the heart of a rubble-strewn mezzanine. And always there were the wretched figures who inhabited this part of the city, thousands and thousands of them, half-glimpsed in a flash of headlight as they scurried about their business—or ducked out of sight.

  Chewbacca tried to concentrate on his flying and not think about how frightened Lumpy must be in the airspeeder ahead, but it was difficult. Every instinct in him cried out for him to fly faster, to catch up to his son and let him know his parents were close behind. But Chewbacca could not alert Lumpy without also alerting his son’s captors, and the last thing he wanted was to start a high-speed chase. Even if someone did not crash, it seemed unlikely that the battered vehicle he was driving could keep up.

  Malla remained silent also, and Chewbacca could not help wondering what was going through her mind. As hard as his life debt had made their lives, he knew that she would never blame him for keeping it, or wish that he would dishonor himself and return home while Han still lived. She had told him many times that she loved him because she could trust him, and that she could trust him because he kept his honor. But perhaps she blamed him for being too soft on Lumpy, for not making him obey at a time when it was so important. Certainly, he blamed himself.

  Chewbacca followed the other airspeeder beneath a long stretch of durasteel gallery that had torn loose of its supports and fallen at a steep angle
across the chasm—he could not call this place a skylane—then glanced over at Malla.

  “I am sorry,” he said.

  Malla looked at him in surprise. “Sorry? Why should you be sorry?”

  “I should have been firmer, but I didn’t want to break his spirit.” Chewbacca returned his attention to the dark path ahead and saw that he had let the running lights creep out of sight. He increased his speed. “I have not had enough practice at this, Malla. Half the time, Lumpy is a stranger to me.”

  Malla laid a hand on his thigh. “Then you are doing well, Chewbacca. I have had eleven years of practice, and my words were the ones that made him leap into danger.” She fell silent and looked out the side window. “I should have stayed out of it. You are the only one he wants to listen to now.”

  Chewbacca did not know how to respond. Under other circumstances, it might have warmed him to hear again how much his son looked up to him. As matters were, the reminder just filled him with a frightened ache.

  The twisted skeleton of a stripped space freighter appeared ahead, wedged across the lane and blocking the route. Chewbacca hit the decelerators and sent the airspeeder into a shuddering air skid, bringing them to a stop so close to a cross-strut that he could have reached out his window and wiped off a handful of grime.

  “Hutt slime!”

  Chewbacca activated the vehicle’s spotlight and began to search for an easy route through the freighter—a path that might explain why he had not caught up to the other airspeeder.

  “What’s wrong?” Malla asked.

  “Lost the chick.”

  The light revealed only a tangled mass of durasteel slowly being disassembled by emaciated metal salvagers—most equipped with tools barely more sophisticated than laser saws and pry bars. A hundred meters above, the stern had punched a jagged rent into a permacrete building facade; on the opposite side of the lane, a hundred meters below, the bow rested in the buckled pocket of what looked to have been a durasteel parking balcony.

  “They might have gone under it.” Though Malla tried to speak in an even tone, there was a panicked edge to her voice. “Or over it.”