19

Han Solo dashed into his and Leia’s empty sleeping chambers. “Lights!” he shouted so loudly that the voice receptors didn’t understand his words. Han forced himself to articulate with brutal clarity through clenched teeth, “Lights,” until the illumination came on in the room.

He glanced from side to side, trying to think of everything he would need to bring. After unsealing the coded security chamber atop one of their closets, he snatched a fully charged personal blaster, then grabbed an extra power pack. He pulled out a clean set of clothes, felt a startled pang as he saw Leia’s garments hanging untouched in the storage unit.

“Chewie!” he bellowed. “In here.”

For some reason the voice-response lights went off again. In disgust he snapped, “Lights on!” for the third time.

See-Threepio strutted into the room with two bawling children in tow. “Sir, must you be so rushed? You’re upsetting the children. Will you please take a moment to explain what’s going on?”

Chewbacca roared from the outer room, and Han could hear him knocking furniture aside as he ran to the bedroom. The Wookiee stood in the doorway, his tan fur ruffled. He opened his wide pink mouth, showing his fangs, and roared again so loudly that it startled the children.

The bedroom lights went off for a second time.

Han saw that Chewbacca carried his deadly bowcaster and a pack of concentrated emergency rations, ready to go. Fumbling in the dimness, Han opened up another small compartment beside the closet and pulled out the trusty automatic medikit he had removed from the Millennium Falcon.

“Lights,” Threepio said in a calm voice, and the illumination stayed on this time.

“Threepio, where’s Lando?” Han said. “Find him for me.”

“He’s down in the starship bays, sir. He left me a message to tell you that he is not impressed with your standards of maintenance on your former ship.”

“Well, he’d better have the Falcon running now, that’s all I can say,” Han said.

Jaina sniffed loudly and between sobs cried out, “Where’s Mommy?”

Han stopped as if hit with a stun beam. He knelt, looking into his little girl’s face. He brushed aside the tears on her cheeks and placed his hands on her tiny shoulders, giving a squeeze of confidence.

“Daddy’s going to rescue her,” Han said.

“Rescue her? Oh, dear!” Threepio interrupted. “Why does Mistress Leia need rescuing?” Chewbacca bellowed in answer, but Threepio waved mechanical hands at him. “You’re not helping, you know!”

Han turned to the Wookiee. “Not this time, buddy. I need you here to watch over the kids. There’s no one else I trust as much.” Chewbacca blatted a response, but Han shook his head. “No, I don’t have a plan yet. All I know is I need to get to Calamari before the Imperials destroy it. I can’t just stay here and let Leia face them alone.”

Han stuffed what he needed into a lightweight mesh sack and grabbed the emergency rations from Chewbacca’s hairy arms, glancing at the labels to make sure the food was compatible with human digestive systems.

“How long will you be gone, sir?” Threepio asked, trying to stop Jacen from climbing into the open closets.

“As long as it takes to rescue my wife,” Han answered.

He sprinted toward the door, taking two steps before he froze. He spun around and returned to his two children. He bent down again and gathered Jacen and Jaina in a big hug. “You two behave for Chewie and Threepio. You have to watch out for each other.”

“We are good,” Jacen answered with a touch of indignation. At that moment the little boy looked heart-wrenchingly like Leia.

“I have recently updated my child-care programming, sir,” Threepio said. “We’ll have no trouble at all.” The golden droid nudged the twins as he tried to usher them back to their own room. “Come, children, I will tell you an entertaining story.”

Jacen and Jaina began crying again.

Han took a last longing look at the twins and then ran out of the living quarters, pausing only a moment to straighten the soft chair Chewbacca had knocked over.

The cyberfuse made a popping sound as it clattered on the cockpit floor of the Millennium Falcon. Lando Calrissian stared at it in disgust, then turned back to the control panels.

He had finished updating the navicomputer software, but somehow that had caused the cockpit lights to short out. He rummaged around in the small bin of old greasy-smelling replacement fuses and yanked out one that looked appropriate.

The Falcon had been cobbled together from so many different parts, he could never keep track of how much spit and monofilament wire kept the ship running. He wondered for the hundredth time why he loved the craft so much.

He popped in the fuse, activated it, and flicked a row of switches that remained glassy dead. “Come on,” Lando said, smacking the panel hard with the flat of his left palm.

With a humming whirr and a blast of cold chemical-smelling air from the recirculating ducts, the controls winked to life. Lando closed his eyes with a sigh. “Good old emergency repair procedure number one,” he said.

“Hey, Lando!”

He heard the loud, determined voice from outside in the repair bay. Without looking Lando knew Han Solo had come to shout at him about something.

He felt tired, itchy from sweat and frustrated at how long it was taking to get the Millennium Falcon performing up to his exacting standards. He stood up from the open control panels and walked across the short corridor, his boots making impatient clangs on the deck plates. He bent down on the entrance ramp to stick his head out.

“Lando,” Han said again, hurrying toward him, his face red with agitation. Sweat clumped his dark hair together, and he marched forward with the unstoppable attitude of an Imperial construction droid.

“Han,” Lando said, scowling, “you didn’t tell me this junk heap was in such bad shape when we played sabacc.”

Han ignored the comment and sprinted up the ramp, carrying a mesh sack of supplies and wearing a blaster at his hip. Lando raised his eyebrows. “Han—”

“Lando, I need the Falcon. Now.” He pushed past Lando, dropped his sack on the deck plates, and hit the controls for the entrance ramp. Lando had to jump inside as the greased cylinders hauled the slanted metal ramp back into position.

“Han, this is my ship now. You can’t just—”

Han went directly to the cockpit and threw himself into the pilot seat. Lando charged up behind Han. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Han spun around in the pilot chair and fixed Lando with a stare that skewered him like a pair of stun bolts. “The planet Calamari is being attacked by Admiral Daala at this very moment. Leia’s trapped there. Now, are you going to help me go rescue her in the Falcon, or do I pick you up by your scruffy neck and throw you off the ship?”

Lando backed off, holding both palms up in a gesture of peace. “Whoa, whoa, Han! Leia’s in trouble? Let’s go—but I’m flying,” he said, motioning for Han to move into the copilot’s chair. “It is my ship.”

Grudgingly, Han unbuckled his restraints and slid over to the right-hand seat normally reserved for Chewbacca. Lando toggled on the comm system. “Millennium Falcon requesting clearance for immediate departure.”

He raised the modified light freighter off the floor on its repulsorlift jets, hovered, and punched the sublight engines the moment Coruscant Control gave them permission to depart. The Falcon shot through the atmosphere and headed out to the stars.

On the planet Vortex, Qwi Xux wandered on the fringes of the reconstruction site of the Cathedral of Winds. Her companion, Wedge Antilles, had joined the other New Republic cleanup crews. The workers wore thick gloves to protect their hands from the razor edges of the crystal shards they hauled to the materials-reprocessing bins, dissolving broken fragments and synthesizing new building material.

Overhead the swirling gray clouds warned of the rapidly approaching storm season. Soon all the winged Vors would take shelter in their low-to-the-ground bunkers and wait out the hurricane-force gales. Already cold gusts hissed across the unbroken plains of pale grasses. Qwi feared that her own ethereal form might take flight, whisked into the air by a sudden powerful gust to join the lacy-winged inhabitants.

The Vors kept away from the New Republic teams, working at the site of the devastated cathedral, reinforcing the foundations and preparing to erect a new network of hollow musical towers. The aliens followed no plan that anyone could see, and had answered only with silence when the engineers asked to study the architectural drawings.

Qwi watched the activity, wishing she could help. The Vors had not demanded aid from the New Republic; in fact, they had barely acknowledged it, simply accepting the new workers and continuing the breakneck pace of their project. The seemingly emotionless Vors had filed no formal protest, made no threats of cutting off relations. It was as if they understood the New Republic bore them no ill will; but as a race they had been stunned and could not return to normal activities until their Cathedral of Winds sang again.

As she walked among the scattered shards of crystal pipes, Qwi found a small, narrow tube, a broken piece of one of the high-pitched windpipes from the tallest pinnacles of the towers. She bent and picked it up with her long fingers, careful to avoid the sharp edges.

The wind gusted around her, rippling the fabric of her tunic, tossing her pearlescent feathery hair around her head. She stared at the tiny flute. Back at Maw Installation, Qwi had often programmed her own computers using musical notes, whistling and humming to set subroutines in motion. She had not played music in a long time.…

Over at the materials-reprocessing station, Wedge and two helpers accidentally dropped a large section of crystal pipe, which crashed to the ground. Wedge shouted, and the others jumped out of the way to escape the fragments.

At the construction site the Vors fluttered up in the air in a panic, alarmed by the sound of breaking crystal.

Qwi put the flute to her mouth, taking a tentative breath. The smooth crystal felt cool against her thin blue lips. She blew into the unbroken end and held a finger over one of the holes, letting a test note whistle through the tube. She tried another, and a third, gaining a feel for the songs the crystal flute could sing.

She planted her feet among the crushed glassy fragments on the ground, steadying herself against the blowing wind, and she played. It took her several tries to work the notes into the shapes she wanted, but she closed her large indigo eyes and let the music flow from her.

The Vors flapped through the air, approaching her, circling overhead. Some landed in the whipping lavender grass nearby, turning their angular faces toward her, blinking horny eyelids over pupilless obsidian eyes. They listened.

Qwi thought of the destruction of the Cathedral of Winds, the loss of a great artifact and work of art, the deaths of so many Vors; the music took on a keening tone. In her mind she also saw her own home planet of Omwat, when Moff Tarkin had placed her in an orbital training habitat as a child so she and other talented Omwati children could watch as he destroyed their families’ honeycomb settlements if ever the children failed an examination.…

Music skirled out of the flute, rising and falling. She heard the flap of Vor wings over the sound of the notes and the wind. Qwi blinked nervously and looked up at her silent audience, but she kept playing.

From his position with the New Republic workers, Wedge came running over to see if she needed help. The other human engineers noticed the attention she had drawn.

As Wedge approached, breathless and wide-eyed, Qwi stopped playing. She took a deep breath and lowered her crystal flute.

Surrounding her, the Vors did not speak. They stared at her, fluttering their wings to keep their balance. Segmented, leathery armor covered their faces, masking any readable expressions. She couldn’t think of anything to say.

A large male Vor, obviously a clan leader of some kind, stepped forward and extended his hand to take the flute from her. Still nervous, Qwi placed the delicate instrument in his leathery palm.

With a sudden, violent gesture, the Vor squeezed his hand shut and crushed the flute. The thin crystal sides of the tube shattered. He opened his hand to let the fragments fall to the ground. Thin lines of blood blossomed on his palm.

“No more music,” he said. Her entire audience of Vors spread their wings and leaped into the winds, flying back over to the construction site.

The leader kept his gaze on her. “Not until we are finished here,” he said, and flew off to join the others.

Stuck in hyperspace, Han Solo could do nothing but wait. He couldn’t hurry the passage of time.

He paced around the common area, looking at the battered holographic game board and thinking of when he had first seen Artoo-Detoo playing with Chewbacca. That had been before he had even met Leia, when Luke Skywalker was a wet-behind-the-ears moisture farmer and Obi-Wan Kenobi was just a crazy old man. If he had known how his life would change after that day in the Mos Eisley cantina, Han wondered if he would have taken the risk to pick up two passengers and their droids bound for Alderaan.

But then he would never have met Leia. Never have married her. Never have fathered three children. Never have helped defeat the Empire. Yes, he thought: despite all the turmoil, Han would make the same choices all over again.

And now Leia was in great peril.

Lando came from the cockpit. “She’s on autopilot.” He looked at the dejected expression on Han’s face and shook his head. “Han, why don’t you rest? Let’s kill some time.” Then, as if the idea had just occurred to him, “How about we play a round of … sabacc?” Lando raised his eyebrows and flashed one of his famous grins.

Han wondered if his friend was just trying to cheer him up and decided to see how serious Lando really was. “I’m not interested in sabacc right now.” He sat down and lowered his voice. “I don’t suppose you’d put up my ship as a stake?”

Lando scowled. “It’s my ship, Han.”

Han leaned forward across the holographic chess table. “Not for long, buddy—or are you afraid?”

The Falcon shot through hyperspace on autopilot, oblivious to the fact that her ownership was being decided.

Tiny pearls of sweat tickled the back of Han’s neck as he stared at his cards. Lando, who prided himself on a perfect bluffing expression, showed concern and uneasiness. For the third time in as many minutes, he wiped a hand across his brow.

The scoring computer held them at ninety-four points each. The time now passed in a flash, and Han found himself so intent on the game that he had not thought about Leia’s desperate situation for at least fifteen seconds.

“How do I know you don’t have some trick programmed into these cards?” Lando said, staring at the aluminized plates but holding the displays out of Han’s line of sight.

“You suggested this game, buddy. These were my old cards, but you degaussed them yourself. They’re straight, no tricks.” He let a smile creep across his lips. “And this time there’s no sudden change of rules during the final scoring round.”

Han waited a second longer, then impatiently took the initiative. “I’m keeping three cards,” he said, and put two others facedown in the center of the randomizer field. He pressed the scan button to change the value and suit on his cards, then slid them back out of the field to look at what he had drawn.

Lando held out two cards and thought better of it, biting his lower lip, and pulled out a third. Han felt a wave of jubilation. Lando’s hand was even worse than his own.

Han’s heart pounded. He had a flush of Staves, a low flush with no face cards; but if he could beat Lando, this hand would give him enough points to pass the target score. Lando stared at his own cards, smiling a little bit, but Han thought it was forced.

“Go on,” Han said, and slipped his cards one at a time onto the platform.

“Do I get extra points for having a completely random hand?” Lando said, then sighed. He put his elbows on the table and frowned.

Han slapped a hand on his flush. “The Falcon’s mine again!”

Lando smirked, as if losing the ship were a mixed blessing. “At least you’re getting her back in better condition.”

Han clapped his friend on the back and with a light step danced back toward the cockpit. Slowly, with a sigh of satisfaction, he lowered himself back into the pilot’s seat.

Now, he thought, if he could just get to Leia in time, this would be a perfect day.