Smuggling carried such an allure: Be your own boss, visit different planets, wear your own clothes instead of a stupid orange jumpsuit. Maybe even a little time for some no-strings-attached romantic liaisons.
Willrow was a hard worker. He was sure it wouldn’t be long before he could afford his own ship. He just needed some entrée to that world.
So he was thrilled when, a week ago, Faron showed up at his room with the package, the assignment, and an up-front payment of ten thousand credits. It was due on Batuu three days from now.
As Faron passed on the gig, he also passed on a warning.
The woman you’re bringing it to, Faron had said, her name is Tropos. You deliver this safely and on time, you get another forty thousand credits. Anything happens? Let’s just say Tropos has ways of making people disappear. But not until she makes every person you ever loved disappear first.
Faron wasn’t prone to exaggeration. And there was a shiver in his voice when he spoke the name, like it was accompanied by a burst of cold air.
Willrow hadn’t worried about completing the job. He had planned to leave tomorrow, and he was especially looking forward to a few days on Batuu. Some sun and a few drinks and, even though his waistline would protest, some Nectrose Freeze.
But with the Empire here, his dreams of glowing drinks and ice cream were slipping away. He racked his brain, trying to think of who might know the contents of the chest. He hadn’t told anyone…
Except Bexley.
Two nights ago, at the bar. To get to Batuu, Willrow needed a pilot. And not a cloud car. He needed a ship with hyperdrive. Bexley said she could borrow one from a pilot she knew, but it wouldn’t be cheap. Willrow was feeling good, between the drinks and the thought of spending a little time in a cramped cockpit with Bexley. He asked her if ten thousand credits would be worth the cost of the rental and her time. She smiled and ordered another round.
And yeah, he’d told her he had a package to deliver. But not what it was, or to who, or how much he was supposed to get in return for it.
Right?
He’d had a lot to drink. And Bexley looked good that night.
Maybe he’d told her more than he should have. But when could she have taken it? He’d been out running errands all morning. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d checked the chest. Two days ago? Three? How did she even gain access to his room?
Willrow pushed himself to standing and made it back into the hallway, heading toward the shuttle bay. Then he turned the corner and saw her.
Bexley was talking to the droid Willrow had almost knocked over on the way to his room. Willrow paused at the edge of the hallway and watched as the droid gestured to the trash unit. There was a grinding noise as the top opened, and Bexley reached in and extracted the camtono. The battered, cylindrical container that was worth fifty thousand credits, and yeah, it seemed like Willrow must have drunk a little too much the other night, and offered a little too much information in the process.
And service droids had access to rooms to collect the trash. Clever. She’d looked a little nervous back in the cloud car bay, and Willrow thought she’d been worried about Vader. Turned out her plan to double-cross him had just hit a snag.
Briefly, he wondered again at what was inside. For the delivery fee to be that high, the value must be astronomical. At one point, after curiosity got the better of him, he’d taken the container out of the chest under the bed and given it a little shake. Nice and gentle, just to see what it sounded like.
And, nothing.
Whatever was inside was solid.
Which was good, because he knew Bexley, and felt like this thing wasn’t coming back to him easy. He stepped fully into the hallway. And when she saw him out of the corner of her eye she froze, before taking off at a run.
Willrow hoofed it after her, panting from the exertion. Bexley, meanwhile, was fast and rested. He was just barely able to stay on her tail, following her through twisting corridors, through a mess hall, toward the heart of the city.
Just as Willrow thought he’d lost her, he turned another corner and found Bexley with her back to him, one arm in the air, the other arm wrapped around the camtono.
And two stormtroopers holding blaster rifles on her.
The idea popped into his head before he had a chance to consider the consequences. “She’s Rebel Alliance!”
Which changed the tone of the proceedings pretty quick.
One of the stormtroopers aimed more squarely on Bexley’s chest. When Willrow came alongside the trio, he yanked the camtono away from her, feeling a flood of relief from having his hands on the metal container again. He nodded to the troopers. “She’s Rebel Alliance. And she stole my property. I’m taking it back.”
The other stormtrooper trained a rifle on Willrow and said, “Not so fast. Nobody is going anywhere until we sort this out.”
“Really?” Bexley asked, giving Willrow some pointed side-eye. “I mean, really?”
“After you stole from me.”
“These people I fly around don’t tip…”
The other stormtrooper stepped forward. “Quiet. What’s in that thing, anyway?”
Willrow sighed. He didn’t think smuggling would be this hard. Certainly not before he even left on his first assignment. He said, “I don’t have the code.”
The stormtroopers looked at each other, momentarily confused, and Willrow wondered if he should exploit that opening. But then an even better distraction came along—commotion from the end of the hallway. Another group of stormtroopers rushed by, flanking a tall, dark figure with a flowing cape and a gleaming black helmet.
“Is that…?” Willrow asked.
“I think so,” Bexley said.
Neither stormtrooper was paying attention now, clearly nervous at the sight of their boss and wondering if Willrow and Bexley were worth wasting their time on. They watched as Vader and his entourage disappeared around a corner.
Willrow’s desperation mixed with his adrenaline and, before he even fully processed what he was doing, he whipped the camtono into the rifle of the stormtrooper closest to him, sending the blaster flying, then planted a foot into the trooper’s midsection. Bexley caught on quick, grabbing the rifle of the other stormtrooper and yanking it away, training it on the pair.
The two of them backed away slowly, one stormtrooper on the floor, the other with hands in the air.
“Is that deal still good?” Bexley asked.
“Are you kidding?”
“Seems like you need to go, and I bet you don’t have a pilot.”
Willrow laughed. “You’re not kidding.”
But then Bexley threw him that little curl of the lip. The smile that made him think of her in the first place, and spending a little time in a cramped cockpit.
And he knew it was stupid, but yeah, sometimes that could be fun.
“I need to get my pack,” Bexley said. “South shuttle bay?”
“Sure.”
They took off in opposite directions before the other stormtrooper could scramble to his rifle. And as Willrow ran for the shuttle bay, the city’s speakers squawked to life.
“Attention, this is Lando Calrissian. Attention. The Empire’s taken control of the city. I advise everyone to leave before more Imperial troops arrive.”
Yeah, Willrow thought. As if he needed the suggestion.
He made it back to the living area, doors opening, panicked residents fleeing. He gripped the camtono tighter, nearly knocking over a group of Ugnaughts, and then was surprised to see the man himself. Calrissian, accompanied by a woman in a white jumpsuit carrying a blaster. She looked familiar, but Willrow couldn’t quite place her.
Another hairpin turn and he nearly collided with a massive Wookiee with a gold droid on its back, an astromech unit rolling along behind them. What the hell was going on h
ere?
But before he could give it any real consideration, he turned a corner into a vaulted lobby full of fleeing Cloud City residents, and saw the last person he expected to see.
Faron.
“Been looking for you,” the Rodian called out, striding toward him through the chaos, a glint in his bulbous black eyes.
“Why?” Willrow asked.
He nodded toward the camtono. “That.”
Willrow tightened his grip. “I’m off to deliver it. And anyway, this isn’t really the best time…”
Faron held up a credit chip. “Another ten thousand. So that was twenty just to hold it for a bit. Not so bad, I’d say.”
From the far end of the lobby came a shout and the sound of a blaster. Willrow craned his neck to look for the source, and when he returned his attention to Faron, the Rodian was offering the credit chip with one hand and reaching for the camtono with the other.
There was only one reason he would be doing this now—whatever was inside the camtono must be valuable. More valuable than Faron initially realized. Willrow had a feeling that Tropos was no longer the recipient, despite Faron’s warnings about her.
Willrow took a few steps back. “Isn’t there some kind of smuggler’s code or something?”
The Rodian leaned back and laughed, a guttural and vaguely troubling sound. “You think you’re a smuggler? You’re barely a messenger.”
Faron stepped forward, grabbing at the camtono. Willrow pulled back, but the Rodian had a good grip, and they locked into a struggle for it, tugging back and forth while trying to dodge the people darting around them.
Willrow dropped his weight, trying to wrench it free, but Faron was strong. The shouting in the distance was getting closer. He considered letting go, letting Faron have the camtono. Just get out before things got worse.
And then he thought of another shift sitting at a console, monitoring pressure levels, venting gases, doing little more than watching lights and pressing buttons. He thought about how even after paying off Bexley he’d be left with forty thousand credits, and that was better than twenty.
So he pulled harder.
Faron stuck his foot between Willrow’s legs, trying to knock him down, but they ended up tangled together and stumbled, falling toward the floor, and as they both threw up their arms to protect themselves, the camtono went flying.
Willrow watched as it flipped through the air and came down with a loud clang.
And in that moment, his heart twisted in his chest. He ran to the cylinder before anyone else could, picked it up, and gave it a shake. Where once there’d been solid silence, something inside rattled.
Maybe it was nothing. Maybe something inside just came loose…
But Faron heard it, too. His bug-eyes went wide and he shook his head. “You’re on your own with that one.”
And the Rodian got up and disappeared into a crowd of evacuating residents.
Willrow gave the camtono another shake. Heard another rattle.
Let’s just say Tropos has ways of making people disappear. But not until she makes every person you ever loved disappear first.
No matter what, Willrow still needed to get off Cloud City. So he ran hard for the shuttle bay. After pushing through crowds of people seeking some sort of safe passage, he found Bexley in the far corner, circling a battered gunship, which Willrow recognized from its patrols through the city’s skies. It was a security vessel, and as he came up alongside the hull he asked, “This thing going to hold up?”
“Let’s hope so,” Bexley said. “Batuu, right?”
Willrow held up the camtono. Gave it another shake. Felt the rattle inside.
“Hey,” Bexley said, punching a code into the panel next to the door. “We’re going to get overrun with people trying to get out of here in a second. Where we headed?”
Maybe he wasn’t cut out to be a smuggler.
But that didn’t mean he was going back to his job in gas mining. So as the ramp lowered Willrow clutched the camtono, wondering if the contents were salvageable. Maybe it was still worth enough to start a new life somewhere.
Far, far away from Tropos.
“Anyplace but Batuu,” he said, climbing aboard the ship.
INTO THE CLOUDS
Karen Strong
“The Alderaanian princess is here.”
Jailyn stopped twirling in front of the mirror, and the cloak swished around her ankles. “Princess Leia Organa?” she whispered.
There was no one else in the boutique, so she didn’t need to be discreet. The Lioness catered to the most exclusive clientele, only opening its doors by appointment.
“The baron administrator sent me to a suite at the Grand Bespin Hotel,” the stylist said. “He told me to bring my finest work, fit for royalty. I thought he was only being dramatic.”
Jailyn turned from the gilded mirror and walked toward the boutique’s gallery window. The Lioness was on the Plaza Concourse level in the shopping district. Emissaries seeking business opportunities often visited Cloud City, the Outer Rim’s crown jewel. Jailyn watched as they meandered the streets in awe. The sky was full of pastel colors, and the plaza’s dome-shaped buildings glinted gold in the sun. A cloud car zipped past in an orange blur.
Of course, Jailyn had heard rumors of a conflict between the rebels and the Empire on Hoth. No one knew the princess’s whereabouts or even if she had made it offworld. The most speculated rumor was that she had been captured, a prisoner on some Star Destroyer. But if the stylist was telling the truth, and Neshee had no reason to lie, then the princess had found refuge on Cloud City.
Jailyn turned away from her beloved skyline. “Tell me about the princess. What was she like?”
“She was very beautiful. Demure and gracious,” Neshee answered. “Although I was most disappointed with her companions. A Wookiee and another man, less refined. But the baron administrator seemed familiar with them both, which given his history isn’t a surprise.”
Neshee huffed at the scandal of it all. Everyone knew how Lando Calrissian had been able to obtain his current position through the opportunities of luck and chance.
But Jailyn frowned at the stylist’s disapproval. The princess was a part of the Rebellion, and the Empire had destroyed Alderaan. A rogue and a Wookiee probably made better allies than stodgy Bespin merchants.
Neshee moved closer, smoothing and adjusting the cloak over Jailyn’s tunic. “I gave Her Royal Highness something similar to this. As you can see, it’s immaculately made with the finest aeien silk. The design is exquisite, wouldn’t you agree?”
Jailyn smirked. Neshee was now back in seller mode, eager for an extravagant commission. The stylist wanted her to buy this cloak. If anything, the price had probably tripled in the last few seconds.
Thanks to her father’s Tibanna gas exports and other less publicized shipments, she had the credits. More than enough to spare. The Cirri family even had a swimming pool at their Level 53 living quarters, a rare luxury on Cloud City. Despite her father’s gambling habits and his constant need for opulence, the family still had immense wealth. At least for now. As long as Jailyn kept cleaning up her father’s messes. This afternoon, she had mediated a grueling meeting to quell a labor dispute. Her father hadn’t even bothered to attend. His expectation that she would take care of the family business was wearing thin. No one had asked what Jailyn wanted.
Bespin had been spared the Empire’s gaze, too small to scrutinize and too far away from the Core Worlds. But now, as the civil war continued to rage, the Outer Rim had come under notice and trouble loomed like clouds covering the sun.
Jailyn let the stylist escort her across the thick white carpet back to the mirror so she could admire the cloak again in all its glory.
“The princess’s cloak had different shades. Radiant tones of red and orange. But I think these colors fit b
etter with your lovely brown skin.” Neshee pulled out the cloak to further reveal the fine embroidery of dark greens and deep blues.
Jailyn stared at her reflection. Her hair was done up in the Bespin style, looped braids draping her shoulders. She was a lady of means, daughter of a Tibanna gas tycoon, a Cloud City socialite. This frivolous clothing should have made her happy. In the past, glamorous garments had been her soothing balm, a second skin and gauzy disguise. A reprieve to shed the understated attire required of her position.
She twirled again as Neshee smiled. But it didn’t make her feel any better. Jailyn was still the heiress to the Cirri business empire. More than anything, she yearned to be someone else. Maybe today she could pretend to be a rebel princess.
After paying the stylist too many credits, Jailyn left the boutique wearing the cloak.
* * *
—
Jailyn traveled the vaulted halls of the upper levels, which featured chiseled white walls showcasing eclectic designs and moldings. It was a different world from the gritty lower levels where the Ugnaughts processed and encased Tibanna gas in carbonite. Cloud City’s top levels catered to visitors by giving them captivating views of sunsets and life-changing luck at the sabacc table.
Bespin Guards monitored the crossways and atriums, standing stiff in their uniforms, hands close to their blaster sidearms. There seemed to be a heavier presence than usual, but maybe the recent news of the civil war had brought a surge of uneasiness.
Jailyn knew pretending to be the princess of Alderaan was ludicrous, but she still envisioned the sole survivor of House of Organa gracefully walking through the white archways of the Grand Bespin Hotel. Jailyn lifted her head and did her best imitation.
Soon she found herself in front of the Royal Casino, one of the places she came to disappear as well as take a few spins on the jubilee wheel. Gambling wasn’t a weakness for her as it was for her father. The casinos were a tool, a way she found scraps of information beyond the Outer Rim. Based on the information she had just learned from Neshee, she hoped to do some reconnaissance about the Empire and confirm the rumors regarding the princess.
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