by James Luceno
One of several dozen systems that made up a region of space known as the Centrality, the Oseon—much like the Corporate Sector—had been left to develop in its own fashion. Some of the galaxy's most unusual planets were located in the Centrality, but what set the Oseon system apart and made it a hub for tourism was an annual stellar event known as the Flamewind—a radiation storm of shifting colors that lasted three weeks and was said to provoke emotional reactions in spectators. Almost fifty years earlier, Lando and his droid-that-would-be-a-spacecraft, Vuffi Raa, had been forced to negotiate the Oseon system during a Flamewind without the aid of the Falcon's navicomputer.
Over the centuries, Oseon VII had become not only a base for exploring the Centrality but a gambling center, as well, with elaborate casinos modeled after other wonders of the galaxy—both natural and artificial, past and present—strung out along a fifty-kilometer-long strip known as the Ribbon. The former Ithor and Vortex's Cathedral of Winds, present-day Kashyyyk, and even Republic-era Coruscant were among the planet's richly detailed facsimiles, lovingly re-created by an entertainment consortium known as PlanetDreams, Inc., whose current vice president was none other than the onetime owner of the Millennium Falcon, Cix Trouvee.
Attendants were on hand to see to the Solos' every whim when the repulsor limo came to a halt at the Oseon Resort's majestic entrance. First to exit, Leia said, “Oh, no.”
Han saw why. A lavish runner had been rolled out for them, lined on both sides with uniformed Centran species staff members and servant droids. Accustomed to pomp and circumstance, Allana took all of it in stride, and C-3PO in undisguised delight, but it had been a long while since Han had allowed himself to be subjected to such deferential treatment. The lobby had been cleared of guests, and a small army of managers, assistant managers, concierges, event planners, and hospitality specialists was arrayed before the front desk. Off to one side stood a group of A-list celebrities and entertainers, some of them making discreet use of their comlinks to capture holoimages.
“Captain Solo, Princess Leia, and Mistress Amelia,” a thin-faced, spotlessly attired human began, “if only we had been notified sooner of your arrival, we would have been better prepared. It's a pity you were not here last month for the Flamewind, which was spectacular this year. Regardless, we have moved guests from the penthouse suite to accommodate you. Naturally, the suite and all services will be complimentary, and a personal staff will be placed at your disposal. You will enjoy unlimited credit in the casino, and, of course, should you prefer private games—”
“Actually, we're not here to gamble,” Han said.
“Oh, I see. Well, in that case, private performances can be arranged. At the moment the Oseon is proud to present the Saffin Omlick Group, Moosh Kole, and the Kinetic Krew of the Molpol Circus, among a host of others.” The manager gestured to his subordinates. “The Oseon would also be happy to arrange sightseeing visits to Rafa Four, Trammis Three, the ThonBoka Star Cave Nebula, or other destinations in the Centrality.”
“That won't be necessary,” Leia said pleasantly.
The manager bowed slightly. “Of course. If you've come simply for privacy—”
“We were hoping for a chance to speak privately with Cix Trouvee,” Han said quietly.
The manager stared at him.
Han returned a blank look. “Isn't he still the owner?”
“Captain Solo, I'm sorry to have to report that Cix Trouvee passed on some weeks ago.”
Han lowered his head, but before his full disappointment could show, the manager added: “But the Oseon is now owned by his children, and I'm certain they would be more than happy to speak with you about whatever matter has brought you here. In fact, they had hoped to fête you privately once you were settled in.”
Han, Leia, and Allana traded smiles.
“That would be great,” Han said.
The office occupied the summit of the Oseon Tower. A round room decorated with exceptional examples of sculpture and statuary, it enjoyed a kilometer-high view of the planet, from the Ribbon clear to the spaceport and nascent skyhook. A ridge of arid mountains stood sentinel on the horizon, and the lavender sky, crosshatched by contrails, was filled with ascending and descending ships. Leia sat on a cushioned bench at one of the transparisteel windows, Allana on her knee, pointing to different resorts along the Ribbon.
“That hotel with the giant wings is a replica of a building on a world called Thyferra,” Leia said.
“Where bacta comes from.”
“Exactly. And those gardens are similar to ones on Ossus. And look, do you recognize that one?”
Allana followed Leia's finger down to the crenellated turrets of a fanciful castle fronted by a gargantuan fountain.
“Is that supposed to be Hapes?”
Leia nodded. “It's called the Seven Moons Casino. We can go there tomorrow if you'd like.”
“That'll be weird.”
“You're right, it will be weird. But it will also be fun.”
Allana reached up to wrap her arms around Leia's neck and hugged her. “I love you, Grandma,” she whispered into her ear.
Leia shut her eyes and tightened her embrace. “I love you, too.”
Allana pulled away and Leia smiled. “Mistress Amelia.”
Allana twittered a laugh and hurried to one of the adjacent window panels. Leia stood and moved toward Han, who was speaking with the three siblings from Cix Trouvee's first marriage. As with many long-term residents of Oseon VII, they were holding on to their natural good looks with the help of surgical procedures and other rejuvenation techniques. Leia stopped to regard a wondrous sculpture of a double helix.
“Is this piece from Alderaan?”
“It was made there,” Doon said, the oldest of the three, tan, slim, and fit. “But it spent many years in the presidential suite of the Hotel Manarai on Coruscant. We were fortunate enough to acquire it at a recent auction.”
Leia turned to take in the other sculptures. “Are these others genuine?”
“How we wish—since it is our goal to make the Oseon Resort as authentic as possible. Unfortunately, most Coruscant Republicana now resides in the hands of private collectors. But they are museum-quality reproductions.”
They ambled over to where Han was seated with the daughter and younger son. A droid had delivered a small feast of snacks and drinks.
“What is it you wished to speak with my father about, Captain Solo?” Doon said.
Han set his drink down. “The Millennium Falcon.”
The daughter grinned. “The galaxy's most famous vessel. Or is that infamous?”
“A bit of both,” Leia said.
Doon shook his head in amusement. “Our father was so proud to have once owned the Falcon.” He turned to Han. “He followed all of your exploits as though some small part of the ship still belonged to him. In fact, we have images of our father with the Falcon, if you'd care—”
“Yes!” Allana said, hurrying over to them.
Everyone adjusted their chairs to face a small holoprojector. Doon activated it with a remote and navigated through a menu of options. All at once there was the Falcon, in one-meter 3-D, almost as Han remembered the ship from the day Lando showed it to him.
“Here's one of Dad in the cockpit,” Doon said.
Han leaned forward, a big smile plastered on his face. “Look at that. Only one pair of chairs.” He squinted. “The instrument panel was so simple. And the same Rubicon navicomputer.”
“No dice hanging in the viewport,” Leia said.
Han made a face at her.
“Here's another, with Dad fixing something or other.”
“The port-side braking thruster,” Han said. “I can't tell you the number of times I've had to repair that jet.”
“Here, he's inside the ship …”
“The main hold,” Han said. “And a dejarik table was already there! Your father must have removed it at some point, because it wasn't onboard when Lando won the Falcon. I installed a new o
ne to appease my copilot, Chewbacca.”
“The celebrated Wookiee,” Doon said.
Han gazed at the floor and nodded.
Leia spoke up. “Lando said that he won the ship from your father in a sabacc tournament at Bespin.”
“That's true,” Doon's brother said.
Han looked up. “Did he ever explain why he offered the Falcon as a marker?”
The siblings burst out laughing.
“He most certainly did,” Doon said finally. “And it's quite an interesting tale, if you have time.”
Han relaxed into his chair. “We have nothing but.”
IN WHAT HE OFTEN CLAIMED WAS AN HOMAGE TO HIS FATHER, CIX Trouvee was a confirmed and incorrigible gambler. He had learned to play the odds at an early age, and by eighteen had left prosperous Corulag to embark on a career as a professional player. Where his father had bet on swoop races exclusively, Cix was all over the board, and as he approached midlife he would bet on just about anything: Pod races, Chin-Bret matches, rounds of laro, pazaak, Point 5 and sabacc, the roll of a jubilee wheel ball or a cupful of dice, the weather, the population curve, or the fluctuating value of salthia beans. Fortunes passed through his hands, slipped through his fingers. As fast as the credits rolled in he would spend them—on wine, women, luxury hotel suites, suits of shimmersilk and chromasheath. More often his spending outpaced his winnings, and in his wake he left a string of bad debts, splintered friendships, and broken hearts.
For a brief period the one constant in his life was a quirky YT-1300 freighter someone had named the Millennium Falcon and others had seen fit to equip with a Class One hyperdrive, a dejarik hologame table, and a dorsal-mounted laser cannon. But when you're the owner of a fifty-five-year-old starship hosting as many retrofits as original parts, you had better be good with your hands, and Cix simply wasn't, except when it came to dealing cards, gathering winnings, or scrawling his name on markers. Cix loved the Falcon, but she was slowly bleeding him dry. The hyperdrive one day, the droid brain the next, a hundred little parts that needed to be tightened, torqued, repaired, or replaced. Even so, he'd never once given serious thought to selling the freighter or trading it in on a more customary vessel, at least until the Falcon broke down unexpectedly, causing him to miss out on a high-stakes Outlander match on Coruscant. Cix realized he was in desperate need of a big score—one that would continue to finance not only the lifestyle to which he had grown accustomed, but also a complete overhaul of the credit pit the Millennium Falcon had become. So when a Rodian told him that the Hutts were taking action on a one-of-a-kind contest, Cix knew he wanted in even before he knew the details.
“What's the game?” he finally got around to asking the Rodian.
“The contest,” the Rodian had emphasized. “Between Imperial forces and a band of would-be insurgents. At Yag'Dhul, a standard month from now.”
Just how the Hutts had gotten wind of the imminent showdown, Cix would never learn. But according to the Rodian and other gamblers in the know, the Empire had learned that the insurgents were constructing a space station at Yag'Dhul, and had decided to make the installation the first target of a newly inaugurated Star Destroyer called the Desolator. The insurgents, however, had learned of the Empire's plans and were hoping to add the Desolator to their short list of victories.
The Battle of Yavin wouldn't be fought for another five years, and the Empire thought of the insurgents as more of a nuisance than a real threat. Most actions by disaffected militia groups had been limited to harassment and runs against supply convoys and Imperial installations. If the Rebels had scored any significant victories, the news had been suppressed by the Empire-controlled HoloNet, though word on Nar Shaddaa was that a nascent insurgent alliance was growing in numbers and in strength. The underground was rife with rumors of impending action at Ylesia, and of successful militia raids raids in a cluster of black holes known as the Maw, where the Empire was thought to be completing work on a massive warship fifteen years in the making.
The terms of the wager couldn't have been more straightforward.
Clearly the Hutts had no faith in the insurgents' ability to destroy the Desolator; but neither would they allow themselves to be drawn into murky definitions of victory. They were offering action based solely on the number of Imperial and insurgent fighters that would be destroyed during the engagement.
Impartial but intent on taking a percentage from both winners and losers, the Hutts had fixed the line at forty-five fighters. How that cumulative number was reached—whether mostly at the cost of Imperial fighters or insurgent fighters, or the outcome of a close-to-even split— was unimportant. At identical odds bettors had the option of wagering whether the combined total would exceed forty-five or come in at fewer. Ideally, the Hutts would get an equal number of bets on both sides. If not, they were likely to adjust the line up or down to be certain of clearing a profit.
Cix wrestled with the ethics of betting on a battle, but that didn't stop him from doing his research. In the process he hoped he would discover a way to rationalize getting in on the action. He went to ground, talking to as many contacts as possible. Smugglers, arms dealers, information brokers. Beings he suspected were militia members or sympathizers. Bartenders, musicians, and waitresses in sleazy cantinas and tapcafs, and Imperial officers who had had one too many drinks in those same places. If the Yag'Dhul wager was going to be the score of his lifetime, he wanted to go into it with as much solid information as possible, because the Hutts wouldn't have set the odds as they did unless they had already done their homework.
The Desolator was typical of the new ships of the line: a sixteen-hundred-meter-long Dreadnaught bristling with laser cannons and carrying a complement of ground assault troops, war machines, and TIE fighters. A successor to the old V-wing fighters, TIEs didn't so much maneuver as swarm. Frequently their victories owed to superior odds. Outfitted with a pair of powerful laser cannons, the sinister black-and-gray fighters lacked hyperdrives, life-support systems, and defensive shielding. Mention a TIE to a seasoned combat pilot and nine out of ten times you'd get a sneer in response. Many asserted that TIEs were as easy to eradicate as bugs if you knew how to target them.
The insurgents, on the other hand, were making do with Z-95 Headhunters retrofitted with better weaponry and hyperdrive units. If lightly armored and difficult to maneuver, the Headhunter was dependable and easy to fly. More important, the majority of insurgent pilots had spent time in the Imperial Academies or the navy itself before jumping ship, and the rest were said to have heart, whereas a lot of the Imp fliers had been drafted into service and saw no way out.
Notwithstanding the rumors of victories in the Maw, Cix took the fact that the Empire kept spitting out ships as a sign that the militia groups were being taken seriously. And at Yag'Dhul the insurgents had the equivalent of a home-field advantage. Finally, the insurgents knew an attack was forthcoming.
As word of the wager spread, Cix learned that Coruscant's notorious Baath Brothers had opted to take a stand on the outcome of the contest. Convinced that the Imperials would win, they were offering a spread of ten fighters, regardless of the Hutts' combined total of forty-five. Cix's inclination was to give the points and bet on the favorite. By doing so he was essentially counting on the fact that the tally of destroyed insurgent fighters minus ten would be greater than the number of destroyed Imperial fighters. Still he wanted to be sure.
With enough facts and stats to fill a data card, he hired an outlaw slicer to load everything into a protocol droid that had been programmed to serve as a handicapper and had a good record of predicting the outcome of swoop races.
“There are many variables you have neglected to include,” the droid told Cix in an officious way.
“Such as?”
“The commander of the Imperial Star Destroyer.”
“I tried.”
“The commander of the insurgent forces at Yag'Dhul.”
“No luck there, either.”
“It he
lps that you saw fit to provide me with a date for the engagement, as I was then able to calculate the possible effects of tidal forces from Yag'Dhul's trio of moons. But you failed to provide data on the hyperspace origin coordinates of the Star Destroyer.”
“You can't expect me to have contacts in Imperial central command.”
“And you can't expect me to return an assured prediction.”
“Then I'll settle for your best estimate.”
“Be forewarned that I refuse to be held accountable.”
“All right, I'm forewarned. Now just tell me the odds!”
The droid did.
His own hunches reinforced, Cix next went about the business of borrowing credits enough to lay down a wager that would leave him sitting pretty—even after paying the juri juice commissions the Baath Brothers would add to the bet and the lenders had added to the loans. He never even considered that he might lose.
Yag'Dhul was the homeworld of an exoskeletoned species of humanoids known as Givin, who had contributed their mathematical skills to the Confederacy of Independent Systems during the Clone Wars. Located near the intersection of the Rimma Trade Route and Corellian Trade Spine, the planet was a major reversion point and the site of skirmishes going back millennia. At certain times of the year especially, the same three moons that wreaked havoc with Yag'Dhul's seas and atmosphere conspired to extend the time required for ships to revert from hyperspace and navigate to new coordinates before returning to lightspeed. The perilous tidal conditions left the ships vulnerable to attacks from pirates that operated from a base on the outermost of Yag'Dhul's moons. Shortly after the conclusion of the Clone Wars, the pirates had been killed or driven away, but the base had become a way station for travelers, then a sports resort catering to gamblers and spectators who attended Yag'Dhul's starship races. The local militia put an end to the races when construction of the space station began, but the Givin-owned and-operated sports resort had remained open and ultimately served as the gathering place for many of the high rollers involved in the Yag'Dhul wager.
