Star Wars: Millennium Falcon

by James Luceno

  “Just so you know,” Quip said. “All of this is for a good cause.”

  “I'm not enlisting, Quip.”

  “We're in your debt either way.”

  “Save the thank-yous for when we get to wherever it is we're actually going.”

  With the repair work completed, they returned to the main hold to find Luufkin replacing the final deck plate that concealed the hidden compartments.

  “All accounted for,” the Verpine said.

  The three of them were walking down YT's boarding ramp when the Imperial commander and an escort of stormtroopers returned.

  “Captain Fargil, whatever repairs remain to be effected will have to be done in space or downside.”

  “What happened to our having twelve local hours?”

  “Be grateful for those I gave you,” the commander snarled.

  “That I am,” Quip said. “We're just about done anyway.”

  “Then ready your ship for launch. We're under way at six hundred hours.”

  Surprise tugged at Quip's features. “You're moving?”

  “I don't see that our orders are any of your concern, Captain.” The officer's eyes narrowed in sudden distrust. “I begin to wonder if I haven't misjudged you.”

  “It's just that I thought you were in holding orbit.”

  Hoots began to issue from deep in the ship.

  “Now, Captain,” the Imperial told Quip. “And take your Verpine and your Sullustan with you.”

  They hurried back up the ramp, Quip stopping to rap his knuckles against the deck plates. “Strap in! We're raising ship!”

  Zenn Bien went directly to the cockpit and cold-started the repulsorlifts.

  Quip threw himself into the copilot's chair. “If they discover—”

  The distant hoots gave way to screeching alarms. The Interdictor rumbled beneath the YT, and rending sounds could be heard echoing from the stern of the ship. A voice blared through the comm.

  “Gone to Pieces, hold your position!”

  “We're under orders to launch immediately,” Quip said into the headset.

  “That order is rescinded. Resume your previous position—”

  Quip silenced the speakers. “Punch it, Zenn! Get us out of here!”

  Zenn whirled the YT around and sent her streaking through the hangar's containment field. Behind her, Luufkin staggered into the cockpit, extending his quartet of arms for balance.

  “Gravity-well projectors disabled, but we have to avoid tractor beam.”

  Zenn Bien glanced out the viewport at the Interdictor. “I'm worried more about those turbolasers.”

  The words had just left her mouth when half the starboard batteries opened with a fusillade of crimson fire. Dialing the inertial compensator to full, Zenn Bien threw the freighter into a descending tumble, rolled her beneath the Interdictor, and brought her bubbling up on the port side at high boost.

  “Tractors are trying to get us in lock!” Quip said.

  Zenn Bien could feel the fingers of the beam grasping for the YT.

  Inverting the freighter, she rolled her over the top of the Interdictor, nearly becoming ensnared in a strobing tangle of blue energy that was frolicking among the gravity-well globes. A jagged fissure had formed in one of the globes, and an instant later the projector cracked open like an egg, spewing flames that leapt into space like a stellar flare. The Interdictor listed, then rolled completely over, as if showing its vulnerable belly to the YT, as Gone to Pieces spiraled out of reach and disappeared.

  “A day later we were in the Tungra system, and our run-in with the Interdictor felt like ancient history,” Zenn Bien told Jadak and Poste. “Deliberate run-in, I should say, since the Verpine resistance was determined to incapacitate the prototype almost from the moment they learned of it. Quip, Luufkin, and the rest of us spent a couple of standard weeks outfitting the YT with the stolen parts, replacing the central computer, and upgrading her hyperdrive to the equivalent of a Class One. At the time, Gone to Pieces had to have been one of the fastest civilian ships in the galaxy.”

  “Did the Jawas and the rest join the Rebel Alliance?” Poste asked.

  “Not straightaway. In fact, I ended up a member of their team.” Zenn Bien laughed and gestured broadly to the salon. “Some of them are around here somewhere.”

  “You worked as freelance scavengers?” Jadak said.

  Zenn Bien rocked her head from side to side. “In the beginning, we were single-minded in our pledge to remain neutral. Our intent was to hire ourselves out to anyone who needed our unique services— smugglers, pirates, crime syndicates, it wasn't supposed to matter. We even did some work for Rej Taunt. But of course that didn't last long. The Empire was becoming more brutal by the day. SoroSuub gained full control of Sullust. The Zann Consortium pirates were using Sullustans as slave soldiers … When I learned that some of my people were rising up against Chairman Siin Suub, I persuaded the team to help out, and soon enough we found ourselves carrying out special missions for Sian Tevv and Nien Nunb. And soon after that—just before the Battle of Yavin—we became full-fledged members of the Rebel Alliance, taking part in the destruction of the Invincible and a host of other Imperial ships in the years that followed.”

  “So how does one go from being a demolitions expert to a beautician?” Jadak asked.

  Zenn Bien took a moment. “After all the destruction we had wrought, it seemed only fitting that we devote ourselves to the beautification of the galaxy. When the war ended we came to New Balosar as a team, and most of us never left. I received a tonsorial degree from the Barbers of Sullust, took several husbands, and began populating my warren-clan. Life has been good ever since.”

  Jadak mulled it over. “Did Quip keep the YT?”

  “He did.”

  “Did you ever learn why the Rebels needed a ship of that caliber?”

  Zenn Bien shook her head, then said: “Boys, I hate to be the bearer of bad news …”

  “We can take it,” Poste said.

  She looked at Jadak. “I never learned why the Alliance needed the ship, but I do know that you won't be able to find her.”

  “Why's that?” Jadak said.

  “Because she was blown to pieces at Bilbringi nine years before the Battle of Yavin.”

  “IS THAT YOUR NEW BEST FRIEND?” LEIA ASKED HAN WHILE THEY were waiting for Dr. Parlay Thorp.

  Han realized that he was absently toying with the archaic transponder and shoved it back into the pouch pocket of his cargo pants. “Habit forming.”

  “Maybe we should buy you a strand of worry beads.”

  “Ha, ha.”

  Leia hadn't smiled when she made the suggestion, and Han's laugh was equally flat. Clearly, the brief communication with Luke had troubled her. She had barely said a word during the entire trip to Obroa-skai.

  “We don't have to do this, you know,” Han said quietly. “We'll explain to Thorp that something's come up and go directly to Coruscant. We can pick up the search right here when everything's straightened out.”

  For a heartbeat Leia looked as though she was considering it. Then she sighed and slumped down in the waiting room chair, folding her arms across her chest. “I'm sorry for my mood. Luke sounded concerned but politely ordered me not to join him just yet.”

  “Maybe we should buy you a strand of worry beads.”

  Leia laughed shortly. “Besides, there's a much better reason for seeing this through.”

  Han followed her nod to Allana, who was standing by the waiting room's tall windows gazing at Aurora Medical's spacious landing field. The Falcon was parked within sight, C-3PO watching over her, much to his discontent. Personal droids weren't permitted in the research building, where the Solos were scheduled to speak with Thorp.

  “She's not back to her old self,” Leia continued. “But at least she's back to being excited about our adventure.”

  “You don't think she's taking this ‘adventure’ a bit too seriously?”

  Leia frowned. “Not in an unh
ealthy way. Why, you're not taking this seriously?”

  “No, I am. I'm having a great time—well, except for Taris.”

  “I think the trip has brought the three of us closer.”

  A smile formed slowly on Han's face. “Back to better days.”

  “That was the idea, wasn't it?”

  Sudden conversation in the corridor drew their attention to a smartly attired gray-haired woman who was approaching them with a determined stride, smiling broadly and extending her thin right hand before she even reached them.

  “Princess Leia—or is it Chief of State Organa? I'm afraid I don't know how to refer to you. I'm Parlay Thorp.”

  “Leia will be fine.”

  “Leia, then,” Thorp said, shaking hands and turning to Han. “Captain Solo. What a pleasure to meet you.”

  Han was surprised by the strength of her grip. “Dr. Thorp.”

  “And this must be Amelia.”

  Allana shook her hand, as well. “Look outside, there's the Millennium Falcon.”

  Thorp allowed herself to be led to the windows.

  “My goodness. I've seen the ship countless times on the HoloNet, of course, but to see her in person after all these years …” She turned slightly to face Han and Leia. “What memories she stirs.”

  Han joined her at the window. “She was already called Millennium Falcon when you got her?”

  Thorp nodded. “I couldn't come up with a name like that.”

  “Dax Doogun said something about her having been a medical ship.”

  “Yes. But even with her white hull spruced up and stenciled with symbols, the Falcon never really looked the part. Not with that dorsal-mounted cannon.”

  “The laser battery was already installed?”

  Thorp nodded. “It didn't have the lower cannon.”

  “I was, uh, forced to make some upgrades.”

  “So I've heard. Otherwise she looks very much the way I remember her. I liked that she was decades old and still limber.” She turned to Han again. “And I respect the fact that you haven't restored her. The dents and rust spots give her character—like age lines in a face. Not that you'll see many of those at Aurora,” she added in a conspiratorial tone.

  “We've noticed,” Leia said.

  Thorp sighed elaborately. “Yes, we specialize in restoring youth to the envelope and doing what we can to keep the contents in good working order. I like to say that our clients literally buy time for themselves. But even with organ and hormone replacement, we have yet to significantly extend the life spans of most species. For exorbitant sums of money, we can prolong life in humans by twenty-five, fifty, sometimes as much as seventy-five years. But the fact remains that, as a species, we are biologically programmed to decline early on, and that programming appears to be unalterable.” She glanced at Allana. “Boring grown-up stuff, right?”

  “Sort of,” she said.

  Thorp laughed. “Honesty can be so refreshing. In any case, my area is research. I leave the actual hands-on rejuvenation procedures to Aurora's more gifted professionals.”

  “Doogun mentioned that some of your research was conducted in the Outer Rim.”

  “In the Tingel Arm, yes, and with the Millennium Falcon to thank for some of my discoveries.”

  A door slid open behind them, and a Ho'Din physician stepped into the room.

  “I'm sorry for intruding—”

  “You're hardly intruding, Dr. Sompa,” Thorp was quick to say. “Allow me to present Han Solo, Leia Organa Solo, and their daughter Amelia.”

  Sompa inclined his tressed head in a courteous bow. “I'm charmed and humbled. I must say, however, that I'm somewhat surprised to see you here. Frankly, both of you look wonderful for your ages.”

  “Lial,” Thorp started to say when Leia interrupted.

  “You don't think my husband could use some … restoration, Dr. Sompa?”

  Sompa trained his eyes on Han. “Well, I suppose we could do something with the chin and creases, as well as take some of the lop-sidedness out of the mouth. In other respects Captain Solo appears to be very fit, if a few pounds overweight.”

  “Hey, I'm wearing the same pants I've worn for thirty years.”

  “He's not kidding about that,” Leia said.

  “Of course, it's what's inside that counts,” Sompa went on. “We would have to do scans—”

  Allana's tittering burst forth as contagious laughter, leaving the Ho'Din looking confused and possibly embarrassed.

  “I'm sorry, Lial,” Thorp said, wiping a tear from her eye. “I'm afraid Princess Leia was having a bit of fun with you. The Solos haven't come for a rejuvenation consultation. They're tracing the history of Captain Solo's famous YT-Thirteen-hundred freighter, the Millennium Falcon.” She turned and pointed out the window. “There— alongside the yacht. The mostly gray ship with the outrigger cockpit.”

  Sompa's confusion deepened.

  “I owned the Falcon ten years before she came into Captain Solo's possession.”

  Sompa opened his mouth in understanding, and he moved to the window and spent several moments staring at the ship. “A YT-Thirteen-hundred, you say?”

  “Made by Corellian Engineer—”

  “What year?” Sompa said, turning to them abruptly. “What year was it manufactured?”

  “I'm not certain of the exact year,” Han said. “Probably a bit more than a hundred years ago.”

  Sompa looked at Thorp. “Who owned the ship prior to you, Parlay?”

  “I was just about to tell the Solos the story of how I came to own her.”

  Sompa swung back to the window. “A ship like that … it's like a survivor from another era …”

  “She's a survivor, all right,” Han said. “Forty years ago you could find several dozen YT-Thirteen-hundreds on nearly every major world. Now they're classics.”

  “Han uses the terms classic and relic interchangeably,” Leia said, taking Han's arm at the same time.

  Sompa looked at Thorp again. “I would love to hear that story at some point, Parlay.”

  “Would you? I'm surprised, Lial.”

  “Yes, well, I'll leave you to your guests, then.” He turned briefly to Han and Leia. “A pleasure. Enjoy your time at Aurora.”

  Thorp waited for Sompa to leave. “A very odd being. But brilliant and very dedicated.”

  “And in a rush,” Han said.

  “Normally, he is extraordinarily patient.” Thorp shrugged. “Aurora's gardens are beautiful this time of year. Suppose I tell you my tale there?”

  “I'll lead,” Allana said and hurried through the door.

  The university I attended required that once we received our medical degrees and had interned in medcenters, we spend three years bringing our skills to distant worlds. Many physicians opted to devote all three years to one world in particular, but I had other plans. Bolstered by university grants, contributions, and private donations, I founded Remote Sector Medical, which gradually attracted young physicians who might have had careers in archaeology, linguistics, or exploration had they not chosen medicine. A small fleet of aging starships took us on mercy missions to worlds in the Mid and Outer Rims, distributing medicines, administering inoculations and immunizations, and performing surgeries. We brought our expertise to planets ravaged by plagues and beset by natural catastrophes, and in the end there was scarcely a procedure we wouldn't undertake. It was during this period that I learned to pilot, and long before I completed my three years of compulsory service I realized that I would never be content with a residency in some state-of-the-art medcenter or in private practice on some wealthy world. In fact, I longed to be able to venture even deeper into the galactic arms, where many populations were in dire need of medical care as a result of being ignored by the Empire. Trade had fallen off, many formerly healthy economies were in ruins, and the Emperor had little to offer but lip service, while his Imperial forces focused on strengthening the Core.

  Most of the worlds I yearned to visit were, for logist
ical and financial reasons, beyond the reach of Remote Sector Medical, but all that changed when I became the owner of the Millennium Falcon. The ship's military-grade hyperdrive put the entire galaxy within reach, and with donations continuing to pour in I was able to purchase a pair of aging medical assistant droids and outfit the ship with an array of diagnostic devices. As much as I had enjoyed my years as a volunteer, I loved being on my own and traveling when and where I saw fit. My peers from medical school jokingly refer to those years as my “fly-about period,” and in some sense that's precisely what it was—a period of learning and self-awakening.

  In terms of destinations, I allowed myself to be guided by what I heard or overheard in spaceports, cantinas, tapcafs, and the like— wherever professional spacers exchanged information or gossip. I admit to having taken a private delight in their mistaking me for a pirate, smuggler, or bounty hunter, based on nothing more than the rough-and-ready look of the Falcon, with her formidable-looking laser cannon—even though it wasn't capable of firing. If anyone had put me to the test they would have recognized instantly that as a pilot I was not up to the measure of the ship, and could do little more than get myself from place to place.

  It was at some cantina on Roost that I learned about Hijado, which is way out the Hydian Way, halfway to Bonadan. An old spacer told me that if any world was going to be in need of relief aid, it was Hijado. Though he refused to say why, the reason became obvious the moment the Falcon reverted from hyperspace in the Hijado system and the sensors alerted me to a convoy of Imperial ships that was departing the planet. What I first took to be atmospheric storms turned out to be smoke billowing from dozens of northern hemisphere population centers. As I drew closer, the Falcon's long-range scanners treated my eyes to the sight of squadrons of TIE fighters returning to their Star Destroyers on the completion of their strafing runs, and of small Hijadoan ships being obliterated on attempting to flee the destruction.

  I had heard of recent attacks on the Imperial shipyards at Ord Trasi or Bilbringi—I don't remember which—and my first thought was that the Imperials had discovered a Rebel Alliance base. But Hijado seemed too remote to host a base, and chatter on the comm suggested other reasons for the assault. The chatter was coming from medical frigates waiting for Imperial permission to approach Hijado. It was typical of the Imperial commanders to do this: permit relief ships access once the damage had been done.