by James Luceno
Jadak turned. Though he wasn't about to admit as much to Poste, he did have his doubts. The Falcon wasn't just a modified YT-1300, she was a hybrid. More, she was closer to a warship than a freighter, boasting a thickly armored hull, outsized thruster ports, a pair of military-grade quad lasers, and a high-powered rectenna dish. The front mandibles were nothing like those of the Stellar Envoy, and the docking rings had been altered. Even the cockpit was slightly different.
And yet, despite the differences, every fiber of his being told him that the Falcon and the Envoy were one and the same ship, and just looking at the aged YT made him feel whole again.
“Here's what we're going to do,” he said. “I'm going to answer the Solos' HoloNet message and arrange to meet with them. While I'm doing that, you're going to steal the ship and pilot it to Lesser Vaced. Then I'm going to get myself there, one way or another, and we're going to complete this treasure hunt.”
Poste stared at him as if he hadn't heard or comprehended a word.
“I think you left out a few parts of the plan.”
“What parts?”
“The part where I foil the Falcon's anti-intrusion system, which the Solos most certainly will have enabled! The part where I pilot a starship to another planet! The part where I'm caught stealing a ship and sentenced to ten years in Carcel or some other kriffing prison!”
Jadak made a placating gesture. “Lesser Vaced is only a world away, and piloting a YT-Thirteen-hundred is child's play. It's no more difficult to pilot than that candy-colored airspeeder of yours.”
“I don't take my airspeeder into outer space!”
Jadak's lips became a menacing thin line. “Are you going to calm down, or do I have to sedate you?”
Poste dropped his head into his heads and muttered at the roof. “Please tell me I'm hallucinating on Fargil's homebrew.”
Jadak lifted Poste's head. “We passed a droid shop when we were casing the town. Do you remember it?”
“I remember.”
“You're going to use the last of our credits to rent a slicer droid. I know there's one there, because I saw it through the window. The droid is going to help you overcome whatever security the Solos have installed in the Falcon, and the droid is going to link with the ship's droid brain and auto-guidance systems and pilot the ship to Lesser Vaced.”
Poste regarded him openmouthed. “The droid is going to do all that.”
Jadak nodded. “You just need to follow the droid's instructions.”
“I just need to do what the droid tells me to do.”
Jadak smiled. “See how easy it is.”
* * *
“I'll just have a cup of tea,” Leia told the Eatery's Twi'lek waitress. “Amelia, are you sure the frosty treat will be enough? You skipped lunch.”
“I just want the treat.”
“Is the nerf fresh or flash-frozen?” Han asked.
“Free-range. From a ranch south of here.”
“Then bring me a double stacker with the special sauce.”
Leia frowned as the waitress hurried off. “I thought you said you were cutting down on nerf?”
“I am. That's why I only ordered a double.”
“Can I have a bite if it's good?” Allana said.
Han threw Leia a covert wink. “Sure you can, sweetheart. We can even split it if you want.”
That was one way of getting her to eat, Leia thought. Ever since they had heard from Quip Fargil, Allana—beside herself that her plan had succeeded—had scarcely stopped to breathe. It was Fargil who had suggested meeting at the Eatery, which was distant from the spaceport but advertised that its meals were home-cooked. As eager as C-3PO had been to join them, Han had asked him to remain aboard the Falcon.
A handsome, muscular man who looked decades younger than his seventy-six years, Fargil was sitting opposite Leia at the round table, tucking a napkin into the collar of his shirt. While he spoke in the archaic manner of some of the settlers they had met on Vaced, there was something almost sophisticated about him, and his hands were as soft as an executive's. His utility suit had come straight from one of the shops on Main Street; it was spotless—possibly right off the rack. Leia had noticed Han sit straighter in his chair when Fargil approached the table, and that Han was continuing to size him up at every opportunity.
“You know, we asked all over for you,” Han said. “But no one had even heard of you.”
“That's because you asked for Quip Fargil, and I haven't gone by that name in more than forty standard years. It was my name during the Rebellion.”
“Parlay Thorp said she thought you might have been a member of the Alliance,” Leia said.
“She was right—though a long way from where you served, Princess Leia. And maybe a couple of years earlier.”
“Who was your commander?”
“Our group was based on Tuerto. We received orders from a lot of different people—Mon Mothma, even Garm Bel Iblis once—but I never met either of them.”
“Mon Mothma,” Leia said in surprise. “Then you might have had indirect dealings with my father.”
Fargil hesitated for a moment. “Senator Bail Organa. No. But I knew of him, of course.”
Leia smiled through a sudden feeling of distrust. For the briefest instant she sensed that Fargil was on the verge of saying Anakin Sky-walker. But that couldn't be; Fargil would have been a teenager when Anakin became Darth Vader. How in any case would their paths have crossed? Still, there was more to Fargil's story than he was revealing, and Han had also picked up on it.
“I've got to say, Quip, you don't look a day over forty. What's the secret—something in Vaced's air or water?”
Fargil laughed to mask what seemed to be his embarrassment. “Simple genetics. My father's hair stayed blond until he was eighty years old.”
“Lucky you, huh?”
“At looking young?” Fargil said, a slight edge in his voice. “Doesn't matter a whole lot to me.”
“Is it true that you donated the Falcon to Parlay Thorp?” Leia said quickly.
Fargil nodded. “I gave her away.”
“Was she already called the Millennium Falcon when you flew her?” Han asked.
“Gone to Pieces,” Fargil said, then added: “That was her original name.”
In the moment it took Han to comprehend it, Leia watched his face pale. “Are you saying—”
“I renamed her. Fast as a bat-falcon, resilient enough to last a millennium.”
Han sat back as if he had just been sucker-punched and Allana said, “Wow a hundred times a hundred! Wait till I tell Threepio!”
“Our protocol droid,” Leia said for Fargil's benefit.
Han ran his hand down over his mouth in an attempt to calm himself. It shouldn't have come as a shock, Leia thought, but she understood what he was going through. It was one thing to have flown the ship, another to have named her.
“So who did you get her from?” Han said at last.
Fargil inhaled deeply. “Actually, I stole her from an Imperial impound facility in the Nilash system. Me and a Sullustan.”
“Why was she in impound?”
“The Imps had confiscated the ship from a Nar Shaddaa crime boss.”
Han's jaw became unhinged. “This is too much. Where did the crime boss get her?”
“Sorry, Solo,” Fargil said, “but that's as far back as I can take you. Someone on the Smugglers' Moon might know.”
“I spent a lot of years there,” Han said.
“Oh, yeah? Me, too.”
“I know that whole area like I know the back of my hand. Nal Hutta, Ylesia, Sriluur, Kessel … You name the world I've been there.”
“No kidding. Me, I took the Falcon to a lot of other places.”
“Ever flown through the Maw?”
“That black-hole cluster? Sure. Oovo Four, too.”
Han's nostrils flared. “I've raced swoops there.”
“Swoops? I've raced swoops nearly everywhere.”
“You e
ver fly the Hoth asteroid field?”
“No, not that one, but dozens of others.”
“Ever hear of Lando's Folly?”
“Han,” Leia cut in. “While I'm sure you two could spend several days comparing runs and whatnot, Amelia and I are more interested in knowing why Quip wound up donating the Falcon to Dr. Thorp.”
“Was it because you loved her?” Allana asked while Han was simmering down.
“Loved who—Dr. Thorp?” Fargil said.
Allana nodded. “It was like a present.”
Fargil wet his lips. “No, what happened was I fell in love with the ship, and that's why I had to give her away.”
* * *
“The ship's proximity alarm system is activated,” the slicer droid told Poste in a raspy voice that owed more to the shoddy quality of its vocoder than any intentional programming. “The system is linked to a Ground Buzzer anti-personnel blaster concealed in the dorsal bow. The alarm can be disabled, but there is a high probability that the protocol droid will contact its masters the moment the system is overridden.”
Poste cursed under his breath. “How close can we get to the ship before the alarm is tripped?”
“The field extends to the perimeter of the landing bay. We can reduce our distance to the ship by one-point-three meters if necessary.”
Resembling a primeval avian as much as it did a predatory reptile, the droid was held aloft by a small repulsorlift that dangled from a compact torso. Bulging, oval-shaped sensors atop the snout-like module that contained the slicing matrix might have been eyes, but in fact the droid's visual scanners and recorders were located beneath the tapered snout, where teeth might have been.
“What are our options?” Poste said.
“We need to interfere with communications to and from the landing bay.”
“Go ahead and do that.”
“The ability to interfere with communications is beyond my programming. We need a jamming device. A Locris D-Eighty field disruptor will suffice.”
“Where am I supposed to get a jammer?”
“Master Druul has one in the shop. You will need to go there while I wait here.”
“Go—can't we just have it delivered?”
“Certainly. Although I am obliged to point out that you will be affording Master Druul full knowledge of this operation. Normally he asks few questions of his customers, but in this instance his curiosity is likely to be aroused.”
Poste cursed again. “How much is this jammer going to cost?”
“Absent current specials, the rental fee will be four hundred credits per local hour.”
Poste puffed out his breath. “That'll wipe us out.”
“Are we aborting the mission?”
“No, we're not aborting the mission. Find a place to hide yourself and I'll be back as quick as I can.”
Hoofing it into town to save the few credits a speeder taxi would have cost, Poste hurried through the door of the droid shop, grateful to find the Gran—Druul—behind the counter.
“How is the droid working out?”
“Fine,” Poste said. “But we—I need a jammer.”
“Any particular model?”
“Locris D-Eighty.”
“Just so happens I have one of those.” Druul came out from behind the counter, his trio of stalked eyes scanning the shop. “Ah, there it is.” He lifted the device from a shelf and carried it to the counter. “I charge an hourly rate of five hundred credits.”
“I thought it was four hundred,” Poste snapped.
The Gran appraised him. “Who told you that?”
“Your slicer droid.”
“Kriffing droid,” Druul said. “All right, it's yours for four hundred. One hour down, plus a deposit of four hundred. When will you be returning it?”
“Uh,” Poste said while he was counting out the last of the credit bills, “not right away.”
“I close at six local sharp. If you're not here by then, the price rolls over into the following day.”
“Whatever,” Poste said. Cradling the jammer in his arms, he raced out the door.
The slicer droid detected his arrival at the Falcon's landing bay and drifted out from behind a stack of shipping containers. Breathless, Poste set the jammer on the ground.
“What now?”
“Simply follow my instructions,” the droid said.
Poste muttered a curse.
Half an hour later, with the jammer already running low on battery power and Poste running low on patience, the hovering slicer droid issued a series of beeps and tones.
“It is now safe to enter the landing bay. I will override the proximity alarm as we approach the ship. On learning that communications are jammed, the protocol droid may attempt to raise the boarding ramp and lock it manually, so you will have to hurry.”
“Nice to know I count for something,” Poste said.
Side by side they circled around to the entrance to the bay. Poste took a breath and made straight for the boarding ramp, astern the cockpit. He hadn't covered a meter of duracrete when the Falcon loosed a blaring sound that ceased almost as abruptly as it began. Bounding up the ramp, he rushed into the YT's main hold, where he found the Solos' golden protocol droid bent over the engineering station's comlink and calling for Captain Solo.
“What!” The droid straightened and took a backward step. “Who are you? And what are you doing aboard the ship?”
“I'm borrowing it,” Poste said.
“Borrowing it? We'll just see about that.”
The protocol droid was stepping from the hold when the slicer droid drifted into the ring corridor, its pair of data-probe legs extended beneath it.
“Communications have been jammed, and I have disabled the manual release for the boarding ramp,” the slicer droid announced. “In the event you are weighing the options of locking us inside the ship.”
“A slicer droid?” C-3PO said. “What in heavens are you doing on Vaced?”
“That's none of your business.”
“I've encountered your sort before,” C-3PO said, mixing insult and defiance.
The slicer droid's snout turned toward Poste. “These protocol units tend to be garrulous and troublesome. I suggest you shut it off.”
“Shut me off?” C-3PO said in sudden apprehension. “No, you mustn't do that.”
But Poste was already moving in, one hand reaching for the switch behind C-3PO's head.
“You simply mustn't—”
“That's much better,” the slicer droid said.
Poste nodded and glanced into the cockpit connector. “Follow me. I need you to talk to the ship's droid brain.”
“It will be a pleasure, I'm sure.”
Poste ducked through the cockpit hatch, lowering himself uneasily into the pilot's chair while he waited for the slicer droid to insert its probe into one of the cockpit's scomp link ports.
“I am interfaced with the brains.”
“Brains?”
“The ship's systems are managed by three brains acting in accord.”
“With their help, can you pilot this thing?”
The droid took a moment to respond. “The rental agreement you signed with Master Druul states explicitly that droids and other devices are, under all circumstances, to remain within fifty kilometers of Vaced Spaceport.”
“Are you programmed to obey that condition?”
“No, I'm simply advising you that Master Druul will prosecute to the full extent of the law.”
“I'll worry about that later. Can you pilot it or not?”
“What is our destination?”
“Lesser Vaced.” Poste thought he saw the droid's visual scanner blink, but figured he had imagined it. “Yes or no?”
“Yes. I have limited experience in interplanetary travel, but this ship has a highly sophisticated autopilot system.”
Poste grinned. Maybe Jadak was right and he'd be able to pull this off after all. “Any systems we need to override before starting the engines
? Any anti-theft or anti-intrusion protocols? Any tracking devices or shutdown devices?”
“I'm searching …”
Poste swiveled the chair through a circle. Han Solo's seat, he thought. Kark, Han Solo's ship. The famous Millennium—
“There is a problem.”
Poste planted his feet on the deck to bring the chair to a halt. “Huh?”
“With some effort on my part, the engines can be made to power up and the ship can be launched. However …”
“Yeah?”
“At the first attempt to employ the sublight engine or hyperdrive, the ship will automatically enter a default mode, during which it can only be made to return to the place from which it was launched. No amount of slicing or work-arounds can overcome this security feature, which relies on scans of the owner's retinas and palm-print identification by the instrument panel steering yoke.”
It took a moment for Poste to realize that he was neither surprised nor disappointed. In fact, the slicer droid's pronouncement came as a relief. Nothing to do now but wait for Jadak's meeting with the Solos to wind up, then—
Sounds of some sort made him swivel the chair toward the cockpit hatch.
“Two beings have boarded the ship,” the slicer droid said. “They are speaking Basic to each other in low tones.”
Poste wasn't half out of the pilot's chair when a blaster poked through the hatch and the hulking human who was holding it all but wriggled into the cockpit, drawing himself up to his full height between the pair of rear seats.
“Stay right where you are, kid.”
A Nautolan entered behind the human. “Well, if it isn't the hotshot from Nar Shaddaa,” he said, showing filed teeth as he grinned. “The one who put a couple of bolts into the repulsorlift of our air-speeder.”
“And he brought us a present,” the human said, gesturing to the slicer droid.
Without lowering the blaster, the human turned slightly to his partner. “Cynner, take the kid into the main hold and secure him to something.” He motioned with the weapon. “Up—and lay that toy blaster you're carrying on the seat.”
Poste rose, thinking about how good he was getting at following instructions. Setting the blaster down, he squirmed past the human and stepped into the cockpit connector, where the Nautolan was waiting for him. He considered asking his captors who they worked for, but decided he was better off not knowing.
