Star Wars: Last Shot is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2018 by Lucasfilm Ltd. & ® or ™ where indicated. All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Del Rey, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
DEL REY and the HOUSE colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
Hardback ISBN 9780525622130
Ebook ISBN 9780525622154
randomhousebooks.com
Book design by Elizabeth A. D. Eno, adapted for ebook
Cover design: Scott Biel
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
The Del Rey Star Wars Timeline
Epigraph
Prologue: Bespin, Now
Part One
Chandrila, Now
Chandrila, Now
Han: Takodana, About Ten Years Ago
Chandrila, Now
Chandrila, Now
Lando: Weigh Station Karambola, About Fifteen Years Ago
Chandrila, Now
Chandrila, Now
Han: Takodana, About Ten Years Ago
Chandrila, Now
Chandrila, Now
Utapau, About Twenty Years Ago
Part Two
Lando: The Millennium Falcon, About Fifteen Years Ago
Kashyyyk System, Now
Han: The Millennium Falcon, About Ten Years Ago
The Vermillion, Now
Substation Grimdock, Now
Han: The Millennium Falcon, About Ten Years Ago
Substation Grimdock, Now
Lando: Mesulan Remnants, About Fifteen Years Ago
Substation Grimdock, Now
Substation Grimdock, Now
Substation Grimdock, Now
Utapau, About Twenty Years Ago
Part Three
Han: Freerago’s Satellite Diner, About Ten Years Ago
The Vermillion, Now
Lando: Mesulan Remnants, About Fifteen Years Ago
The Vermillion, Now
The Chevalier, Now
Han: Freerago’s Satellite Motel, About Ten Years Ago
Grava, Now
Han: Freerago’s Satellite Motel, About Ten Years Ago
Grava, Now
Han: Freerago’s Satellite Motel, About Ten Years Ago
Grava, Now
Han: The Millennium Falcon, About Ten Years Ago
Grava, Now
Han: The Millennium Falcon, About Ten Years Ago
The Chevalier, Now
Utapau, About Eighteen Years Ago
Part Four
The Chevalier, Now
The Chevalier, Now
The Chevalier, Now
The Mesulan Remnants, Now
The Vermillion, Now
The Mesulan Remnants, Now
Cantonica, About Ten Years Ago
Part Five
The Chevalier, Now
The Mesulan Remnants, Now
The Chevalier, Now
The Phylanx Redux Transmitter, Now
The Chevalier, Now
The Phylanx Redux Transmitter, Now
Chandrila, Now
The Chevalier, Now
The Phylanx Redux Transmitter, Now
The Chevalier, Now
Chandrila, Now
The Mesulan Remnants, Now
The Chevalier, Now
Lando: The Millennium Falcon, About Fifteen Years Ago
The Chevalier, Now
Chandrila, Now
Dedication
By Daniel José Older
About the Author
A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away….
THE DARKENING SKY STRETCHED OUT forever and ever around Cloud City. Cumulus kingdoms rose and fell in the purple-blue haze below, parting now and then to reveal the twinkling lights of Ugnorgrad.
Protocol droid DRX-7 chortled to himself. It had been a good day. Impresario Calrissian had entertained an entire diplomatic brigade of young Twi’leks, and the little fellows had been enthusiastic and eager to learn—full of questions, in fact. And of course the new head of Calrissian Enterprises, with his trademark charm, had been happy to comply. This meant that plenty of translating had been needed, and with more than four million languages at his disposal, DRX considered translation his favorite part of being a protocol droid.
Why is Cloud City in the clouds? asked one tiny girl with long eyelashes and her two lekku wrapped into a dazzling swirl above her head.
This most basic of questions would normally have elicited an eye roll or sarcastic reply from the impresario. He would deliver it with a winning smile, and the shine of those perfect teeth would somehow counteract whatever slight could’ve been perceived. In fact, DRX had wondered if that would happen, and if the girl would somehow take offense. Then he’d have to go into diplomatic overdrive to make sure she felt better, and DRX considered that his least favorite part of being a protocol droid.
“Beena,” one of the Twi’lek guardians had said, with a touch of menace in her voice, “we covered Cloud City history in class on the flight here; I’m sure Mr. Calrissian has more important matters to attend to.”
“Not at all,” Calrissian had interrupted with a lively chuckle before DRX could finish translating. “I’m not even the baron administrator anymore, technically. I still get to live in the fancy house, though.” With that, his grin had widened amiably. “But anyway, what could be more important than imparting knowledge to the future generations of our friends the Twi’leks?”
And then the guardian, Kaasha Bateen was her name, had shot the impresario a look that DRX was pretty sure indicated extreme skepticism with a hint of possible attraction. But Calrissian hadn’t seemed to notice, instead launching into a lengthy and impressively detailed rendering of the travails and adventures of the diminutive Ugnaughts, Cloud City’s original architects, and their partnership with Corellian space explorer Ecclessis Figg.
The little Twi’lek eyes had lit up as Calrissian went on to detail his own escapades. Even Kaasha Bateen, who had been standing with her arms crossed over her chest, mouth twisted to one side of her face, seemed to lose herself in the story, and even corrected DRX on a translation matter. (It had been one open to interpretation, like most translation issues, and DRX had opted to concede the point rather than launch into a lengthy discussion of its nuances. Anyway, he loved a good challenge.)
And now the little ones had all been tucked into their sleeping quarters and the Bespin night was sweeping slowly across the sky. DRX was alone, accompanied only by the gentle hum of Cloud City and occasional blips and whirs from the nearby gas mining rigs. At any moment, the Bespin Wing Guard would be zipping past in their bright-orange twin-pod cloud cars, making sure the city was safe and sound.
In fact, now that DRX thought about it, they should’ve already zipped past. He’d been standing at the rail of his favorite platform for exactly fourteen minutes and twenty-nine seconds. It was nine thirteen.
He gazed out into the gathering night; nothing stirred, no lights blinked.
Odd.
Perhaps, DRX thought, Master Calrissian knows what’s going on. He raised him on the comm and received a curt and immediate response from Lobot, the city’s computer liaison officer: Calrissian is busy. Relay message through me, Dee-Arrex.
How rude, DRX thought. Status check on Bespin Wing Guard, he messaged back.
And then: nothing. Minute after minute passed with no reply.
Very odd.
He turned back to the night sky, the clouds, the faraway stars, and then took a step backward, arms raised. A tall figure in a dark-green hooded cloak stood at the edge of the platform.
“Greetings,” DRX said. “I am protocol droid Dee-Arrex Seven, at your service.” He didn’t really feel like putting himself at the service of this stranger, who had, after all, appeared without so much as a noise of warning and seemed to care not a whit for the basic mores of decent interaction. But rules were rules.
“Is there anything I can do for you this evening?” DRX asked, when a few moments had gone by without a reply to his initial salutation.
“Oh yes indeed,” a gravelly voice said.
The stranger did something with his hands, and DRX felt all his gears, wiring, and synapses tighten at the same time. A hazy shade of red covered the world. And then everything was very simple: He had to kill.
The vast night sky, the teeming galaxy beyond, the billion blips and clacks of Cloud City: All spiraled together and resolved into a single, pulsing need. Somewhere in that complex, Impresario Calrissian dwelled. Probably asleep in his chambers. Perfect, DRX thought. A tiny voice cried out from the depths of his programming, a notion, a desperate wail, the single word: No. But it was too distant and tiny to bother with, and DRX had a singular mission: Kill.
He pushed forward, barely aware of the dark figure slinking along just behind him. He entered the bright hallways of the central throughway, swerved into a side corridor reserved for staff and administrators, and then bustled along past servers, soldiers, and casino droids until he reached the shadowy side entrance to the baron administrator’s palace.
“Protocol droid Dee-Arrex Seven for the impresario,” DRX said to the two guards. “With one guest.”
They saluted and stepped to the side and the wide door slid open. DRX whirred in and navigated quickly through the narrow back hallways, past the kitchen, and up into an elaborate front room where Calrissian received guests.
Kill.
A simple, shrill mandate that pulsed unceasingly through him.
Kill.
And he would, he would. But first he had to get to Calrissian, and that was about to become difficult: Lobot stepped out from a curtain, face creased beneath his bald head, the red light of his cyborg tech headgear blinking in the shadows.
Lobot’s expression indicated disappointment and ire, DRX knew, and a memory surfaced from somewhere deep inside: how crushed DRX would’ve been to see that face directed at him any other time. The memory was followed by that same distant, urgent cry: No! But it was still too tiny to bother with, especially when things were heating up and the resolution to this urge, the only way to feed this hunger, was so close.
Then Lobot caught sight of whoever it was that had been trailing DRX like a shadow, and his expression went from exasperated to shocked, then hardened quickly to enraged. Lobot advanced and DRX swung an arm forward, clobbering the liaison officer across the face, dropping him.
Kill.
But not this one, this was not DRX’s target. He surged forward toward the door, toward Calrissian, toward the answer to the thundering demand within him for blood. And then stopped. Lobot had him by the ankle. He wasn’t letting go. Pesky cyborg.
DRX was about to clobber him again (No! the tiny voice within screamed, no!) when a blast sounded and the room lit up as Lobot slumped forward, unconscious. The figure seemed enwrapped in some kind of blur, as if the atmosphere clouded around his dark robes. He lowered an old Imperial blaster and then handed it to DRX.
Kill.
The blaster was set to stun, but that would do. That would be a start. And then the door flew open and the impresario himself came barreling out, wearing only a towel but with a blaster in each hand. DRX didn’t wait, firing once, hitting Calrissian in the shoulder, and again, the second shot blasting him backward against the wall. And then the whole world crackled to life as a red shard of light sizzled past, then another.
The Twi’lek: Kaasha Bateen. Also garbed in a towel, also armed, and in fact blasting away, teeth clenched, jaw set. The third shot flung toward DRX and found its mark, and the room spun as he tumbled backward and landed in a heap.
Kill, the voice raged, but it was a little quieter now, and the other voice, the deeper one, had grown, strengthened: No!
DRX looked up just in time to see the Twi’lek woman thrown back by a shot from the shadowy stranger, who then strode forward to the two crumpled bodies and let out a raspy, chilling cackle.
The kill voice was just a whisper now, and everything else in DRX screamed No! as another blaster shot echoed into the night.
“…FOR PRINCESS LEIA ORGANA. Urgent message. Urgent message for Princess Leia Organa. Please respond. Urgent—”
“Hngh…” Han Solo woke with a tiny foot in his face and an irritating droid voice in his ear. “What?” The tiny foot was attached to the tiny body of Ben Solo, mercifully sleeping for what seemed like the first time in days. Han’s eyes went wide. Would the boy wake?
“I will transfer the holo from Chancellor Mon Mothma immediately,” Leia’s protocol droid T-2LC droned.
“What? No!” Han sat up, still trying not to move Ben too much. He was shirtless, and his hair was almost certainly pointing in eight different directions. He probably had crust on his face. He didn’t much want to talk to Mon Mothma under regular circumstances, let alone half naked and bedheaded.
“You replied, What, Master Solo,” T-2LC replied. He was standing way too close. Droids had no sense of boundaries, especially protocol droids. “Therefore I—”
“Leia?” a voice said as the room lit up with the ghostly blue holoprojection.
Ben stirred, kicked Han once in the face.
“Oh,” Mon Mothma said, squinting at the projection that was being transmitted to wherever she was. “Excuse me, General Solo.”
“I’m not a general anymore,” Han growled, still trying to keep his voice down.
Mon Mothma nodded. “I am aware.” She already struck Han as a sort of spectral presence, all those flowy robes and that faraway look of hers. Being a see-through blue holoform only enhanced that. “It is my habit to refer to our veterans by their rank regardless of their status.”
“Right,” Han said.
“Is Leia around?”
“I could retrieve her for you,” T-2LC suggested, turning just enough so the bright hologram Mon Mothma landed on Ben’s sleeping face.
“Elsie!” Han snapped.
Ben’s eyes sprang open to a shining blue form dancing around him. He burst into tears. Han shook his head; couldn’t blame the kid, really—Han probably would’ve done the same thing if he’d suddenly woken to find himself enveloped in a Mon Mothma glow cloud. Which in a way he almost had, now that he thought about it. “Shh, come here, big guy.” He reached his hands under his son’s little arms and pulled him up so Ben was sobbing into Han’s chest. Han felt that tiny heartbeat pitter-pattering away as Ben snorfled and sniffed.
“Why didn’t you just do that in the first place?” Han whisperyelled.
“I am sorry, sir. My programming indicates that when an urgent message is rec
eived I am to immediately alert the nearest member of the household, which in this case—”
“All right, can it, Elsie. Go find Leia.”
“As you wish, sir.”
“Just a moment, Elsie,” Mon Mothma said. Han raised an eyebrow at the sternness in her voice. “General Solo, may I offer the admittedly unsolicited advice that you not be so brusque with your droids? They are, after all, committed to the service of all of our safety and comfo—”
“No,” Han said.
“Excuse me?”
“You asked if you could offer unsolicited advice and I answered your question.”
“I see.”
“You’re not going to come over to my house and tell me how to trea—”
“I am certainly not at your house, and I would further—”
“You know what I mean,” Han snarled. Ben, whose sobs had begun simmering to a quiet moan, started bawling all over again. “Great! Thanks, Your Mothfulness. You’ve been a great help this morning.”
Mon Mothma narrowed her eyes, exhaled sharply, and then motioned to T-2LC. “I bid you good day,” she said, shaking her head as the droid wandered off, splattering the ghostly blue lights across the walls as she went.
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