Last Shot_Star Wars

by Daniel José Older

  DRX seemed to be thinking about something. Then he tipped his head to one side and blurted out a series of beeps. Lando stepped back, half expecting smoke to start pouring out of the droid’s empty eye sockets.

  “Killl,” the droid suddenly whispered. Lando opened his mouth to scream a curse but Kaasha stopped him with a raised hand.

  “Dee-Arrex,” she said sharply. “We need your help.”

  “Killlll…”

  “Dee-Arrex, seebansa pora loowaya.”

  DRX looked up suddenly. “I will inform the senator of your wishes.”

  Senator? Lando mouthed.

  Kaasha waved at him to pay no mind. “Thank you, Dee-Arrex; your translation skills are masterful. However, first we need you to show us where the comm device is that this one is tapped into.”

  “Oh, of course,” DRX said. “Immediately. Projecting holomap now.”

  Nothing happened. Lando was ready to break something.

  “Dee-Arrex?” Kaasha prodded.

  “Yes?”

  “You’re not projecting any holos.”

  “Of course I am! The holo is displaying directly out of my left ocular projector device. I fail to see the problem.”

  Lando gritted his teeth and handed Kaasha one of the orbs. She gingerly brought it up to the droid’s face and reattached the wiring, then inserted it back into his socket. A fuzzy blue holomap fizzled to life in front of DRX, then it blinked red.

  “Killll…” DRX seethed. “Calrissiannnnn…”

  The eyeball shifted, and the holomap slid over so it was projected directly on Lando. He gazed through the red glare at the droid’s face.

  Kaasha was squinting at the image. “I can’t find…”

  The image flashed back to blue. “Ah, Master Calrissian,” DRX said. “It is so good to see you! I believe I have a message for you translated from Twi’leki.”

  Lando raised his eyebrows. “Oh really?”

  “Killllll,” DRX whispered as the holomap flipped red. “Killllll.”

  “Nice message.”

  “That’s not what I told him and you know it,” Kaasha snapped. “Now hold still, I’m trying to—aha!” She pointed to a blinking dot amid what looked like a whole labyrinth of pipes and tunnels. “There it is.”

  “Good afternoon, Senator Doduek,” the droid said cordially. “It is truly a pleasure to serve you toda—oh my! Oh no! Stop, please! Oh dear!”

  “Can you read the location digits?” Lando asked.

  “Killllll…”

  Kaasha squinted. “I think that’s a zero…seven…nine…nine…ex, then four five nine seven bee.”

  “Die, Calrissssiann…”

  “Great!” Lando said, reaching up and switching off the squirming droid. “Let’s go!”

  * * *

  —

  “This is the second beast today that blasters don’t do a damn thing to,” Han growled. “I hate this place.”

  “Why do you think they picked them?” Aro said. “This is a prison. The bastaks were brought here on purpose for all we know. They sure kept people from trying to burrow their way out.”

  Han let off a few more shots at the bastak at the far end of the tunnel, then shook his head as each shot dinged uselessly against its chitinous armor. “At least they’re slow.”

  Wrraaaarghh whroaa, Chewie reminded him.

  “I know we’re trapped,” Han said. “Thanks for the reminder, though, fuzzbrain.”

  “Fzeeeema!” Peekpa wailed. Nobody bothered translating.

  “I got an idea, though,” Han said, unhooking a thermal detonator from his belt and heading down the tunnel with a gulp.

  “I don’t know if that’s gonna do much, either,” Aro called after him. “That shell covers everything. You’d have to…oh dear.”

  Han walked right up to the slathering, hulking beast, felt its claw tighten around him and swipe him into the air as its screech ripped out like a missile. All he had to do was get a direct shot at its mouth without looking at its eyes. Simple. But that claw dug deeper into him from either side and it was impossibly dim in this tunnel and that bastak stench made his eyes water and…the shell unfolded itself around that screeching mouth as it gaped open, circular rows of teeth glinting with the few speckles of lamplight scattered around the tunnel.

  Han activated the detonator, keeping his gaze low. The tiny wrinkles and imperfections in the bastak’s flesh along its mouth reared up toward Han. Just don’t look in the eyes, he told himself. He tossed the thermal detonator underhanded, watched it spin toward those rows of teeth and that undulating gullet. And then…

  The peaceful screeching rose and fell in the darkness around him. It soothed him, beckoned him somehow, toward this great, noble beast that was, for some reason, lurching backward and shaking its helmeted head, antennae flailing wildly. The puzzle-pieces of shell folded back into place over its mouth, which was strange, but it still cradled Han tightly in its loving grip. Very tightly, in fact. Maybe even a little too tightly, but surely it was only out of its infinite compassion and a deep concern for Han’s well-bei—

  There was a faraway thump and then Han flew backward amid a spray of jiggly fat, muscle, and shards of carapace. Then the world was suddenly very, very quiet, the shriek had ended, and Han was lying against a far wall of the tunnel, soaked. Where the bastak had been, only a ruinous mound of charred flesh and shell remained.

  “You did it!” Aro yelled from somewhere behind him.

  Chewie roared and Peekpa chirped, and then the other bastak lumbered forward behind them. And then another came behind that one, and another.

  “I think you pissed them off,” Aro said. “How many of those things do you have left?”

  Han stood, wiping himself off. “One.”

  “Then we bette—” Aro started.

  “Aaaaaah!” a human voice yelled from somewhere amid the bastak horde.

  “What the…” Han thought he heard the rumble of a ship’s engines not far away. But what was happening?

  The air seemed to shift behind the bastak in front, a dizzying surge of movement in the darkness, and then a form resolved itself: another bastak, this one twice the size of the rest. Its armored claw swung down out of the shadows, smashing into the smaller one and hurling it off to the side.

  “Hey!” someone yelled from somewhere above everyone.

  Han squinted up into the shadows. A tiny figure sat astride the giant bastak’s hunched back. “Taka?”

  “Go! The Vermillion is up one level! There’s a—whoa!” The bastak reared back and then clobbered another one at its feet. Taka disappeared momentarily then popped back up. “There’s a ladder off to the right! Go!”

  One of the smaller bastaks let out a shriek but it got cut off almost instantly as Taka smacked it out of the way. “Don’t look at their eyes!” they yelled. “Even when they’re not screeching.”

  Aro, Chewie, and Peekpa took off toward the ladder.

  “What about you?” Han called, jogging behind them.

  “I’m coming!” Taka said. Two smaller bastaks vaulted toward the larger one and it growled, swatting at them. They were nimble, though, both dodging out of the way and then hissing at it, snapping with their armored pincers and then retreating. The huge one crouched, ready to pounce, and Taka took the opportunity to slide down to its shoulder and then climb along its horned carapace toward the ground.

  Han watched anxiously. Taka had just saved all their lives and if any of the about eighty things that could go wrong did, there wasn’t much Han would be able to do to help. He had that one detonator left; that was about it.

  The two smaller ones advanced again, screeches ringing out.

  “Jump!” Han yelled.

  But the larger one was ready. It launched forward with a yelp. Taka hurled off its flank, landing in
a dusty heap and rolling out of the way as the three beasts collided in a thorny mess of claws, teeth, and shell.

  “Come on!” Han yelled, helping Taka up and throwing one of their arms over his shoulder. “We gotta get out of here! The ladder’s over—”

  A screech rang out behind them amid the monstrous scuffle of bodies, and when Han turned to make sure they weren’t about to get trampled, the world became suddenly very, very pleasant. A gentle song simmered through his mind as the dust seemed to swirl around them like so many tiny galaxies. Each particle was alive! Each moment of life so rich! How did the dust motes know to move as one like that? It was as if some inner compass spurred them to life, whisked them into a single, fluid shape, and then scattered them lovingly across the inner caverns.

  Now Taka was yelling something, singing, perhaps, in tune with the melodious love song that the world itself sang. They were insistent, there was somewhere apparently they wanted to be, and wanted Han to be, too, which was lovely. But the dust swirled in time to the secret melodies of the universe, and the universe had such a pretty song to—

  “Han!” Taka yelled. “Han!”

  Taka seemed upset, which was weird because, really—what was there to be upset about? Silly kid, that one. Always taking things so seriously. But also not. A balanced soul, really. More so than Han ever had been. But still, besides the loud music and toady pets, Han decided Taka was all right, someone he somehow wanted to look out for, to make sure would be okay in the midst of this raging storm of life. Anyway, now Taka was unhitching the last thermal detonator from Han’s belt and smiling wildly, saying, “This oughta do it.”

  Han nodded, smiling, too. Because what wasn’t there to smile about, right? Taka armed the detonator, which lit up a with a beep and a little red light—not just a light, that didn’t do it justice: a glorious illumination amid the shadows of these inner caverns, really. A slice of bright color in the dust, the beautiful, living dust. Still grinning that self-satisfied Taka grin, Taka then hurled the detonator. Han watched it arc through the cavern, sailing like a note of that forever song the universe kept singing and then

  Ka-fwoomp!

  The wall flew toward Han and then he was lying against it, shaking his head, a sudden silence settling over the world like dust. “What—”

  “You got got, sailor,” Taka yelled, reaching down a hand for Han and pulling him up. “Let’s get out of here. Those guys are pissed now.” They both looked over and all three bastaks were stumbling back to their feet, looking vaguely confused and extremely put out. They turned as one toward Han and Taka. “Run!” Taka yelled as the trio of screeches filled the air.

  They made it to the ladder, hand-over-handed it to the top, and there was the Vermillion, its searchlight burning starkly through the dusty air. “I was about to start worrying about you crazy kids,” Lando chuckled from the gangplank. “Ready to roll or you want to hang out a little more with your new friends?”

  “Get us out of here!” Han yelled, barreling onto the ship. “I’ve had it with this place.”

  EVERYTHING, FYZEN GOR REALIZED SLOWLY, over the gradual crawl of time, rotted; everything decayed. The Pau’an body and mind—the Utai as well, of course: All collapsed, shut down, turned to dust. Vegetation of all kinds sprouted, flourished, then withered, fell, became fetid and corrupt with rot. Skin that once stretched taut across bulbous, healthy structures, that shone with vitality, now shriveled, fell in upon itself, smattered by speckles of waste released by the now porous membrane. Trees collapsed; mountains eroded, inverted, became canyons. Even the great oceans that spanned the Utapaun savannas eons ago had succumbed to the relentless press of time and the burning sun.

  Droids, though…droids were something different entirely.

  Sure, metal and wires corroded if left to the elements. But parts could be replaced, programming reconfigured. Entire civilizations rose and fell; droids remained, constant, unwavering, true. With their obstinate, implacable faces, they remained, observing the pithy flailings of the self-proclaimed sentient species through cold, illuminated eyes.

  There was said to be one droid in Pau City who’d served the first Grand Zigoth, Krynbalt Kyr, over an eon ago. How many fumbled grasps at governing and corrupt regimes had old TN-5 witnessed firsthand? How many coups, massacres, rebellions?

  It was unfathomable.

  And what did those ancient shining eyes glean from all they’d taken in? What wisdom now reflected outward from its circuits and machinations?

  Fyzen sat at the edge of his canyon (yes, it was his now, for no one else had come to claim it), and he pondered. Tunnels wandered infinitely beneath him, but like organic beings, even tunnels eventually sloped toward an inevitable finality.

  An Amani tribe had once inhabited this sinkhole. They’d left behind various shards of their existence: a toy formed by woven-together sticks, a charred pit where they’d once gathered around a bonfire, bones. Their pitiful attempts at expression were still scrawled across the cavern walls, a desperate, unanswered cry to the world.

  Darkness began to creep down from the skies and stretch across the vast expanse around Fyzen’s canyon.

  The medical droid would be down below, preparing one of the last remaining protein packs they’d salvaged from the wrecked transport. The Utai raider lay in shadows toward the back, unconscious, moaning endlessly, and somehow clinging to life. And there at the very lip of the cave, lit by the last shards of the setting sun, was Greesto. From where he sat, Fyzen could just make out his best friend’s arm and shoulder.

  Greesto hadn’t woken up since the attack.

  They’d put together a makeshift operating theater as soon as they’d settled on a cave. Fyzen had made the first incision somewhere around dawn. As the skin and then fat and then muscle slid to either side of his blade with a slurping sputter, Fyzen thought about how much his world had changed in the span of a single day. The morning before, he’d woken up in a comfy, cavernous home and prepared for another day of lectures at the academy. And so had Greesto. And now…Fyzen and the medical droid labored all morning over Greesto’s exposed innards. The droid treated the burns with a fismyle flush while Fyzen repaired several shredded arteries and patched up Greesto’s second stomach.

  Even with only one arm, the medical droid was an operating partner like none Fyzen had worked with before. It never fumbled, never got anxious. When Fyzen clipped away too much of a wandering veinlet and needed a clamp to stem the bleeding, the droid’s single hand had reached into the wound with unwavering precision and closed around the gushing stream, ending it, before Fyzen even had a chance to ask for help. And sure, that’s what droids were supposed to do—be infallible and precise—but it was one thing to know it, to see it on display in casual, everyday settings, and a whole other thing entirely to witness it in the impossible chaos of a makeshift surgical station in a badlands canyon.

  By midafternoon, Fyzen was pulling a thread through the last suture on his best friend’s burn-darkened chest.

  A vicious fever had ripped through Greesto that evening. They’d done their best to keep everything sterile, but of course, it was the Utapaun wilds. Dust and pollen cavorted through the air and covered everything; no matter how many times they rinsed their tools and flushed out the site, there would never be a way to fully protect a wide-open wound.

  The medical droid had administered subcutaneous injections of Kyrprax and applied cooling pads, and Greesto’s temperature had returned to normal by the next morning.

  And then, Greesto had settled into his coma and remained that way for…how long now? Fyzen had lost track.

  And now…

  Night settled over the Utapaun plains. Fyzen turned his gaze down to the soft glow emerging from the cave he called home, the short shadow it cast beside his best friend’s comatose body.

  Everything alive festered and fell. It was the natural way.

 
Droids were the only constant.

  It was Greesto who had gotten them into this mess, partially anyway. It was certainly Greesto’s big mouth that had landed him with that blaster bolt in his chest.

  And anyway, Greesto was flesh, and flesh failed. It was all it could be counted on to do, really.

  Fyzen shook his head. He rose, made his way down the narrow canyon pathway toward the cave. He walked past Greesto’s body without a glance.

  “Greetings, master,” the droid said without looking up from its duties. “I trust you enjoyed your contemplative excursion to the surface.”

  “I did,” Fyzen murmured.

  “Your mind is preoccupied, though.”

  “It is.”

  The chirp of filth beetles and a faraway howl. The gentle tinkering of metal as the droid reached a spoon into the can of protein mush and scooped it into a bowl.

  “It is true, is it not,” Fyzen said slowly, “that a limb of organic flesh will grow necrotic when it is detached from a living body?”

  “That is correct, sir.”

  Fyzen knew it was correct, but this was how he had always arrived at scientific conclusions—by trodding step by obvious step along the well-thought-through pathways of a thought until he stumbled on what he was looking for. The only difference was, he’d always done it in private, muttered conversations with himself. Now someone was answering his queries. Someone who could help him figure it out, bring new concepts into the equation even.

  And so an honest question, not a rhetorical one: “What element would reverse or at least retard that process of decay in a severed limb?”

  The droid limped across the cave. Its left leg had been damaged in the crash and now dragged through the dirt behind the right one. It held up the bowl to Fyzen. “Your dinner, sir.”

  “Not now.”

  “It would require an element that replicates the movement of oxygenated blood through the vessels, master.”