“Exmalta salve, for example.”
A pause. Then: “That would approximate Pau’an blood, yes. But—”
“A mechanism would be needed to conduct the Exmalta through the vessels of this dismembered limb,” Fyzen whispered.
“A pump,” the droid agreed.
“And tell me, droid: What mechanism powers the movement of information and commands through your circuitry?”
“Our central command center resides in our heads, sir. It sends tiny bursts of electrical current through our circuits and wiring, an ongoing exchange of information that cumulatively makes up our decision making, physical interaction with the external world, and overall programming. What some organics refer to as our personalities.”
Fyzen walked to the mouth of the cave, felt the night air on his face; closed his eyes.
Off to the side, Greesto slumbered on in his state of slow, never-ending decay. His chest rose and fell with uneven, raspy breaths. Organics fumbled through existence and then failed. Millions and millions of them, over and over. They were, by any standard, the lesser beings in any equation. But they had the arrogance to enslave droids, harvest them for prosthetic parts, send them to fight their wars, where they were destroyed in droves with the flash of a cannon or saber. And for what?
Fyzen squinted at his friend’s comatose body.
No more.
Greesto’s ever jabbering mouth had earned him that blaster wound. Soon, he would be dead, and then rot, then dust. But he could still be of use to them. Sure there were probably other solutions, but resources were tight. And anyway, there was a long-standing imbalance to correct, a certain poetry to this reversal. Why should organics, the less-thans, reap the benefits of droid parts?
“Electric current, you say.” It was nice to have a conversation partner who wasn’t in a hurry, who let Fyzen’s mind wander at will, and was always ready with an answer.
The droid limped up behind him. “Yes, master.”
“Droid,” Fyzen said.
“Yes, master?”
“How would you like a new arm?”
* * *
—
They worked all through the night.
The day broke with a chilly gust of wind howling through the sinkhole corridor from the north as the sky turned gray.
It had been a messy, disastrous operation at first. Greesto had bled out almost immediately after Fyzen had made the initial incision around his shoulder. It had been a relief, in a way. Once the inevitable occurred, all expectation and concern about it could be released. Expiration was no longer a problem to worry about, and besides, expiration was always what was going to happen. Of course, the final, desperate race of Greesto’s heart had shoved even more blood out through the incision—which Fyzen had prepared for—soaking his hands and the dirt of the floor, running in a slim stream over the lip of the cave into the canyon below.
An offering, Fyzen thought, to the canyon itself. Then he revved up the bone cutter and set it spinning into motion with a whir.
Attaching the new arm had turned out to be easier than Fyzen had imagined, though, and the droid itself was able to guide him through the more complicated wire wrangling.
And it was only now, as a new day dawned outside the cave and Fyzen stood panting over the mutilated corpse of his best friend, that he remembered there had been a whole cargo hold full of droids in the transport. Droids that probably made it through the attack at least partially intact. Droids that probably had at least one spare arm among them.
But then, if he’d remembered, he never would’ve done something that, as far as Fyzen knew, had never even been attempted before. Dire, bloody circumstances give birth to innovation, Professor Crytan often mused. If Fyzen was being honest, he didn’t regret not remembering the droids. In fact, he reveled in it. It felt like fate.
And of course Fyzen’s own droid knew about them, could’ve mentioned them at any time, but hadn’t.
And that meant that not far away, there was a group of recently deceased corpses and broken droids in need of repairs.
And of course, an injured Utai huddled in the back of the cave.
As the sun rose over the Utapaun wilds, Fyzen Gor threw back his head and laughed.
“LOOK SHARP, FELLAS,” SANA SAID, whisking into the Falcon’s messy main hold with the package she kept Mozeen in under one arm and a silky cape flowing behind her. “The Parapas are here.”
Han had been dreaming about swimming through some kind of bright-red swamp. He felt like the muck had just regurgitated him back onto the shore of life, where before him stood some kind of ethereal angel dressed in blue. Sure, it was possible, likely even, that Sana’s low-cut blouse and tight pants had everything to do with the fact that Mozeen clearly had a thing for her, and they needed to garner any bit of goodwill they could during this exchange. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t also because she wanted to look good for Han, Han reasoned. That was certainly a possibility, too.
The blue of her matching top, pants, and cape was a gentle one, almost lavender, and it complemented her dark skin perfectly. She’d even put on some glittery eye shadow and applied some kind of jeweled speckles in a swirling pattern running along either side of her long, graceful, kissable neck.
“What?” Sana demanded, stomping one platform-shoed foot.
Han, apparently, was gawking. Beside him, Chewie just shook his head and started loading up the bowcaster. “Nothing,” Han said, letting his smug smile do all the talking.
Sana rolled her eyes. “It’s a negotiation. Presentation matters.”
Han conceded the point with a nod. “Sure, but I mean, isn’t the Parapa Cartel a family operation? I mean…”
Sana shook her head. “Han…”
“How tough could they really—”
The air lock slid open and seven towering, armed goons marched in. Each stood as tall as Chewie. Tinted goggles peered from their heavily wrapped faces, and their bodies were covered in makeshift armor that had been ripped, no doubt, from the bodies of enemies they’d laid low across the galaxy. They bustled into a semicircle around Sana, Han, and Chewie and raised their bayoneted blasters in a single movement without making a sound.
“—be,” Han finished, raising his hands. “Oh.”
“Greetings, noble associates of the proud and noble Parapa Cartel,” Sana said.
There was no response.
“Okayyy…” She held up the box. “I’m going to put this down at my feet and open it, very slowly. Okay?”
Still no reply.
Sana nodded, then crouched, placed the box down gently, and slid open the front panel. Mozeen’s tiny body collapsed out and landed in a crumpled heap. Han’s eyes went wide. Sana’s mouth dropped open. All seven soldiers gasped at once and then stepped forward, shoving the bayonets centimeters from Han’s, Sana’s, and Chewie’s faces.
“Wait, wait, wait!” Sana yelled. “I can explain! We didn’t—”
Han glanced down at Mozeen Parapa’s little body, saw one of the Frizznoth’s eyes crack the slightest bit open.
“Hold on,” Han said. “Hold…on.”
Now both eyes popped all the way open and the gang leader grinned. “I gaht youuuah!” he chortled, crawling to his feet and letting out a peal of laughter. “Aahahahaha boyyyyee, youah haz gaht gaht!”
A whispered commotion rose from the Parapa goons. Two of them fell to their knees before their leader and fussed with him to make sure nothing was actually wrong, until he swatted them away. “Enoufah!” he yelled. “Mozeen Parapa ees ookay!”
One of the Parapas chirped something at him in Frizznothese and Mozeen shook his head, then replied in a scattershot deluge of squeaks, rasps, and clacking sounds. The goons all nodded, consulted briefly with one another, and then two of them unwrapped their headscarves to reveal thickly armored helmets, which the
n sighed and peeled open with a tiny burst of steam. Inside each, a tiny Frizznoth peered out. Then they both hopped down from their gigantic suits of mechanized armor and rushed up to Mozeen, arms open. The three Frizznoths squealed and fell into a joyous embrace.
Han threw Sana a knowing grin. “Toldya they wouldn’t be much—”
She cut him off with a sharp elbow to the kidney.
After extended hugging and some clacking, squealed explanations, Mozeen turned to Sana. “I transalayte, yes?”
Sana was still getting herself together from almost being skewered by seven bayonets and then blasted out of existence, so all she could do was nod enthusiastically.
“Eenstead of having youah slaooghtered for ze tranzgreshayon ahf keednappingah me,” Mozeen announced, “I insist we will honor the agreement we have brokared.”
“Thank you,” Sana said, eyebrows raised.
Chewie hooted.
“Why dooz I do theeze whan I can also joost az eahsily ave youah massacared?” Mozeen said slyly. “Because youah fed Mozeen veary well, treated heem with respect during theez taym of captivity, yes, and because youah most beautiful woman eena ze galaxy.”
Sana put a hand to her throat and closed her eyes, letting that luminous smile take over her whole face. “I don’t know what to say, Mr. Parapa. You are too kind.”
Mozeen shook his head, holding up a tiny hand. “Mozeen ees nota kind, no. Mozeen only tells ze truth. Is very simple.” He bowed elegantly, and the two other Frizznoths clamored up to their suits. “Two moar theeng,” Mozeen said. “The deal asteel stands. Nine perecentah.”
“You said sev—” Han started. Then he saw the wide grin on the tiny gang leader’s face. “Oh.”
“Zeven. Of course, zeven,” Mozeen said when he finished snickering. “Mozeen is a Frizznoth of hees word. And this one is so serious, yes.”
“Seven,” Sana said. “Of course.”
“And, two: Understand that theese Phylanx machine ees no asmall thing, Mizz Starros. Right now eet ees een thee ahands of a Pau’an named Fyzen Gor. He ees already dangaregous, eeeven moar so now. Who you sell theese deevice tooah matters. Do not take eet lightly, because who has theese machine wields enormous amounts of power, Mizz Starros. I am not being exaggerator when I say eet can and weel change the course of galacatic heestory.”
Sana nodded, brow creased. “I understand.”
Mozeen winced. “Do you? I wonder.” Then he shrugged, chuckling. “We shall see, I suppose.” And with that, he turned and followed his goons off the Falcon.
* * *
—
“This is how I see it,” Han said, sipping lukewarm caf and leaning forward like he was about to reveal a major galactic secret, “the way you can tell that Sana likes me?”
Chewie groaned and looked out the window at the various cruisers docked outside.
“She doesn’t act like it. Not at all.” Han wiggled his eyebrows. “The opposite even! But you know…that’s how you know! Am I right?”
They’d gone through all the stages of a stakeout several times already, from the initial thrill and a tasty meal (steak!) (eggs!) (caf!); to the lull, when things settle in; to abject boredom and a general desire for something to happen, anything at all to happen, even something unrepentantly tragic just so long as it’s not more sitting around staring across the table at the same increasingly ugly person and all the neon blinking signs and irritated waitresses of Freerago’s. Then (more caf!) (fritzle fries!) (crumdgeon snippets) (caf!) Han had caught a second wind while Chewie seemed to swing into a melancholy even deeper than the usual grumpiness that took him over whenever Han tried to talk about his love life.
Or lack thereof.
Or whatever.
But Han was feeling good (caf!). He’d settled on a theory and now he was extracting evidence from his current situation to back up the theory. What fun!
“Just think about it, Chewie,” Han insisted. “She came and found me.”
Rarrghrkk, Chewie pointed out without taking his eyes off the infinite stars beyond the docked cruisers.
“Okay, yeah, us. Fine. But still. There are how many smugglers and general lowlifes wandering the galaxy right now? Thousands! Especially since the Empire basically gives us free rein to ramble and roll how we please long as we stay out of their way. But of all the smugglers and lowlifes out there in this thriving criminal underground, she!” He slammed his palm down. “Found!” Again. “Me!”
Han sat back triumphantly, like he’d just laid out a perfect sabacc hand, and then nodded approvingly at his own unstoppable logic.
Chewie didn’t bother answering; possibly, Han thought, so as not to encourage him. Didn’t matter. Han knew he was right. It was either she was secretly in love with him and had used the excuse of a good score to go seek him out, thus beginning their long, adventurous life running scams and avoiding the law together while making sweet love on piles of creds (caf!), or, it was fate! It was fate, or maybe the Force, if you believed in that kind of thing (Han didn’t), that had tossed them into each other’s paths.
Fate, Han thought, letting his gaze slide along the various denizens of Freerago’s. Most notably: Two young Ithorians sat in a nearby booth, those squinty eyes on top of their long, brown faces blinking lovingly at each other over a single blue milkshake that they both sipped at from different straws. At the counter, an Imperial admiral cast them a glare of equal parts disgust and fascination. And perhaps a little bit of longing. He was munching on some kind of ill-looking cabbage dish—just like an Imperial to eat cabbage at the diner with the best sirloin cuts in the galaxy. A few seats away, a group of stormtroopers, probably his security detail, exchanged battle brags.
“More caf?” the light-blue waitress croaked through her wrinkled trunk.
“Please,” Han said, holding up his cup with an appreciative grin. “You know why? Because fate.”
She poured. “Whatever, kid. How ’bout your big sexy friend there?”
They both looked at Chewie, who just shrugged, still watching out the window.
“Pretty soon we’re gonna be charging you two rent on this booth,” the waitress said as she waddled off.
“Yeah, yeah,” Han muttered. “It wouldn’t hurt to return some of that sweet talk, you know.” But it was a halfhearted rebuke. Han knew the look that was glinting back in the reflection of the window. Chewbacca was thinking of the rustle of leaves as a forest gale swished through the wroshyr trees of Kashyyyk, the chirps and howls of the forest, the warmth of another Wookiee by his side. Family. “You’ll get back one day,” Han said quietly. Ever so slightly, Chewie nodded.
The Imperial was complaining about his frangella pie not showing up. He’d ordered it along with his cabbage for a reason, he explained in that infinitely condescending clipped accent, and now he was done with his cabbage, he would have her know, and this tardiness was absolutely unacceptable.
The waitress was explaining to him that she’d already checked on it with the kitchen droids three times to no avail when one of the Ithorians waved his hands and demanded to know what the delay was with their meals.
“I say, young Hammerhead,” the admiral sputtered, “if you hadn’t noticed, I was quite in the middle of dealing with my gastronomical delays, you know, when you decided to barge in with your own.”
The Ithorian warbled out something about the admiral’s grandparents that made all four stormtroopers stop chatting and stand at the ready.
“All right, everyone, calm down,” the waitress yelled.
“Calm?” the admiral snarled. “Do I not seem calm to you? I will have this entire cacophonous pit shut down for failure to procure purchased items in a timely fashion!” Little balls of spit flew out of his mouth with each word.
Several other patrons stood up, either to get a better view of the unfolding madness or to proclaim their disgust at
the idea of shutting down the beloved diner. Now the stormtroopers were looking really uneasy; this probably wasn’t the first time their commanding officer’s mouth had earned them a potential ass whupping, Han mused.
“Oh, do shut up, you beast!” The admiral rounded on the Ithorian, who had closed with him and was still gurgling his extended soliloquy defaming several generations of the Imperial’s lineage.
The Hammerhead reared back, fist clenched, but the stormtroopers got to him first, grappling him away from the admiral.
“Calm down, I said!” the waitress yelled again, and then she turned, heading for the kitchen. “I told Free we shouldn’t’ve hired that damn Pau’an to run the kitchen droids. Where’s he got to now?”
Han stood. “Excuse me! What did you just say?” She didn’t hear him over the growling Ithorian and yelling stormtroopers so he elbowed his way through the tussle, dodged a hurled stormtrooper, and then found himself staring into the eyes of the sneering admiral.
“And where do you think you’re going?”
Han had dealt with these types in the Academy. It had never gone well for anyone involved, and Han didn’t plan on it going well this time, either. He smiled, outsmugging the Imperial by half, and then head-butted him, relishing the crunch against his forehead that meant an Imperial admiral now had a shattered nose.
“Ahee,” the man wheezed, dropping.
Han kept it moving. “Did you say you hired a Pau’an to run the kitchen droids?” He caught up to the waitress just in time to see the kitchen doors swing open and a barrage of sharp objects come hurtling out of it. Three of them entered the waitress’s body with dull, sloppy thwunks. She let out a groan and fell backward toward Han. He caught her, wrapping his arms under her thick blue ones, trying to ignore the sweat (or was it blood?) that instantly soaked his sleeves.
A droid emerged from the kitchen, its bright-red eyes glowing in the smoky shadows. It had a butcher’s knife in each hand. “Killll,” the droid seethed, jamming one of the knives directly into the neck of a charging stormtrooper.
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