Cli rose, suppressing the bristle that arched upward within him at the old man’s never-ending use of diminutives. Young Pastayra. Little Beelnak. Smallman Gor. Never mind that every member of the Wandering Star was taller than the Grand Vygoth.
“Good evening, Grand Vygoth.” Cli kissed the ancient, papery skin on those long fingers for what he hoped would be the last time.
“Very good. Are we ready then?”
“A flavored caf with parflay, perhaps?” Fenbolt offered.
“Ahah,” the old Pau’an tittered. “The world keeps changing, it seems. The old world is disappearing every day, eh. Was a time when such indelicacies were enjoyed but not spoken of so openly, you know, young droid.”
Young! Droid! Cli scowled inside himself. Were there no limits to the condescension of this moldy fruit basket?
“The times have changed,” Fenbolt replied, preparing the caf with a bustle and whir.
Cheeky little thing, though, Cli thought, and that ripple of disconcerting unease blossomed to life again and then vanished back into annoyance as the Grand Vygoth let out a raspy chuckle. Cli’s eyes flew to Gor, who remained still as a stone in the shadows of the room.
“Ah, yes, young droid,” the Vygoth said. “I suppose I will then. Meanwhile, smallman Gor here says this should be quite a night. He was just regaling me with tales of the first trial run, last year, was it? And all the data he retrieved and such. Quite a device, hm? I must say, it was all a good bit beyond my scope of understanding, ahehehe. Everything is in order for this, ah, auction, I take it, yes, young Barabas?”
“Ah, Pastayra, Your Grand.”
“What’s that now?”
Fenbolt held the tray with a steaming cup of caf up to the Grand Vygoth.
“Your drink, Grand,” Cli said drily.
“Hm? Ah, of course, of course.” The ancient, hunched-over Pau’an took the cup with a trembling hand, spilling half of it on Fenbolt. “Yes, yes,” he muttered, sipping it and smacking his lips loudly. “Now, what was it you were saying?”
“Nothing,” Cli muttered. “Nothing at all.”
“Ah, well, I suppose it’s time, isn’t it, young droid?”
“Quite,” Fenbolt replied.
Cli turned to the door and rolled his eyes.
* * *
—
The bright lights of Canto Bight’s amphitheater sent tiny dancing colorshapes across Cli Pastayra’s vision as he scanned the audience for another bid.
“Understand,” he said slyly as another wave of muttered gossip sizzled through the crowd, “this device exceeds even the wildest rumors you have heard about it. And I know that you have heard the rumors, mm? This I know. We all have.” In the seats behind him, the Grand Vygoth snored and Fyzen looked on impassively. Wandering Star gunners in full body armor stood on either side of the stage, blaster rifles at the ready.
“The rumors have been rumbling through the underworld since we set out to create the Phylanx. And not a one of them is—” A hand shot up in the darkness. “Ah, forty-five from the Pantoran in black, thank you! Not a one of them is an exaggeration. Not one is untrue. You all know that we Pau’ans are not built for hyperbole.” (Scattered laughter and one enthusiastic “That’s for damn sure!” followed by even more chuckling.) “We are not programmed for it, so to speak! Ah, fifty from the lovely young lady in the blue ball gown. We appreciate you, my dear. Do I hear fifty-five?”
“Show us how it works!” someone yelled.
“Ahhh.” Cli sighed with a smile. “That’s the kind of thing that must be done for an object whose power is in doubt. This is not such a thing, mm? And you all know this because you know exactly who is in the room, and who would know, and who is putting down the big credits, hm?” That shut them up. The girl in blue was with the Gotra and everyone knew it. Plus the Blue Stars were there. Even the Empire had a representative. And all of them were bidding and bidding hard, which told more of a story than any demonstration could. “That’s what I thought,” Cli said.
Soon, there would be a winner. Quite possibly that Gotra rep. And the money would be in Cli’s account within the hour, and so his takeover would begin. “Who has fifty-five?”
Someone raised their hand—Cli couldn’t make out who in the glare of those ridiculous stage lights, and anyway, something rustled behind him. “Fifty-fi—” A whir of motion flurried past the corner of his eye. He heard the blaster screech and even heard the clamor from the startled crowd before he felt anything at all. Then some smoke cleared that he hadn’t even realized had been there, and he was looking straight through his own hand, through a charred hole in his own hand. Delicate plumes of gray smoke still wafted from the sparkling, blackened bits of flesh.
Then the pain burst through him, and it came in a relentless, ever-widening arc of sharp fury.
Cli knew he’d fallen to his knees because he felt the floor clap against them. He’d been shot before, sure, but always in battle, never midsentence. Never in front of so many people.
The world thrust itself back into order around him: Screams rose up, the hurried thunder of many bodies rushing around, more blasterfire slicing through the air.
The guards. The guards would—he turned, saw one escorting the Grand Vygoth toward the back room. The other gunner lay in a long crumpled heap, yellow blood spreading in a pool beneath him.
“Wha,” Cli muttered, blinking again at his torn-open hand.
Go! a little voice inside him yelled. He recognized that voice. It was the same one that had raised the tiny cry of alarm when Fenbolt called Gor master. And where was that damn fool Gor anyway? Probably cowering under a chair somewhere, crying for his family.
It didn’t matter now, though. Nothing mattered except escape.
Whoever had shot him, they wouldn’t be backstage. Not if that’s where the Grand Vygoth was being taken, anyway. And if they were, that armored guard would make quick work of them.
Cli rose unsteadily and ducked toward the back door. He didn’t know why his legs kept trembling when it was only his hand that had been blasted through, but it didn’t matter, did it? Nothing mattered except escape.
He shoved the door open and gasped.
The Vygoth lay sprawled on the ground, his hunched back making him look like a crooked stick. Blood spluttered from his mouth and speckled his white Acachlan shirt. Fenbolt stood by his head, an extended slit-blade in one metallic hand, coated in red. The guard stood by the far door, motionless.
“Young…” Vygoth gasped.
Sure, Cli had plans of his own to do away with the old underboss, but still—seeing him lying there, dispatched so casually at the hands of a tiny droid…Fenbolt’s now bright-red eye glared suddenly up at Cli.
“Fyzen,” the Vygoth said at last, as if he was just now realizing something important but didn’t have the strength to finish the thought.
A moment too late, it occurred to Cli that the Vygoth was simply saying the name of someone whose face he saw (and for once getting the name right). A foot planted itself sturdily into Cli’s back and then shoved him forward into the room. Already weak and terrified, he toppled forward onto the Vygoth.
No.
Cli Pastayra wouldn’t go out like this. He hadn’t been in battle in years, and he could feel how all that leisure had gummed up his warrior spirit, not to mention his muscles and tendons.
Still: No.
His dagger was already out and swinging when he untangled himself from the Vygoth’s heaving, sputtering body and lunged for the far corner of the room, away from Fenbolt, away from the doorway he’d been kicked through.
Gor stood there, smiling.
“Young…Fyzen…” The Vygoth gasped again, still useless, even in near-death.
“What have you done?” Cli whispered, rising to his full height and pulling another dagger from his inner robes. Both bla
des were curved and serrated Ryloth steel.
Fyzen just smiled that crooked smile of his as Fenbolt raced toward Cli, razor-first. Cli parried the little droid’s attack easily but then something heavy clattered on top of his hand, knocking his blade from it. The guard’s baton.
Cli was quick, though; his old warrior ways hadn’t left him entirely. He pivoted and swung his other dagger across his body and then down on the guard’s wrist with a chop that by all rights should’ve cleaved right through his flesh and bone, severing that hand clean off.
Instead, the blade ricocheted with a jaw-jarring clang and the hand that should’ve been detached reached out and wrapped firmly around Cli’s forearm.
Cli looked up, saw two red eyes gleaming out of the shadows beneath the guard’s helmet, and knew it was over.
A whir sounded below and behind him and then a sharp plume of pain erupted from behind both his knees. And then Cli was on the ground, gasping in agony, his own blood spreading around him in an ever-expanding shining island.
He rolled over, tried to skitter away but his legs gave out, both knee tendons slashed and useless, and he slipped and splashed back down.
Gor stepped forward, still smiling.
“Sranfrak Creek,” Cli yelled.
Fyzen stopped, cocked his head with a puzzled crease of his brow.
“Sranfrak Creek,” Cli said again, the words a lifeline. A chance.
“What’s that supposed to do?” Fyzen asked, frowning.
“I know you’ve been sending money every month to your parents. I tracked it, sent my gunners to make sure. They’ve been instructed to set fire to your family home and kill both of them if anything happens to me.”
Fyzen’s face crinkled, his eyes closed.
Everyone had something they loved, Cli mused, willing his heart to slow. It had been a close call, but his paranoid mind had paid off this time.
Fyzen had one hand over his eyes, his shoulders trembling.
Cli knew enough not to say anything more. Pushing too hard could spin everything the wrong way, and as it was, the moment teetered on the tiniest of pinheads.
“Aheh,” Fyzen Gor sputtered. Then he broke out into what Cli now realized was a full-throated, uncontrollable cackle. “You thought…” Fyzen shook his head, wiping his eyes; composed himself. Tried again. “You thought…ahh, Cli…that is…adorable.”
He looked up, the blood-soaked floor glinting in his black eyes. “I said goodbye to my family forever eight years ago when I vanished in the deadlands. Did you not realize that?”
Cli’s heart surged, battering a desperate distress signal up his throat and along the back of his head.
“Young…Fyzen…” the Vygoth stuttered.
Cli blinked.
Then a whir sounded, and Fenbolt’s razor spun to life above his head. The last thing Cli Pastayra saw were those shining red eyes.
“ALL RIGHT,” HAN MUTTERED, DIPPING and swerving the Chevalier through the spinning ice asteroids and space trash. “All right, all right, all right.”
“So…what you’re saying is ‘all right’?” Taka asked.
Han, brows furrowed, had been concentrating so hard on navigating at top speed through the Remnants he’d tuned out the young spy completely. “Something like that. Get on the guns and blast a few of these ice pops out of our way for me, would you? We’re running late.”
“Aye aye, Captain.” Taka saluted and pulled up the gunner board. Han swung the Chevalier into a roll directly at one of the larger Remnants and the two laser cannons lit up the sky, smashing the ice asteroid into a billion glittering shards that tinkled against their blast window as they hurled through.
“There are…El…” Lando’s voice came in shakily over the comm.
“What’s that, Lando? Try again,” Han said.
The reply was only static.
“Lando?”
Up ahead, sudden luminous bursts of laserfire sent glints of light ricocheting across the shiny surfaces of the Remnants.
“That can’t be good,” Han grumbled. Taka just grunted and blasted another asteroid out of the way as they swooped low, reentering the trash stream. “Get ready,” Han said. “I think we’re coming up on the—ah.” They swung around a wide turn, following the flow of debris. “See, people say the Falcon is a pile of junk, but that right there…” In the distance, a battle raged around a gargantuan cube of rusted metallic debris.
Han squinted. He couldn’t quite make out who was fighting whom, but it looked like…
“Are those droids?” Taka said.
“I think so,” Han said. “More than that…” He cocked his head, taking the Chevalier into a smooth glide toward the melee. “…A bunch of ’em look a lot like an old piloting droid Lando used to roll with. But…”
The cockpit lights flickered off and with a sputtering sigh the whole ship just seemed to give up the ghost entirely.
“Ah…” Han said. “What did you do?” Dim emergency lights flicked on, illuminating both Han’s and Taka’s hands flying over the control panels.
“Me?” Taka snapped. “No one told you to use this half-defenseless New Republic grandma glider!”
“Well, your ship was a little busy being filled with poison gas by a tiny evil droid creature, wasn’t it?”
“All I’m saying is, don’t bla—”
Something made a heavy thudding sound down the corridor behind them and Han shushed Taka.
“Do you think another one of those things—” Taka whispered.
“I don’t know,” Han said back. “Seems like it would’ve already had plenty of opportunity to shut us down if it had been on us. And I’m sure Gor is up there somewhere in the firefight.”
The screech of laserfire rang out. Han and Taka glanced at each other, then leapt up, drawing their blasters, and sprinted down the corridor.
The door swung open to reveal a series of red bolts flashing past. The emergency lights lining the upper walls cast an eerie glow on Kaasha Bateen’s silhouette where she crouched behind an overturned table and let loose one precisely placed blaster shot after another. At the far side of the room, KX security droids climbed over the fallen, smoking bodies of their brethren as they clamored to get out of the storage closet, eyes glowing bright red in the darkness.
“Kaasha!” Han yelled as Taka started firing, too. “What happened?” He let off a few shots, then dashed over behind the table with Kaasha.
“You know as much as I do,” she said. “I was minding mine when the lights all went out. Then that door slid open and, well, here we are.” She pulled a second blaster from her hip and stood, unleashing with both hands. Each shot found its mark but the droids kept coming.
“Where’s Peekpa?” Han asked. A high-pitched screech rang out and a dark, furry shape dropped from the ceiling onto one of the approaching droids. “Ah, well, there she is.”
Kaasha and Han unleashed a hail of blasterfire on the droid, knocking it to its knees, and Peekpa scrambled down and scurried off in a hurry.
“We can’t hold ’em off forever,” Kaasha said. “I have no idea how many there are.”
“Cockpit,” Taka yelled. “Come on!”
Peekpa was already barreling down the hallway ahead of them. Han sprinted in last, slammed his fist against the door panel on his way past, and then hurried in and slid into the pilot’s seat. Beside him, Taka was feverishly trying to restore power.
“They must’ve cut it from some secondary source wherever they were stored,” Han said.
“You didn’t, ah…” Kaasha let her voice trail off.
“No, Kaasha,” Han growled, “I did not check every broom closet and back room of this ship before we took control of it.”
“Just asking…”
“Yeah, well—”
“Skriba jubtuk,” Peekpa pointed out. Everyo
ne turned just as the sound of wrenching metal erupted from the corridor.
“That door’s not gonna hold long,” Han warned. “Peekpa, can you slice into the system and do some kind of override like you did to the Vermillion when Gor was on it?”
Peekpa launched into a rambling explanation of something, which Kaasha summarized as, “No.”
“Terrific,” Han grunted.
“She says restarting power when there is none is a whole other bag of tree worms from remotely taking control of a fully powered ship.”
“Fair enough. Taka, how long before we—”
Lights flickered on around them and the engine hummed to life. “That long,” Taka smirked. Then everything went dark again with a collective fizzle and sigh. Everyone looked at Taka, who growled.
“Why is there an override to the cockpit power anyway?” Han complained.
“It’s standard on New Republic ships,” Taka said. “In case they get hijacked. It gives the crew a chance to take back over. And it worked pretty well on mine just a few minutes ago, I might add. If it hadn’t been in the throes of a droid slicer attack on top of everything else I mighta been able to boot Gor out myself.”
“Yeah, well—” Han said.
“Bottom line is,” Taka cut in, “we gotta get to that secondary power source to override back to the cockpit.”
“Great,” Han said. “That shouldn’t be—” Another bang sent shudders into the cockpit. “—difficult at all.”
LANDO JETTED ALONG THE EDGE of the raging droid firefight, spun away from a series of blaster shots that may or may not have been directed his way, and dipped behind a shattered conveyer belt.
Gor was out there somewhere. He hadn’t counted on interference from these battle-ready L3 look-alikes, surely, but he could use the distraction to make a break for it. Lando peeked out. No sign of the towering Pau’an.
“Please…” the droid voice sobbed into his earpiece again. “Please just…please.”
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