Tatooine Ghost

by Troy Denning

  “Didn’t you just say nobody knows why Sand People do anything?”

  “Good point,” Leia said. “Want to go the other way?”

  Han glanced over his shoulder toward the bugling banthas. It was impossible to see anything through the bushes and the rising cloud of dust, but he suspected the Tusken encampment was the last place anyone wearing stormtrooper armor would want to be right now.

  “Uh, guess not.”

  The Tuskens began to catch up about the same time they reached the end of the oasis. Han didn’t see any Sand People, of course; he simply went sprawling when a slugthrower projectile splattered against his back plate. Leia also went down when a slug caught her in the calf armor. They rolled to their backs and fired in the general direction from which the projectiles were coming.

  “You okay?” Han yelled.

  “It’ll be a terrible bruise,” Leia answered.

  “But are you okay?”

  “I think so,” she said. “This armor really works.”

  “Sure, as long as nobody points a blaster in your direction.”

  A fan of blasterfire erupted behind them, fanning over their heads to mince the sparse brush in which the Tuskens were hiding.

  “You had to say it!” Leia shouted.

  Several Tuskens groaned—Sand People did not scream when they died—and the slugthrowers fell silent. Han and Leia rolled to their knees and began firing toward the dune.

  Han dropped two stormtroopers less than three meters away and sent a dozen more diving for cover. He felt a little guilty about blasting men who had just saved his life, but it was a strange sort of battle. Besides, capture was not an option—not for the Solos. He leapt to his feet and, continuing to fire toward the Imperials, grabbed Leia by the arm and charged the last dozen meters to the hut.

  “You get the painting.” He dropped behind the bantha rib arch and continued to assault the Imperials, who were continuing to fire at the Tuskens, who continued to stick their heads up every so often to take a potshot at the Solos. “I’ll cover.”

  An anguished croak sounded from inside the hut. “Who’s there? What’s… happening?”

  “Kitster?” Leia went to the door and flipped the bone drawbar. “Kitster Banai? You’re still alive?”

  “I… I think so.”

  As Leia started to pull the door open, the crack of a slugthrower projectile sounded against her armor, and she was thrown against the outside of the hut wall. There was another crack, followed by her strained, “Stang!”

  Leia rolled around to the dune side of the hut, behind Han.

  “That hurts!” She went to the hut wall and shouted through the fabric. “Kitster, it’s Leia Organa Solo. Is the—”

  “Leia Organa Solo?” He sounded a little more aware, but still very much in pain. “You don’t sound like her.”

  “Do you care?” Han called. “We’re here to help.”

  “Is the painting in there with you?” Leia asked.

  “The painting… I’m not saying… get me out… of here.”

  Leia turned to Han. “It’s not in there.”

  “Of course not. That would be too easy.” To Kitster, Han yelled, “Can you walk?”

  “Not… saying.”

  “Hey, pal, if you haven’t figured it out yet, we’re the good guys.” To Leia, he added, “I’ll have to carry him.”

  Han nodded Leia over to take his place, then pointed into the rocks on the other side of the sacrificial bone pile.

  “They’re trying to flank us.”

  Leia stood up, fired twice. Two Imperial voices screamed over helmet speakers.

  “Not anymore.”

  Han went to the side of the hut. “Hey, Kit, what happened to the painting?”

  “Not… telling,” he said. “You’ll leave me—”

  “Good enough.” Han fired his blaster about a meter beyond the voice, cutting a hole through the bantha wool wall.

  “Chieftain has… in camp!”

  “Thanks.”

  Han stepped through the hole he had just blasted, and what he found turned his stomach. Kitster Banai lay spread-eagled on the ground, his dark hair now light as sand. His ankles were swollen, his body was covered in burns and bruises, and three of his fingers were snapped at the middle knuckle.

  “Kitster! How are you doing, buddy?” Han went to the man’s side and kneeled beside him. “Sorry it took so long. We’d, uh, sort of given you up for dead.”

  “Me… too.” Kitster’s dark eyes were fearful and bewildered. “Who… you?”

  “Han Solo.” Slugthrower projectiles began to rip through the tent, drawing a new wave of blasterfire from the Imperials. “You’ll just have to take my word for it.”

  Han pulled a lasicutter from his stormtrooper utility belt and sliced the bindings holding Kitster’s wrists and ankles. Outside, Leia’s blaster rifle erupted into a constant scream.

  “Need help!”

  “In a minute, Leia,” Han called. “I’m busy here.”

  “They’re rushing us!”

  “Toss a couple of detonators.” He pulled the thermal detonator off his own belt and tossed it out to her. “That’ll slow ’em down.”

  Leia stopped firing, and an instant later the crackle of two thermal detonators echoed through the oasis.

  “Here’s the deal.” Han hoisted Kitster onto his shoulders. Starved and dehydrated, he weighed little. “We need to recover that painting or destroy it, which means Leia and I are going into that Tusken camp. You can come with us, or I can dump you on the stormtroopers. The Imperials will probably throw you in prison forever—”

  “With you,” Kitster said. “Want to see my children.”

  Han sighed. “I was afraid you’d say that.”

  “But don’t go.” Kitster paused to gather his strength. “Not to camp.”

  “Afraid we have to.” Han started toward the makeshift door. “You should’ve let us destroy that painting back at Mawbo’s.”

  “Such a terrible waste,” Kitster gasped. “And you don’t have to go. Turn… around.”

  “We don’t have a lot of time—”

  “Trust me,” Kitster said. “Look up.”

  Finally beginning to understand, Han turned and looked at the ceiling.

  There, hanging over the place where Kitster’s head had been, was Killik Twilight, the stormy sky the same deep purple as before, the insectoid figures still turning to face the storm just as Han remembered.

  “I thought you said—”

  “Lied,” Kitster said. “Thought you were… Imperial.”

  “You thought I… Kit, old buddy, you are one devoted art lover.”

  Han pulled the comlink off his belt and depressed the microphone key three times—the got-it signal. An instant later, Leia peered through the makeshift door, still firing into the rocks.

  “You actually have it?”

  “Up there.” Han hooked a thumb at the ceiling. “I’ll cover, you recover.”

  Leia retreated into the hut and, ignoring the dwindling sputter of projectiles still whistling through the room, traded places with Han.

  “It’s in amazing shape,” she commented.

  “Tuskens awed by it,” Kitster said. “Didn’t stop them from breaking a finger when I… needed to add water. And in desert…”

  “I know,” Han said, recalling Kitster’s gnarled hands. “It needed a lot of water.”

  He glanced through the opening and found a dozen stormtroopers only ten meters away, still coming despite a hail of Tusken slugs. One fell to a hit through the lens, another with a wound through his throat, but most were simply falling as the projectiles splattered against their armor, then popping back up an instant later. Han chose the three closest to the hut and, struggling to keep Kitster balanced across his shoulders, concentrated on picking them off as they returned to their feet.

  The thump of a concussion grenade sounded from the far side of the oasis. The banthas erupted into an orchestra of bugling, and an om
inous reverberation began to roll across the desert.

  “What’s that?” Leia asked.

  Han shrugged. “Emala maybe?” He put a pair of blaster bolts through a stormtrooper’s chest plate, and two more sprang up. Five meters. “Who cares? We’re going hand-to-hand if we don’t—”

  A long burst from Leia’s blaster rifle sounded behind Han. He spun around to see Killik Twilight swinging down from the ceiling on a flap of smoking fabric. Leia plucked the painting off the hooks from which it had been hanging, then turned and blasted a new hole through the opposite wall.

  “Let’s go!”

  Han glanced back to find a pair of stormtroopers rushing for the old hole. He fired at point-blank range, blasting one off his feet backward and sending the other diving for cover. He backed toward the new hole still firing—and heard the power pack depletion alarm.

  “Always something!”

  Han turned and ducked out of the hut, ejecting the power pack as he went, then tossed it back inside and raced after Leia.

  Behind him, an Imperial voice cried, “Detonator!”

  Han pulled the new power pack off his utility belt and inserted it into the socket, then dropped to a knee and turned to wait. There was a loud rumble coming their way through the oasis. Han did not dare glance toward it.

  An Imperial voice came over the helmet speaker. “I have the impostors in my scope. They have rescued a Tusken captive, and they have the admiral’s painting in their possession. Repeat, they have the painting. Awaiting instructions.”

  Han glanced over his shoulder to see Leia dodging behind a boulder. When he looked back, there was a stormtrooper standing in the makeshift doorway. He burned a hole in the fellow’s chest, then began to spray the entire hut with blasterfire.

  “They’re rescuing a captive? Interesting.” It was the reflective voice—the one that seemed to be in charge. The one that gave Han the creeps. “And they have the painting? You’re certain?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Very well,” the voice said. “You are authorized to target legs only.”

  Han stopped firing, sprang up, and heard a sharpshooter’s bolt tear into the ground where he had been kneeling. Dodging wildly—and praying Banai had the strength to hold on—he raced to catch up with Leia and ducked behind an adjacent boulder. Another blaster bolt zipped past and tore into the ground beside his feet. He finally had a chance to glance toward the roar coming from the Tusken camp and saw a three-meter wall of wool and horn sweeping in from the other side of the oasis, bringing with it a billowing wall of dust.

  “What next?” He swung the barrel of his blaster around the side of the boulder and fired blindly. “Bounty hunters? Sarlacc pits?”

  “It’s not that bad.” Leia had Killik Twilight’s small rectangle resting against her knees and was pulling a grappling line out of her utility belt. “Emala may have saved us—if Chewie would just get here.”

  “You think?”

  Han continued to fire blindly, watching as Leia secured the line around her belt and extended the hooks at the throwing end. “I think.”

  Leia dropped to a knee and took over cover duties while Han did the same with his own grappling line. Then, afraid his passenger would not be able to hold on while being dragged across the desert by a charging bantha, he brought Kitster’s forearms together beneath his own arm and began to lash the wrists together.

  “Han, no time!” Leia yelled, still firing. “Move!”

  “I can hold my—”

  Kitster’s assurance was cut short by a flurry of Leia’s blaster bolts burning past Han’s rock. Han glanced in her direction and saw a pair of stormtroopers charging up behind her.

  “Duck!” he yelled, grabbing his blaster rifle.

  Leia rolled instead, snatching Killik Twilight on the way. Han poured blaster bolts into the stormtroopers behind her, then took off running. He did not know how closely the next pair of stormtroopers were pursuing him, but the ones behind Leia were within five meters—and closing fast.

  “No shot, no shot,” the sharpshooters began to report. “They’re in the dust.”

  But the other Imperials made up for it, firing as they ran, aiming for the Solos’ legs and churning the ground into a dusty froth. Han dodged madly, holding Banai and the grappling hook with one hand, using the other to cover Leia by firing wildly behind her. Leia did the same for him—though instead of Banai, she was holding the painting in her other hand. Neither of them was hitting anything, but at least they were preventing the stormtroopers from hitting anything, either. And they were slowing down the pursuit. That was the important thing.

  “Kitster!” Han had to yell to make himself heard above the blaster fury and the thunder of the stampede. “How close are those banthas?”

  “Close,” came the strangled reply. “Fifteen meters, but angling past us. I think they’re heading for the back—”

  Leia screamed and went down, her feet flying out from beneath her as the projectile from a Tusken slugthrower slammed into her shoulder armor. Han spun to help—and that was what saved his life.

  A deafening crack sounded inside his helmet, then he was slamming into the ground, Kitster no longer on his shoulders, his ears ringing, head aching, struggling to remain conscious. He rolled to his back and saw laser bolts lacing the air barely a meter over his head. He tried to raise his blaster rifle and found he was no longer holding it.

  The light storm above his head stopped, and an eerie silence fell over the oasis. Han groped for his blaster rifle and could find it nowhere. Leia was lying facedown and motionless across from him, Killik Twilight resting beside her. The banthas were so close now that the ground trembled as they pounded past.

  “Leia?”

  Han rolled to his knees and found Kitster lying a meter away, a line of white stormtrooper bodies resting motionless in the rocks beyond.

  “Leia?”

  A throaty chuckle sounded behind him. He turned to see three Tusken Raiders looming over him, their rifles pointed at his head. Behind them stood a pair of Tusken children armed with miniature gaffi sticks.

  Han tucked his chin and tried to angle his helmet lenses away. This drew a laugh from one of the Tuskens, who stepped forward, bringing his rifle butt around toward the jawline of Han’s helmet—then collapsed when Leia opened fire from behind and a blaster bolt exploded from his chest.

  The remaining Tuskens spun to face her, their rifles rising. Han took one down with a stomp kick to the knee, then cringed as a bolt flashed past his helmet from Kitster’s direction. It missed, but distracted the warrior long enough for Leia to bring her own weapon to bear. The Tusken fell, groaning and clutching at his throat.

  “Han!”

  Han turned in time to see Banai throwing his blaster rifle to him. But Leia was already firing again, taking out the last warrior with a flurry of bolts.

  A series of light blows began to rain down on Han’s helmet and shoulders, and he turned to find the two Tusken children assailing him with their little gaffi sticks.

  Dropping the blaster rifle in his lap, he caught the attacks with a pair of hook blocks and ripped the weapons from their hands.

  “Go on—get out of here.”

  The Tusken children kept their heads turned toward him and reached for their gaffi sticks.

  Han broke the shafts over his knee and tossed them aside. “You’re too small.” He pointed into the underbrush. “I’m throwing you back!”

  The children glanced at each other, then turned and fled—toward the banthas. Han thought they would be crushed, but the stampede was less a headlong rush than it was a well-organized exodus, with the huge creatures keeping their calves safely sheltered inside the herd and taking care to trot along no faster than the young ones could manage. The two Tusken children simply fell in alongside a bantha, grabbed a handful of shaggy wool, and pulled themselves onto the beast’s back.

  It looked easier than flinging a grappling line around the horns of a big male—and a lot
smarter, too.

  Leia appeared at Han’s side, hauling him to his feet. “On your feet, Flyboy.” She had Killik Twilight looped over her sore shoulder by the hanging wire and her blaster rifle tucked into its belt holster. “Company’s on the way.”

  Han jammed his own weapon into its holster, then turned to pick up Banai and saw a fresh squad of ghostly white figures rushing through the underbrush.

  “What’s Chewie doing?” Han threw Banai over his shoulders. “Going around the far side of the planet?”

  “You told him not to scratch the paint.”

  Leia turned and led the way toward the banthas. Han followed, barely managing to keep up. As they drew nearer to the beasts, the ground began to quake, and Han found himself gagging on a musky stench that even the helmet’s filter scrubbers could not remove.

  Kitster leaned down close to Han’s audio pickup, shouting over the roar of the banthas. “If I can’t hold on—”

  “Don’t worry,” Han assured him. “I won’t come back.”

  “You’d find only… a smear, I’m sure,” Kitster said. “Just tell my children—I love them.”

  “You hold on,” Han said, “and tell them yourself.”

  Shifting the painting onto her back, Leia fell in alongside the herd and reached up, grabbing a handful of shaggy wool. She stumbled and it looked for a moment like she might fall and be trampled, or her bantha would panic and knock her over, but her feet simply left the ground, then she hauled herself awkwardly up, almost slipping when she had to let her weight hang from her sore shoulder.

  Han fell in alongside the next beast and, struggling to keep pace, reached up and grabbed hold. His feet immediately went out from beneath him, which was just as well since a flurry of blaster bolts came flashing in under the bantha’s belly. Most sizzled harmlessly past or ricocheted off his leg armor, but one managed to burn through and scorch his outer thigh.

  Han clenched his teeth and concentrated on climbing, pulling himself up as Leia had done. Whether it was the shock of being hit or Kitster’s extra weight—or perhaps he just wasn’t as strong as his wife—he was only halfway up when his hands began to tremble and his forearms to cramp.

  Kitster sensed his trouble and reached up himself. But he was in even worse shape, too weak to hold on to Han with his injured hand or the bantha wool with his good one. His grasp came free, and he began to fall backward.