At first, Lando convinced himself Fett didn’t recognize him.
Then he realized the game.
The bounty hunter knew Lando was
deep undercover in Jabba the Hutt’s lair. He knew Lando knew he knew.
Yet Fett did nothing about it.
He didn’t tell Jabba, didn’t flag down one of his Gamorrean guards or alert the
Hutt’s fawning majordomo. He simply went about his business like he always did,
hauling in the undesirables with prices on their heads and collecting his bounties.
It went on like that for weeks, with Fett occasionally nodding to Lando across
Jabba’s smoke-filled den as a way of saying, “I see you.”
Early on, Lando couldn’t figure
it out. Why wouldn’t Fett turn him in? While he wasn’t quite as respectable as
he wanted to be, Lando had gotten plenty of notoriety. That change of heart at
Bespin put him on the Empire’s kill list, and that meant a considerable bounty
on his head. Hell, if Lando could hit the tables with that amount of money,
he’d earn back enough to own the universe. He could buy out the whole accursed
Empire, every Star Destroyer, TIE Fighter, and probe droid, with enough scratch
left over to give every stormtrooper and Imperial gunner a decent severance
package.
But for some reason, the bounty
hunter refused to cash in.
His initial befuddlement gave
way to the reality of Fett’s gambit. Fett knew Lando had infiltrated Jabba’s
palace to rescue his old buddy. That meant some more high-priced targets would
make their way to Tatooine soon enough. And while Lando would fetch a large
price for Fett, it wouldn’t compare to the package deal he would get for Leia
and the Skywalker kid.
Lando loathed the bounty hunter,
but he knew Fett loathed Jedi even more. He’d relish the challenge of taking
down the last one, even if the Skywalker kid—he probably shouldn’t think of
Luke as a kid, given what he’d seen him do—was basically a rookie Jedi.
A rookie Jedi? Was there such a thing?
Lando supposed they had to start
somewhere.
“Hey, Skreej, we need you in the
main chamber,” Oz grumbled.
Lando, lost deep in thought in
his dusty and decidedly unsophisticated guard armor, sat on a bench in front of
his locker. Jabba’s palace lacked much finery, and everything simply smelled.
No matter how long he spent in a ‘fresher, he doubted he’d ever knock out the
immortal stench of the place.
Lando rose and grabbed his
vibro-ax. “What have we got today?”
The Quarren’s face tentacles spasmed
in apprehension. “Someone upset the boss. The best situation, you know. Entertainment
for all.” Usually earnest in nature, the Quarren delivered the last sentence
with atypical sarcasm.
Like Oz, Lando didn’t see the
appeal of the “entertainment,” which usually meant someone who’d angered the
Hutt got dragged in front of his dais and sent to the rancor pit, where the
poor creature made quick work of them. Jabba’s gallery of miscreants and
malcontents would hoot and holler and wager on how long the poor sap would
survive. Credits exchanged hands. Lando didn’t enjoy betting on the bleak contest,
but failing to make a wager could raise suspicions.
He always took the under because
the rancor was deadly efficient.
Hunger would do that to a
creature.
“It’s some poor spacer who dumped
a shipment of spice during a delivery,” Oz said.
Lando accompanied him down one
of the palace’s many dark passages, his boots crunching against gravel or
bones.
He hoped for gravel.
He also knew better.
Lando and Oz met a couple of
Gamorreans at the entrance to Jabba’s palace. He expected some hardened
spice-runner with lines in his face. Maybe an eyepatch. Definitely a beard and
a potbelly. But the spacer wore a fine jacket from Coruscant. Lando didn’t need
to look at the label to know it came from Bazra Klin Outfitters, a flattering
cut with a jeweled crest and the shop’s signature epaulettes on either side. Whoever
this doomed spice-runner was, she had good taste.
Lando grabbed her by the elbow,
pushing his way through the crowd as he escorted her to the grate that would
undoubtedly lead to her demise. He noticed she was taller than him, even in his
helmet. The Hutt’s protocol droid, some doomed automaton destined for the scrap
heap on his next bit of bad news, stirred his master from slumber. Jabba’s eyes
flicked open, and he licked his lips with his thick tongue. The scents of spice
and filth radiated from his corpulent body. Lando also caught a whiff of one of
the fruity drinks the Hutt favored.
Jabba bellowed in Huttese, which
his protocol droid dutifully translated, minus the drug-induced slurring. Lando
didn’t have high fluency in the Hutt’s language and even he could hear
the crime boss trip over his own words.
“The mighty Jabba bids you
welcome to his humble palace,” the protocol droid said. Dim lighting and age had taken whatever luster his metal body once had. “He has offered to spare your pitiful life—I
apologize, those are his words and not mine, as I’m merely an interpreter—if
you pay him back the cost of the shipment plus twenty-five percent.”
“Thanks, your grace,” the spacer said with an exaggerated bow. “A galaxy of blessings upon you. May you live forever in wealth and health and your great clan prosper until the end of time. May the great Hutts outlast the Republic and the Galactic Empire. May their—”
Lando grabbed the spacer by the elbow and led her away from the main chamber. “Time to go.”
“Did I lay it on too thick?” the woman asked.
“With the charm? For the Hutt, it works every time,” Lando said as he escorted her toward the exit.
The spacer should count herself fortunate; the Hutt rarely granted second chances. In
his months on the job, Lando had witnessed the Hutt give a reprieve to exactly one
of his lowlifes, and that was only because the guy offered enough credits to
buy a star system. He transferred the credits, but some of Jabba’s demented
henchmen assassinated him as he left, mostly because they liked his boots.
If the spacer managed to save her own skin, they would definitely kill her for the jacket.
He hadn’t gotten a good night’s
sleep in the months since the Empire arrived in Cloud City. As baron
administrator, Lando thought it prudent to make a deal. Millions of people
depended on him. They kept the operation small and off the Empire’s radar for a
long time, and they were turning a handsome profit. Tibanna proved lucrative
despite the jaw-dropping startup costs, and he’d managed things well.
Did he like the idea of selling
out a friend?
Absolutely not.
He did what he always did: try
to make the best out of a bad situation. If he could save Chewie and the
princess and their annoying protocol droid, he could find a way to get Han
back. He’d even tried to convince Vader that putting someone into carbon freeze
would kill them in hopes of sparing his friend the pain of carbonite
hibernation. But he couldn’t deter Vader, who probably knew all too well when a
gambler was bluffing.
When the dark lord altered the deal—sometimes
Lando still felt his throat constricting in the middle of the night for no
reason—he had to act. That meant open rebellion against the Empire, something
the board really frowned upon. He got Leia, Chewie, and Threepio out and
somehow picked up a rookie Jedi and an astromech droid along the way. Since
Vader’s Executor arrived, Lando hadn’t logged much rest, his
thoughts on Han and the monster in a metal mask.
“You just going to sit there and
stare?”
Lando realized he’d been focusing
on the floor. He didn’t recognize the voice and looked up to see the spacer and
her marvelous jacket.
An oasis in the cursed deserts
of Tatooine.
“This is a restricted area,”
Lando said. “The Hutt’ll feed you to the rancor if he finds you back here.”
The woman waved her hand
nonchalantly. She had a bag draped over her right shoulder. “He’s so spiced up, he thinks the Galactic
Senate’s still in session.”
Lando glanced around the empty
room. “You’re gonna take that sense of humor all the way to the rancor pit.”
“I already talked my way out of
the pit. And believe me, that would be the preferable punishment, if it comes
to that. The last thing I want is to get chained to his throne like some poor
Twi’lek.”
On first impression, his guest
didn’t strike him as much of a dancer. She had a good bit of theatricality when
she talked, though, and cut a lithe figure in the jacket. “All right, all
right. Better to be a snack than a showgirl. I got it. You still shouldn’t be
back here. My advice would be to make a jump to the Outer Rim and deactivate
your beacon.”
“The price on my head is big
enough to get Jabba’s hit squad on my trail. They’ll have no problem finding
me, beacon or no beacon. You saw what he did to Solo. Sure, he avoided capture
for a couple years, but now he’s a coffee table. So, running is not an option.
I’ve gotta pay the boss back the cost of the shipment plus twenty-five percent.
And that’s where you come in.”
Lando kept his face impassive, a
feat made easier by the heavy guard mask. “Excuse me?”
“Oh, I know what you’re gonna
say. You’re just a poor, overworked man making an honest guard’s salary. Never
mind the Hutt pays well for muscle because silence and competency go a long
way. But I know you, Skreej. I do.” The woman reached for her bag, withdrew a
bottle of Twinburst Ale, and handed it to him.
The bottle had the signature
heft of a top-shelf product with a holo-label that flashed the images of twin
starbursts. The liquor burned going in, going down, and going out, but the
flavor and high were worth it to people with discerning tastes. Lando loved the
stuff. He’d once bartered a whole case for a ship. He later bought an ownership
stake in the company, one of the many things he’d lost of late. The Empire shut
the place down under one of its anti-sedition laws. They’d destroyed every
bottle.
Or so they claimed. It was a big
universe out there.
“A fancy drink like that does
not belong on Tatooine,” Lando said. “And I don’t care how much you think the
Hutt pays, Jabba’s the only one who could afford a bottle. Well, maybe Fett.”
“I’ve got a case back on my
ship. Conveniently, selling it would raise enough money to get the bounty off
my back and avoid the rancor pit.”
“Sounds like you’d better find a
buyer. Quickly.” Lando handed over the bottle.
The woman tucked it away. “The
stuff is hard to move, Skreej, even on the black and gray markets, and
especially for the amount of credits I need. Could I get rid of a bottle? Sure.
But someone carrying around a case may as well be a Rebel sympathizer in the
eyes of the Empire. A wrong move, a bad deal, and I’ll have worse things to
worry about than the Hutt.”
Lando let out an incredulous
chuckle. “I don’t see how some random guard stationed on this giant sandbox can help you.”
The spacer shot him a sideways smile.
“You’re not some random guard, Skreej. I know it. You know it.” She gave him
her comm number, patted his shoulder, and left.
Lando cursed under his breath. He
thought he’d flown under the radar, but the spacer, like Fett, knew he was
undercover at Jabba’s palace.
She didn’t tell him.
She didn’t have to.
The woman’s bottle of Twinburst
Ale featured the exclusive label from the Cloud City Collection. He’d endorsed
it in a series of advertisements, suggesting discerning drinkers who enjoyed Twinburst
Ale “truly belong here with us among the clouds.” It was, he’d informed
viewers, a sophisticated drink “with a flavorful burn that works every time.”
Oligarchs, war profiteers, stockbrokers,
business moguls, and high-ranking Imperials loved the stuff.
Until the Empire banned it.
“That spacer’s got some nerve,”
Oz said. The Quarren made an admirable run at Lando’s high score in the guard
lounge’s podracing holo-game. The pristine game machine was the only thing in
the awful place that wasn’t covered in dust and decay; the guards kept it in
tiptop condition, treating the machine as if it were the only thing of value in
the whole godforsaken palace. “The boss must like her, though, to let her buy
her way out. I wish I could buy my way out.”
Oz guided his pod through a
flashing green ring and came perilously close to clipping a side wall. He
managed to right the vehicle as he sped toward the next ring. The game awarded
points based on speed, time, and overall damage avoidance. The less damage a pod
took during a run, the higher the multiplier. Lando had always been good with a
fast ship, and he’d excelled at making clean runs in the game. Others matched
him in speed, time, or damage avoidance, but no one could best him in all
three.
But Oz was making a good run at
it.
The key would be the final leg
on the Geonosis course, a hairpin turn that went straight into the planet’s
catacombs. Lando had crashed multiple times on that last stretch, which
included the high-speed turn and the most inconveniently placed stone column of
all time.
Oz, still amid a clean run, was
beating Lando’s time and coming through the hairpin turn now at a death-defying
speed. But the back end of the pod clipped the aforementioned column, slowing
him just enough and knocking down his score multiplier. He finished just a few
points off Lando’s record-setting pace.
“Poodoo.” Oz slammed his flipper-like
hand against the wall. “The course designer should be thrown into the Sarlacc
for putting that thing right there. I don’t know how you keep avoiding it,
Skreej. I know it’s there, and I still clipped it.”
“The first time I ran the
course, I hit the damn thing head on,” Lando said. “It just takes practice, my
friend.”
Disgusted, Oz switched off the
game, eliciting grunts from the other guards. “Sorry, fellas. We’ll pick things
back up later.”
Lando handed the Quarren a Salty,
the preferred mass-market beer of his people. He opened the can, probed the
scent with his facial tentacles, and took a sip. Oz didn’t quite fit in with
the rest of Jabba’s guards, which meant he and Lando got along fine. Neither
had a taste for nihilism and mayhem, although they both pretended they did
because their surroundings demanded it.
“You think the spacer will pull
it off?” Oz asked.
“I wouldn’t underestimate her.”
“Is she attractive by human
standards?”
Lando nodded. “I would say she
is attractive by any standards.”
“Then perhaps Jabba is hoping
she’ll default and become one of his dancers. He likes to do that, you know.”
“I’m aware.”
Oz took a long drink. To Lando,
the beer smelled like a sea breeze carried on winds near a noxious factory. “Gronko
ran the customs scam on her ship. She wasn’t there at the time, but her co-pilot
caught on pretty quick. Still, he came across a case of Twinburst Ale in one of
the cargo holds. By the sea, you could probably buy a whole star system with
the stuff now.”
Lando arched an eyebrow. “Is
Gronko sure it’s authentic? I’ve been reading about counterfeits.” In truth,
he’d read no such thing, but it didn’t hurt to plant the seed. Maybe Gronko would
think twice about carrying out the inevitable plot to steal the ale and resell
it.
“He’d have to open a bottle to
find out for sure. That burn-high is hard to fake.”
Though Lando had only been with
Jabba for a few months, Gronko had already run his customs scam numerous times.
He dressed in a uniform, presented some forged authorization documents, and
claimed he was with Customs and Enforcement. Unwitting spacers let him on their
ships to inspect their goods; the wily Clawdite used it as an opportunity to
case the ship and steal anything with resell value. His shapeshifting ability
allowed him to pull the scam off multiple times without being recognized.
Just great.
If history was any indication, Gronko
had set his sights on the woman and the valuable case of liquor she used as
leverage. The idiot could jeopardize everything.
Lando, Luke, and Leia had a plan
to save Han. Just a few more weeks, maybe even sooner, and they would set in
motion a series of events that would, they hoped, end with Han out of Jabba’s
clutches. Luke would first try to pay off the gangster. When that didn’t
work—Lando knew the Hutt liked having Han hanging on his wall too much—they’d
take Han by force. There were a lot of variables involved.
But if Gronko stole the ale, the
spacer would have to play her only remaining card.
She’d beg for her life and tell
Jabba Lando Calrissian was working for him. The price on his head would be too
tempting for Jabba to pass up. The Hutt, who’d made a habit lately of spending
his days in a drug-induced haze, would probably sober up and bolster security.
It would ruin any chance Lando and company had of rescuing Han from Jabba’s Decorator’s
Showcase.
Lando knew he’d have to play
this one carefully.
He arranged a meeting with the
spacer.
Lando found her outside her
ship, a resplendent Nubian freighter as exquisite as her fashionable jacket. “You
have yourself a deal. It’s enough to cover the botched spice shipment plus fifty
percent.” He held up a credit chip.
“Skreej?” The spacer hesitated
for a split second before eyeing the money. “What’s the catch?”
“Leave now and get as far away
from this sand trap as possible. Don’t come back.”
The spacer reached for the chip.
Before she could grab it, a blaster bolt sailed through the air perilously
close to her hand; the chip rattled to the ground. “Stang!” She drew her
blaster, went down on one knee, and aimed in the direction of the shot.
“Customs and Enforcement! Drop
it!”
“Customs, my ass,” the spacer
said.
Lando held up his hands in
surrender.
The woman gave him an
incredulous look. “What are you doing?”
“The authorities are here,”
Lando said. “Best do what they say.”
The woman dropped her blaster
and stood. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“He does.” A figure emerged from
the shadows—a mirror image of the spacer. “Gotta say, it’s a bold move.
Attempting to double-dip by stealing the ale and Skreej’s money.”
“I don’t know what you’re—”
A crimson bolt downed the
spacer, whose face changed into Gronko’s.
“Scheming Clawdite. A jacket
thief, to boot,” the spacer spat. “Thanks for the heads up, Skreej.” She jerked
her head toward Gronko’s smoking forehead. “That's a bad day.”
“I assume your co-pilot’s dead?”
She shook her head. “Got her on
the comm. He stuffed her in the smuggling hold. Drugged, but alive. So, the
Clawdite’s not a killer, at least.”
Lando’s gaze flicked from the
spacer to Gronko and back again. “But you are.”
“I’m a problem solver, Skreej,
just like you. You want to keep a lid on the whole thing. A talkative Clawdite
could upend whatever scheme you’re running. I’m assuming plenty of Jabba’s
guards ‘disappear’ without a trace.”
Lando fixed his eyes on the
barrel of her weapon. “It is, I’m afraid, an alarming trend.”
She tucked away her blaster,
retrieved the credit chip, and dusted it off. “This will wipe the slate clean.
I’ll pay off my debt and get the hell out of here. Never working for the Hutt
again, I promise you that.”
“And the ale? I thought you
couldn’t move it, black or gray market.”
“I may have misled you. My fence seems confident.”
Lando smiled. “Then I guess our
business here is concluded.”
She shot back a lopsided grin of
her own. “I guess so.”
The tall box had a surprising
amount of heft. When Lando was assured he and Oz were alone, he opened it to
find a bottle of Twinburst Ale wrapped in a note. He read it out loud, “It
works every time. Yours, Tendra.” Lando chuckled.
“Twinburst Ale is good stuff.
Pricey these days, too,” Oz said.
Lando examined the bottle. Even
though it remained sealed, he couldn’t shake his memories of the liquor’s
potent burn and unbeatable high. But opening it now, even in celebration,
wouldn’t help anyone. Keeping it sealed, however, would. He shoved the bottle
into Oz’s chest. “You should have this.”
Oz pushed it away. “Skreej, no,
I couldn’t. You could buy your own ship with this.”
“So could you. In fact, that’s
exactly what you should do. Go to the Mos Eisley dock master and tell them Tamtel
Skreej sends his regards. He’ll pay you good money for this. You can go home.”
Oz’s face tentacles twitched in
gratitude. “I don’t know what to say.”
“How about, ‘Yes?’”
The Quarren shuffled off and
then turned toward Lando, “You know, it’s been a few days since anyone’s seen
Gronko. You think he bolted?”
“I bet someone caught onto his
customs scam,” Lando said. “He won’t show his face around here again.”
Oz practically hugged the bottle
as he headed toward the exit and, Lando hoped, away from Jabba’s palace.
The Quarren got out just in
time.
He’d just heard from Luke. In
two weeks, Artoo and Threepio would arrive at Jabba’s palace.
Lando Calrissian could finally
say goodbye to Tamtel Skreej once and for all.
Once back in Jabba’s den, he
looked across the floor at Fett and raised a glass in the bounty hunter’s
direction. The spacer may have taken the rest of the Twinburst Ale, but Lando
and his friends were about to crack open a whole case of trouble.
