DUE ON BATUU

Rob Hart

Willrow Hood hustled through the cloud car shuttle bay. Most days it was a good shortcut between his living quarters and his job in the gas mining operations center.

Not so much today.

The hangar was packed with the ambassadors of factions considering business in Cloud City, to be ferried on sightseeing trips through the surrounding skies of Bespin. A little way for the baron administrator to curry their favor. And yeah, sometimes it got crowded, but never like this. Willrow had to bob and weave to maintain a steady pace, all while cradling a feeling of dread.

Could be nothing. Could be flying conditions weren’t great today. The emissaries were grumbling, faces twisted up in annoyance, their leisure time interrupted.

The corridor that would take him to his job, overseeing pressure levels in the reactor stalk, was directly to his left. But Willrow couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong, so he looked for Bexley’s cloud car, finding it parked in its assigned bay.

Bexley was hunched over with her back to him. One of the car’s orange panels was flipped up, and she was surveying the electrical guts of the ship. Her blond hair curled out from underneath her shiny white helmet, and Willrow thought, Yeah, it’ll be worth it, being a little late. Hadrian could pick up his slack on the console for a few minutes. She turned toward him before he had a chance to call her name.

And usually she smiled when she saw him.

But today she looked just as worried as Willrow felt.

“Who’s throwing the party?” Willrow asked, throwing a thumb at the crowds.

Bexley pulled a rag out of her pocket to wipe her hands, not making eye contact. “Got called back in. I was driving around some guy from Canto Bight. Offered me a bunch of credits to just ignore it and stay out there. I swear, there’s no talking to people with money.”

“You got through to him, though, I bet?” Willrow asked, ending the comment with a roguish smirk.

Normally Bexley was happy to engage in a little flirtatious sparring, but her mouth remained a flat line. “Uh-huh.”

Willrow looked around at the milling throng. No one seemed to be leaving yet, holding out hope that the delays were temporary. But there’d been no announcements. No warnings. He turned back to Bexley, who was staring off into space, and asked her, “What’s going on?”

She looked around to make sure they were out of earshot, then took a step toward Willrow and dropped her voice. “I was talking to another pilot. Said he was over in the big shuttle bay trying to scare up a part to fix his repulsorlift. He said he saw…” She dropped her voice lower. “Vader.”

Willrow tried to respond and found he couldn’t, the muscles in his throat paralyzed. He felt a surge of fear that made him think of being a child, trying to fall asleep in a pitch-black room. That utter terror that there could be monsters just beyond the edge of his vision.

“He’s…here?” Willrow finally managed to get out, dropping his voice to a whisper. “I mean…he’s real. And he’s here?”

“Real,” Bexley said, matching the quietness and fear in his voice. “And very tall, apparently.”

Why would Darth Vader, of all people, be in Cloud City? Why would he come here personally? Lando Calrissian, the city’s administrator, seemed intent on staying neutral and avoiding Imperial attention. And despite the fact that the man was more interested in the benefits of power than the work that came along with it, he did a decent job staying under the Empire’s radar.

It’s why Willrow liked it here. Cloud City was just small enough to be unimportant.

After a moment he realized his hands were shaking.

Bexley nodded. “Yeah. Vader, a mess of stormtroopers, even a Mandalorian. So”—she cocked her head toward the grumpy masses—“I’m figuring this has something to do with that.”

Willrow took a step back, suddenly less interested in Bexley, and his work shift, and just about anything else that didn’t involve Vader in Cloud City. He mumbled a quick “hold on” to Bexley and darted back toward the throng of waiting ambassadors, barely catching the incredulous response she threw back. As soon as he cleared the densest part of the crowd, he broke into a run.

He briefly considered checking in with Hadrian, making an excuse about a stomach bug or something, but Willrow realized it wasn’t worth it.

He wasn’t coming back.

The living quarter corridors were mercifully empty, so Willrow was able to keep a quick pace. He turned the corner to his hallway, nearly barreling over a service droid pushing a trash cart, which let loose a furious stream of beeps in his wake. He fell into his door, pressing his thumb hard to the sensor pad.

The door slid aside with a whoosh, and he surveyed the dark, brutalist confines—far removed from the spacious, glowing accommodations afforded to the city’s upper class. This place had suited his needs, but he would not miss it. He thought about changing for the trip and was about to strip off his orange jumpsuit, but the clock was ticking.

He dived for the chest under his bed, pulled it out, and flipped up the top.

It was empty.

He fell back into a sitting position, head spinning.

Even though gas mining was the biggest industry in Cloud City, Willrow wasn’t paid very well. The big money was reserved for the people who owned the machinery but didn’t actually know how to operate it. Willrow was exhausted, killing himself to make someone else rich. For the past few months he’d been harassing his sometime drinking buddy Faron, a Rodian smuggler, to give him a job.

Every day, Willrow sat at his console, monitoring pressure levels, venting gases, doing little more than watching lights and pressing buttons. And every day, he dreamed of a new life. Something where he could make himself rich, instead of somebody else. A job that got him out of Cloud City and into the wider reaches of the galaxy.

Smuggling carried such an allure: Be your own boss, visit different planets, wear your own clothes instead of a stupid orange jumpsuit. Maybe even a little time for some no-strings-attached romantic liaisons.

Willrow was a hard worker. He was sure it wouldn’t be long before he could afford his own ship. He just needed some entrée to that world.

So he was thrilled when, a week ago, Faron showed up at his room with the package, the assignment, and an up-front payment of ten thousand credits. It was due on Batuu three days from now.

As Faron passed on the gig, he also passed on a warning.

The woman you’re bringing it to, Faron had said, her name is Tropos. You deliver this safely and on time, you get another forty thousand credits. Anything happens? Let’s just say Tropos has ways of making people disappear. But not until she makes every person you ever loved disappear first.

Faron wasn’t prone to exaggeration. And there was a shiver in his voice when he spoke the name, like it was accompanied by a burst of cold air.

Willrow hadn’t worried about completing the job. He had planned to leave tomorrow, and he was especially looking forward to a few days on Batuu. Some sun and a few drinks and, even though his waistline would protest, some Nectrose Freeze.

But with the Empire here, his dreams of glowing drinks and ice cream were slipping away. He racked his brain, trying to think of who might know the contents of the chest. He hadn’t told anyone…

Except Bexley.

Two nights ago, at the bar. To get to Batuu, Willrow needed a pilot. And not a cloud car. He needed a ship with hyperdrive. Bexley said she could borrow one from a pilot she knew, but it wouldn’t be cheap. Willrow was feeling good, between the drinks and the thought of spending a little time in a cramped cockpit with Bexley. He asked her if ten thousand credits would be worth the cost of the rental and her time. She smiled and ordered another round.

And yeah, he’d told her he had a package to deliver. But not what it was, or to who, or how much he was supposed to get in return for it.

Right?

He’d had a lot to drink. And Bexley looked good that night.

Maybe he’d told her more than he should have. But when could she have taken it? He’d been out running errands all morning. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d checked the chest. Two days ago? Three? How did she even gain access to his room?

Willrow pushed himself to standing and made it back into the hallway, heading toward the shuttle bay. Then he turned the corner and saw her.

Bexley was talking to the droid Willrow had almost knocked over on the way to his room. Willrow paused at the edge of the hallway and watched as the droid gestured to the trash unit. There was a grinding noise as the top opened, and Bexley reached in and extracted the camtono. The battered, cylindrical container that was worth fifty thousand credits, and yeah, it seemed like Willrow must have drunk a little too much the other night, and offered a little too much information in the process.

And service droids had access to rooms to collect the trash. Clever. She’d looked a little nervous back in the cloud car bay, and Willrow thought she’d been worried about Vader. Turned out her plan to double-cross him had just hit a snag.

Briefly, he wondered again at what was inside. For the delivery fee to be that high, the value must be astronomical. At one point, after curiosity got the better of him, he’d taken the container out of the chest under the bed and given it a little shake. Nice and gentle, just to see what it sounded like.

And, nothing.

Whatever was inside was solid.

Which was good, because he knew Bexley, and felt like this thing wasn’t coming back to him easy. He stepped fully into the hallway. And when she saw him out of the corner of her eye she froze, before taking off at a run.

Willrow hoofed it after her, panting from the exertion. Bexley, meanwhile, was fast and rested. He was just barely able to stay on her tail, following her through twisting corridors, through a mess hall, toward the heart of the city.

Just as Willrow thought he’d lost her, he turned another corner and found Bexley with her back to him, one arm in the air, the other arm wrapped around the camtono.

And two stormtroopers holding blaster rifles on her.

The idea popped into his head before he had a chance to consider the consequences. “She’s Rebel Alliance!”

Which changed the tone of the proceedings pretty quick.

One of the stormtroopers aimed more squarely on Bexley’s chest. When Willrow came alongside the trio, he yanked the camtono away from her, feeling a flood of relief from having his hands on the metal container again. He nodded to the troopers. “She’s Rebel Alliance. And she stole my property. I’m taking it back.”

The other stormtrooper trained a rifle on Willrow and said, “Not so fast. Nobody is going anywhere until we sort this out.”

“Really?” Bexley asked, giving Willrow some pointed side-eye. “I mean, really?”

“After you stole from me.”

“These people I fly around don’t tip…”

The other stormtrooper stepped forward. “Quiet. What’s in that thing, anyway?”

Willrow sighed. He didn’t think smuggling would be this hard. Certainly not before he even left on his first assignment. He said, “I don’t have the code.”

The stormtroopers looked at each other, momentarily confused, and Willrow wondered if he should exploit that opening. But then an even better distraction came along—commotion from the end of the hallway. Another group of stormtroopers rushed by, flanking a tall, dark figure with a flowing cape and a gleaming black helmet.

“Is that…?” Willrow asked.

“I think so,” Bexley said.

Neither stormtrooper was paying attention now, clearly nervous at the sight of their boss and wondering if Willrow and Bexley were worth wasting their time on. They watched as Vader and his entourage disappeared around a corner.

Willrow’s desperation mixed with his adrenaline and, before he even fully processed what he was doing, he whipped the camtono into the rifle of the stormtrooper closest to him, sending the blaster flying, then planted a foot into the trooper’s midsection. Bexley caught on quick, grabbing the rifle of the other stormtrooper and yanking it away, training it on the pair.

The two of them backed away slowly, one stormtrooper on the floor, the other with hands in the air.

“Is that deal still good?” Bexley asked.

“Are you kidding?”

“Seems like you need to go, and I bet you don’t have a pilot.”

Willrow laughed. “You’re not kidding.”

But then Bexley threw him that little curl of the lip. The smile that made him think of her in the first place, and spending a little time in a cramped cockpit.

And he knew it was stupid, but yeah, sometimes that could be fun.

“I need to get my pack,” Bexley said. “South shuttle bay?”

“Sure.”

They took off in opposite directions before the other stormtrooper could scramble to his rifle. And as Willrow ran for the shuttle bay, the city’s speakers squawked to life.

“Attention, this is Lando Calrissian. Attention. The Empire’s taken control of the city. I advise everyone to leave before more Imperial troops arrive.”

Yeah, Willrow thought. As if he needed the suggestion.

He made it back to the living area, doors opening, panicked residents fleeing. He gripped the camtono tighter, nearly knocking over a group of Ugnaughts, and then was surprised to see the man himself. Calrissian, accompanied by a woman in a white jumpsuit carrying a blaster. She looked familiar, but Willrow couldn’t quite place her.

Another hairpin turn and he nearly collided with a massive Wookiee with a gold droid on its back, an astromech unit rolling along behind them. What the hell was going on here?

But before he could give it any real consideration, he turned a corner into a vaulted lobby full of fleeing Cloud City residents, and saw the last person he expected to see.

Faron.

“Been looking for you,” the Rodian called out, striding toward him through the chaos, a glint in his bulbous black eyes.

“Why?” Willrow asked.

He nodded toward the camtono. “That.”

Willrow tightened his grip. “I’m off to deliver it. And anyway, this isn’t really the best time…”

Faron held up a credit chip. “Another ten thousand. So that was twenty just to hold it for a bit. Not so bad, I’d say.”

From the far end of the lobby came a shout and the sound of a blaster. Willrow craned his neck to look for the source, and when he returned his attention to Faron, the Rodian was offering the credit chip with one hand and reaching for the camtono with the other.

There was only one reason he would be doing this now—whatever was inside the camtono must be valuable. More valuable than Faron initially realized. Willrow had a feeling that Tropos was no longer the recipient, despite Faron’s warnings about her.

Willrow took a few steps back. “Isn’t there some kind of smuggler’s code or something?”

The Rodian leaned back and laughed, a guttural and vaguely troubling sound. “You think you’re a smuggler? You’re barely a messenger.”

Faron stepped forward, grabbing at the camtono. Willrow pulled back, but the Rodian had a good grip, and they locked into a struggle for it, tugging back and forth while trying to dodge the people darting around them.

Willrow dropped his weight, trying to wrench it free, but Faron was strong. The shouting in the distance was getting closer. He considered letting go, letting Faron have the camtono. Just get out before things got worse.

And then he thought of another shift sitting at a console, monitoring pressure levels, venting gases, doing little more than watching lights and pressing buttons. He thought about how even after paying off Bexley he’d be left with forty thousand credits, and that was better than twenty.

So he pulled harder.

Faron stuck his foot between Willrow’s legs, trying to knock him down, but they ended up tangled together and stumbled, falling toward the floor, and as they both threw up their arms to protect themselves, the camtono went flying.

Willrow watched as it flipped through the air and came down with a loud clang.

And in that moment, his heart twisted in his chest. He ran to the cylinder before anyone else could, picked it up, and gave it a shake. Where once there’d been solid silence, something inside rattled.

Maybe it was nothing. Maybe something inside just came loose…

But Faron heard it, too. His bug-eyes went wide and he shook his head. “You’re on your own with that one.”

And the Rodian got up and disappeared into a crowd of evacuating residents.

Willrow gave the camtono another shake. Heard another rattle.

Let’s just say Tropos has ways of making people disappear. But not until she makes every person you ever loved disappear first.

No matter what, Willrow still needed to get off Cloud City. So he ran hard for the shuttle bay. After pushing through crowds of people seeking some sort of safe passage, he found Bexley in the far corner, circling a battered gunship, which Willrow recognized from its patrols through the city’s skies. It was a security vessel, and as he came up alongside the hull he asked, “This thing going to hold up?”

“Let’s hope so,” Bexley said. “Batuu, right?”

Willrow held up the camtono. Gave it another shake. Felt the rattle inside.

“Hey,” Bexley said, punching a code into the panel next to the door. “We’re going to get overrun with people trying to get out of here in a second. Where we headed?”

Maybe he wasn’t cut out to be a smuggler.

But that didn’t mean he was going back to his job in gas mining. So as the ramp lowered Willrow clutched the camtono, wondering if the contents were salvageable. Maybe it was still worth enough to start a new life somewhere.

Far, far away from Tropos.

“Anyplace but Batuu,” he said, climbing aboard the ship.