Tumbling Dice

by Sabacc Gal

Honey, got no money,
I'm all sixes and sevens and nines.
Say now, baby, I'm the rank outsider,
You can be my partner in crime.

He reaches to check a blinking sensor but the Falcon warns him off with a spark and a crackle of ozone.

[Get away from that!] Chewbacca snaps.

Lando rubs his fingertips. The undignified moment puts to rest any illusion that he might retain even the slightest claim over his former ship. Han Solo's absence haunts the Falcon's deepest infrastructure, anguish coursing through the tangled knots of wiring like fire in her blood, angry and desperate and ready to strike at the nearest offender.

"Chewie, I need your help with Luke," a quiet female voice sounds behind them.

[Don't touch anything,] Chewbacca warns before following the slender shadow down the passageway.

As the hatch slides closed behind them Lando scans the empty cockpit; tries to remember when he'd last felt so unwelcome.

While the Wookiee's faithfulness to Han Solo has always been mystifying, the Falcon's petulant attachment to her captain is decidedly disturbing.

And Princess Leia's devotion to the two-bit smuggler is nothing short of mind-boggling.

Though the hyperdrive is holding – and he's perceptive enough to seek no gratitude for it – the series of jumps to their unrevealed destination is apparently non-trivial and Chewbacca directs him to the cargo hold for the night.

Lying on a cold durafoam pad sandwiched between crates of contraband worth a tidy credit on the open market – why didn't Han use this stuff to pay off Jabba? – Lando recalls the Falcon's layout well enough to know that there's no logistical need for him to be spending the night back here. Even the humble lounge couch would at least be warmer.

But he doesn't dare mention it, and nobody offers.

The crates loom over him, oppressive and ominous.

He tries to rearrange them to give himself more room and stumbles over the old practice remote; recalls Han pulling off shot after shot, honing lightning-fast reflexes. For all the good it proved against Lord Vader.

He tosses the remote aside.

The Falcon is accusingly quiet.

Well. Since sleep won't come, it's as good a time as any to reassess the business plan. Experience has taught him that surviving the long-term game depends on keeping a level head and knowing when to cut your losses.

So… Liabilities first:

- Bespin business loans? A no-brainer. Defaulting as of now.

- Cloud City citizens? Best of luck to them, but ditto above. Life goes on.

- Najatte and Clarisse? A sweet pang of regret, but he'll get over it. Hopefully the two didn't wind up on the same transport together and happen to compare stories.

- Lord Vader and his troops. Shit. Could be a longer-term problem.

- Angry Wookiee. Angrier princess. Both of whom he's dependent on at the moment. Not an ideal situation, definitely something to work on.

- Han Solo…

Okay, enough of the negatives. Time to switch gears.

Assets:

- One pair of custom boots, Galamian leather.

- Trousers, Botta-spun, tailored by Jax F'ill of Rhesuvius.

- One tailored shirt, shimmersilk, with integrated cape clasp.

- One cape, which come to think of it he should be using as a blanket in this blasted –

Damn. When the hell did that happen?

Revision to Assets: One tailored shirt, shimmersilk. Torn collar, broken clasp.

After an hour of shivering in the cold it dawns on him that he's hungry, and he has an encouraging memory – hopefully fulfilled by his men before everything went to hell – of signing the order for the Falcon's provisions to be restocked. In style, naturally. He prides himself on his finesse even under duress.

Princess Leia, sitting at the darkened game table, ignores his quiet greeting as he crosses to the galley.

Never mind. He's here on business. And… Jackpot!

Addendum to Assets: One pantry full of delicacies.

Like an ethereal Corellian night-sprite he makes a pot of Joodlar tea and assembles a tray fit for royalty: Wrodial crisps. Nuggets of noorian cheese. Smoked tobifin. A tiny jar of Khandian caviar exquisitely marinated in sweet bloodberries.

He sets the offering on the table between them, pours two cups of tea.

She doesn't even look up.

Silently, graciously – because he's a sensitive and understanding man – he ignores the snub as he sits opposite her and racks his brain for something appropriate to say.

Never one to skimp on his education, Lando is proud to have invested much of his own time – and other people's credits – refining his table manners while chatting up media heads and corporate magnates at the galaxy's finest establishments. Building a rapport with the one who holds the cards is an art form at which he excels.

But he's at a loss for conversation now. Watching her studying the table, he suspects that chit-chat about last season's tobifin harvest will be pointedly ignored.

His teacup clatters. His slurping of the Joodlar rips awkwardly through the stillness of the freighter's night.

He pops a cheese cube into his mouth, tries in vain to dampen the smack of his own chewing.

Her eyes finally snap up at the sharp crunch of a Wrodial crisp.

He coughs apologetically. "I'll, uh, just go see if Chewbacca would like anything." The shaggy co-pilot may very well pull his arms off, but a vindictive Wookiee seems marginally less threatening than this woman's simmering silence.

"Thought you might be hungry."

Tray balanced awkwardly as the hatch slides shut behind him, Lando hesitates, wavering between sitting companionably up front in the captain's chair or settling for the humble navigator's seat.

[Don't spill that,] Chewbacca grumbles.

Navigator's seat it is.

Lando's journey to corporate success naturally included a casual perusal of the seminal Intra-Galactic Communications self-improvement texts: Interstellar Protocol: Smalltalk in the Fourth Dimension; its highly successful sequel, How To Talk When Life-forms Don't Listen: Navigating Negotiations in the Ultra-High-Frequency; and of course the best-selling How To Win Worlds and Influence Aliens.

But he can't recall any standard practices for mollifying rancorous Wookiees.

Instead, drink in hand, he politely listens in on the conversation already in progress: a protracted argument between the ship's primary panel and the navicomputer. The Falcon could obviously benefit from an overhaul of her own internal negotiation skills.

He studies Chewie's attempt at mediation, furry hands skimming the controls in a complex process that was likely meant for two.

"Need any help with –"

[No.]

By the time Lando concludes that it might be best to excuse himself, the princess has vanished from the lounge, her cooling Joodlar still brimming on the game table.

He presses his palms around the teapot in search of warmth, lets a Wrodial crisp dissolve to noiseless mush on his tongue as he listens to the ship lamenting her missing captain with each sigh of recirculated air.

"When did Han join the rebellion?" Because this inexplicable liability, Han Solo's red-ledger entry, has been puzzling him more than he can explain.

"He didn't."

Of his three sentient shipmates the wounded mystery boy – the one Lord Vader described as the Emperor's prize – is the most talkative. Or, more accurately, of the three he's the only one who doesn't entirely ignore an offering of refreshments, even going so far as threading the fingers of his remaining hand through the handle of the mug. Or maybe the kid is just too weak to toss the hot liquid into his face.

"Oh. I wondered." Smalltalk over drinks. He's in his element. He's done this a thousand times. Don't stare at his medicuff, idiot. "Because Han was never big on politics."

"He isn't."

Isn't. Of course. Not wasn't. You're slipping, buddy. That's the kind of blunder that blows a business deal.

The boy isn't drinking, just staring into the depths of the tea.

"But he was –" …is? Has been? Damn it… "– working underground with the princess, right? How did that happen?"

The boy doesn't answer.

"I mean, how did Han get involved with someone like her at all?"

"He rescued her. Saved her life." His words a dull monotone, Skywalker runs two fingers, bruised and blood-crusted, around the edge of the cup. The monitor beeps overhead, cheerfully announcing the next round of cocktails. "He saved mine, too. More than once."

The infusion pump activates with a hiss. The boy shivers, his breath catching as he slumps back against the med-bunk.

Lando swallows; wonders how much longer until Han Solo's strange new allies simply decide to dump him out the airlock.

"How long were they together?" Are. Have been. Whatever. All he's looking for is to shed some light on this. Because, princess or not, Han's limit on female attachments was three months, tops.

The boy looks up at him with vacant eyes, pin-point pupils revealing nothing but pain-killers and exhaustion.

What the hell happened to you, you old pirate? The Han Solo I remember was never selfless, never a hero. Not unless money was involved.

Friendship, an occasional side-effect of business, remained on the books only until it became a liability to be neatly written off.

And love? Definitely not part of the smuggler's winning gambling strategy.

"Really, sir, I would describe Captain Solo as having no rational objectives to speak of whatsoever, in as much as…"

It seemed like a good idea a minute ago, so desperate was he for answers and some semblance of conversation. But it's quickly obvious that the 3PO unit will tell him nothing worth hearing – and is going to do it very loudly, too.

"…And his blatant disregard for my advice, not to mention the Princess' safety, certainly played a role in our tragic plight, Baron Calrissian. In fact you yourself witnessed – Wait! Stop! What are you –"

Not the most gracious end to a conversation, but if there's a book on How To Win Droids And Influence Automatons, Lando hasn't read it.

Damn. He can only hope Leia and the Wookiee didn't hear. Plus he's no closer to having any of this make sense.

Time for a change of pace.

Updated assets: One brimming water tank. Two standard refills of agruma-scented body foam. Fifty rolls of fresher paper.

In the early morning hours of their flight – To where? He still doesn't know – he decides a shower is in order. He knows for a fact that the fresher unit was serviced on Cloud City, that nobody else is making use of it, that every last corner of the Falcon is freezing, and that standing under a hot spray sounds like a more refined way to warm up than slurping cup after cup of Joodlar within earshot of the whole damned ship.

There's even a cleanish-looking bath towel on a hook.

After ten minute of luxurious heat he shuts off the water and unfurls the towel, notices strands of hair clinging to its fibres, hair too long and fine to be Wookiee fur, Han, you lucky son-of-a-devil, he's grinning in response to the scenario which is flashing in his mind, until he's assaulted with the memory of his friend's frozen features bronzed in permanent agony, the stricken princess mute with horror as the carbonite slab slams to the floor.

He puts the towel back with a shiver, reaches for a handful of fresher paper to dry himself off with, and suddenly he's retching Khandian caviar into the waste unit.

Revised assets: Forty-nine rolls of fresher paper and a slightly stained shimmersilk shirt.

[There is a fork in the tree.]

Two furry arms are waiting to manoeuver him none-too-gently toward the cockpit as Lando stumbles out of the fresher, damp shimmersilk clinging coldly to his chest.

[Time to prune the branch with which to spear your shrinking assets.]

Or something like that. Shyriiwook was never his forte, and Lando suspects the Wookiee has picked up some unconventional metaphors in his years with Han.

The princess is sitting in the captain's seat, gaze fixed on the viewscreen ahead.

"We're taking a detour." A detour on the way to where, she doesn't volunteer, and he doesn't ask. "We'll be stopping on Pollavis to scan for tracking devices."

Why that danger hadn't occurred to him, he has no idea. This is the reason they haven't rushed to get the boy to urgent medical care, he realizes.

The possibility that Vader might be on their tail renews the taste of bile in his throat. He swallows, grips the back of her chair to steady himself against a fresh wave of nausea. The Wookiee roughly nudges his hand off the chair-back.

If the princess notices she gives no indication.

"You have two options," she continues, still staring at the viewscreen. "One, we leave you on Pollavis. You'll be free to go, and what you do after that will be entirely up to you." She swivels the chair to look at him, calm and cold-eyed. Lando takes a reflexive step back only to find himself blocked by Chewbacca's solid mass. "Two, we take you with us to our rendez-vous point."

Her words begin to sink in. "Where your people throw me in the slammer for betraying you?" He's surprised by the lack of accusation in his own voice; no anger, only weary acceptance. Apparently whatever was left of his pride is on its way to the Falcon's water-reclaiming unit.

She clasps her hands in a slow and deliberate motion, chin resting lightly on her fingers as she evaluates him. "I can guarantee your physical safety in accordance with Alliance custody conventions. Beyond that…"

It's a no-brainer. "I'll take my chances with you." Life in a rebel prison beats torture and death at the hands of the Empire. He's a marked man now, penniless and drifting no matter how he cooks the books. And he knows all too well that old friends will prove scarce at best, treacherous at worst.

The irony of the role-reversal isn't lost on him as he stands before her. He'd almost feel better if she gloated. Rubbed his nose in it.

But she merely gives an impassive nod, an apparent signal for the Wookiee to usher him out of the cockpit.

She drops in on him unexpectedly. Not exactly a social call – she's searching for medical supplies in the stacks surrounding his durafoam nest – but he lucks out by actually having seen the box she's looking for.

"I can't believe this stuff." He shakes his head as he digs out the case for her. "Worth a fortune."

She makes a noncommittal sound, a progress of sorts in the conversational department.

"Why didn't Han use some of it to smooth things over with Jabba?" he continues. "The Han I knew was smart enough to—."

She whirls on him with the volatility he's learning to expect of Han's mercurial princess. "The Han you knew?"

He holds up a hand in an appeasing gesture. "I –"

She slams her fists down on the closest crate. "Don't you dare presume to know anything about Han." Her eyes are flashing with anger.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles, retreating, stumbling gracelessly over that damned practice-remote as he backs his way out through the maze of crates still clutching her case of bacta infusion.

He sees her stoop to pick up the remote; half-expects her to lob it at his head before he reaches the safety of the corridor.

He's transferring bacta packs to the med-bunk cabinet – a feeble effort to mend fences – when he's startled by a succession of crashes, followed by the sharp echo of blaster fire.

Luke, mercifully unconscious, moans a little.

Chewbacca lumbers by with a grunt and Lando finds himself sprinting down the passageway after him. The sound increases in intensity as they approach the cargo hold.

In an inexplicable moment of synchrony he and Chewbacca flank either side of the now-closed hatch, then exchange glances as the Wookiee nods and palms the door open.

Across the gap a silver shape whizzes by, two stun-bolts zapping it dead-on in the split-second before it whips out of view.

Peering cautiously around the edge of the bulkhead Lando glimpses the princess, a blur of speed and agility, madly tracking the remote amidst a rubble of toppled crates as she fires shot after shot with painful accuracy. She's ignoring him and the Wookiee entirely, though it's hardly possible she hasn't noticed them.

"Leia?" he calls out.

No answer but the angry release of blaster fire.

"Leia!"

He glances uncertainly at Chewbacca across the narrow passage as the barrage continues. The Wookiee shakes his head, holds one paw up, rumbles something soft and incomprehensible.

After a minute of solemn watchfulness, with the furious fire inside showing no hint of abating, Chewbacca reaches to palm the hatchway shut on the chaos and ushers him away from the door.

[Leave her.]

"What?"

[She needs space to grieve.]

"How do you know she's not going to do something stupid?"

[The princess is never stupid. Let her be.]

But the Wookiee stops a little further down the corridor, pulling open a service panel and starting up a suspiciously trivial sequence-check within earshot of the ringing blaster fire.

"Chewie?"

The towering giant doesn't look up from his task.

"How long were they together?"

The Wookiee ignores him, mumbles something mournful into the mess of wires.

"What do you know about Jabba the Hutt?" Dishevelled and lethal-looking, she's standing at the entrance to the lounge.

It's the first semblance of conversation she's initiated since they fled Cloud City. He'd be less taken aback if she'd simply drawn a bead on him for a renewed round of sharpshooting practice.

"Jabba?" He pushes himself to a sitting position on the couch, struggles to sound casual.

She, on the other hand, appears remarkably nonchalant given that she just trashed his sleeping quarters.

"Jabba's a crime lord, plain and simple," he begins dutifully. "He's slime. Ruthless as they come. Not somebody you want to cross."

"Proud? Vindictive?"

He nods uneasily.

"How much security does he employ?"

"Dozens. Probably more," he shrugs, with a notion now of where this is going: Princess Leia Organa, sharp, resourceful and undaunted, is already working out the logistics for rescuing Han Solo.

He tries to picture Najatte or Clarisse doing the same for him; the image is ridiculous.

"How secure are his headquarters?"

"Well, out in the desert, the place gives the impression of a fortress. But it's got its weak points."

She seems to think for a moment. "Is Jabba the type who'd take pleasure in showing off a captive? The type who'd relish making an example of him?"

Lando swallows. "I'd say so, yeah. A public display of humiliation would be right up Jabba's alley."

With a nod she ends the conversation as abruptly as she started it and begins heading toward the cockpit.

"Leia?"

She pauses, turns to cock her head at him.

"I'm sorry I didn't do more."

Didn't, not couldn't.

Was there ever a difference? He's not sure of a damn thing anymore. His world is being sucked into a senseless chaos where devil-may-care guys like Han Solo are cashing it all in to resist evil personified and defend kids pursued by the Emperor and win the hearts of sharp-shooting princesses.

The game has changed. None of the old rules apply. Han's fate actually matters to people on a personal level, can't casually be written off the books as a poorly-gambled liability.

How stupid is it to envy that?

"You were the Empire's pawn in a no-win scenario." Her declaration is matter-of-fact, her face devoid of expression. "I've been there." Those last words are barely audible as she turns away, except he's too good a gambler not to pick up on the muted sorrow in her voice.

The hopeful gratitude that washes over him is probably inappropriate. And since when does he care about anybody's forgiveness, anyway?

"Leia?"

One hand on the edge of the bulkhead, she pauses but doesn't turn around this time.

"Whatever you're planning for getting him back," he volunteers quietly, "Count me in."

She doesn't acknowledge his offer, doesn't move.

He can't see her face. Is he just coming off like some smooth-talking con-man, a cleaned-out gambler desperate to score points with the one person who can rig the dice in his favour?

"It's the least I can do," he hears himself clarifying. The words sound hackneyed even to his own ears. "I know it's hard to believe, but Han and I shared some good times, back in the day."

Why does he desperately need her to believe him?

She still doesn't turn around. "Someday I'd like to hear more about…" There's a hitch in her voice. "…about the Han you knew."

And then she's gone, leaving him wondering what the hell he's tumbled into.