As Shadow of the Sith gets nearer and nearer – stay tuned for our reviews of the book here on Fantha Tracks and our in-depth chat with author Adam Christopher on Canon Fodder – another excerpt arrives, this time over at IGN as we learn the real name of Lando Calrissian’s daughter.
He was brought out of his reverie by the sharp clatter of glasses on the bar under his nose, his senses immediately assailed by the acidic aroma of the drinks he had ordered. He looked up and found himself face-to-face with the legendary patron of her eponymous drinkery, Lady Sennifer herself. All he could see of her was her black hair, cut into a bob surrounding a heavy-duty industrial respirator. Her blue eyes blinked behind the protective eyepieces.
“Remember to sip ’em slow,” Sennifer said, the bartender’s voice echoing tinnily through the cans of her mask. “You’ll live longer.”
Lando found the corner of his mouth lifting in a grin, despite his sour mood. “It’s been years since I had one of these.”
“Well you’re about to be reminded real quick. That’ll be four hundred credits.”
Lando’s grin froze. He blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Danger money,” said Sennifer.
With a sigh and a shake of the head, Lando counted a stack of his winnings in the palm of his hand, then handed it over. Sennifer took the money without a word then disappeared to serve another gaggle of customers.
Lando gathered up the glasses between his hands, then stopped.
Ah yes, there it was. That creeping feeling, the guilt back again to say hello and to stay awhile. He looked down at the noxious drinks, trying to come to some kind of a decision.
He’d come to Boxer Point on a notion that it was exactly the kind of place he might find a lead on his daughter. It had seemed like a good idea, but even as he plotted his course, he knew from bitter experience that he was just trying very hard to convince himself he was doing something productive to further his search. True enough, he hadn’t actually been to Boxer Point Station in years, and, yes, the mix of spacefarers, particularly in a place like Sennifer’s, was the kind of place you could pick up all kinds of information.
But Sennifer’s also had, on a good night, anyway, some of the best unregulated gambling you could happen to find, and Lando knew that all too well. What was supposed to be a search could—would—be easily derailed by the distraction.
He was using his daughter as an excuse, and he knew it, and, right here, right now, it killed him.
Kadara Calrissian.
He put the glasses back down and took a breath, surprised at his reaction—and then . . . happy, because that was what he wanted, he deserved to be guilty, and he deserved to be—
“Kidnapping? Have you got hyperphasic space worms?”
Lando looked up, shaking his head to clear it, like he’d just been punched in the jaw.
Farther along the curve of the bar, three beings were huddled. The one who had just mentioned kidnapping had his back to Lando, his bulky form clad in scuffed gray plastoid armor that matched the tone of his skin, with a skullcap on his huge, angular head. The second looked identical to the first, only this was one facing Lando, revealing the long, low-slung, flat-nosed snout and wide-set, reptilian eyes.
That second member of the party had his attention fixed on the third being, who seemed to be holding court, his back against the bar, an entire bottle of what looked like Serennian herbal gin cradled in the crook of one arm. This one was wearing a black outfit that looked like a mix of leather and something synthetic, and his flattened face was pale and scarred, like the features had been burned off in some terrible accident. His eyes were perfectly round and black—electronic optics? Lando wondered—and a cybernetic headband wrapped around his skull, small red and blue lights winking over the spots where, Lando assumed, the man’s ears would be.
“Listen, listen. Bosvarga, Cerensco,” said the man, nodding to each of his companions. His rounded head bobbled wildly, voice clear but slurred from the expensive gin. “This isn’t a job. This is a calling. I’ve been chosen, right?” He reached for the gin bottle on the bar, apparently not noticing that his hand closed around empty air, the bottle now safely in his companion’s care. “I’ve been . . . reactivated.”
“Sounds great,” said Bosvarga, his eyes rolling melodramatically.
“You know,” said Ochi, ignoring his companion, “they sent bounty hunters after them? You know how that went?” He waved a hand. “Hopeless. Chased them into Wild Space and got themselves vaporized by the New Republic.” He tapped his own chest. “No wonder they came crawling back to me. I used to hunt Jedi, back in the Clone Wars, did you know that? Ochi of Bestoon was the best hunter in the galaxy. They want the girl? Easy. Ochi will have it done in no time.”
Lando watched as Bosvarga shot a glance Cerensco, before refocusing on Ochi.
“Wait, the New Republic got them?”
Cerensco frowned, and shook his head. “The less I have to do with the New Republic, the better. I’m still wanted in more than ten systems.”
Bosvarga hissed and held up a hand. “Eleven.”
Cerensco raised his glass. “I’ll drink to that!”
Ochi slumped on his stool. “I’ve got power now,” he muttered, his voice almost disappearing in the general hubbub of Sennifer’s.
Lando slid just a little bit closer and strained his ears. This was a stroke of . . . well, it was luck, pure and simple. Lando didn’t pretend he understood the ways of the universe, but neither did he waste any time questioning them. The Jedi had the Force, right? And Lando didn’t understand that, either, but he accepted it. So maybe there were other powers at work, not to be understood but to be accepted, and welcomed when they came calling. Hell, maybe luck was his version of the Force? It sounded ridiculous even as the thought entered his mind, but Lando willed himself to ignore the doubts. He relied on luck, often too heavily, both in business and in pleasure—the gambling he loved so much was the perfect combination of skill and luck, and often, in the heat of a game, Lando felt like he was master of both—but something itched at the back of his mind whenever he thought about it. He’d spent too many years chasing clues, relying on overheard conversations, intercepted data transmissions, even whispers and rumors and chatter from the backs of spaceports and cantinas and places just like Sennifer’s Beam and Balance—all of it, in some form or another, convenient, or coinci dental, or just plain lucky. And while none of those roads had led to his daughter, there had been times when Lando had felt he’d made progress, gotten that one step closer. True enough, he hadn’t had that feeling much lately, but maybe, just maybe, as the wheel of the universe turned once more, it was time for another little piece of luck.
Lando felt a little flutter in his chest. Not hope, exactly, but the unmistakable sense that he had stumbled onto something important.
“I’ve got secrets, too,” Ochi continued.
“Sounds great,” said Bosvarga again.
“I do,” said Ochi. “They told me. Showed me the way.” He looked around, as though he was expecting someone to be eavesdropping at his shoulder, completely unaware Lando was, in fact, eavesdropping from just slightly farther along the bar. “Showed me the way.”
Cerensco topped up his glass. “Way to where?”
Ochi turned his black eyes on him. “To Exegol.”
Lando frowned. He wasn’t familiar with that planet, or system, or whatever it was.
Then Ochi smiled. It was a strange expression. The skin of his face, already stretched tight by the extensive scarring, was pulling even closer against his skull, his lipless mouth nothing but a wide slit. The tip of a white tongue poked out and moistened them.
“The Sith have called me,” he said, quietly. “I served them before. And now they have called me again.”
While Lando had been straining to hear over the noise of the bar, that single word—“Sith”—had come across loud and clear, like the whole place had suddenly dropped in volume, by pure coincidence.
Sith.
Lando hadn’t heard that name spoken in years, but the sudden, unexpected mention was like a gut punch.
Sith? Did they even still exist? Weren’t they all dead? Surely they weren’t involved with the kidnappings?
Were they?
What the hell had he run across now?
- Hardcover Book
- Christopher, Adam (Author)
- English (Publication Language)
- 496 Pages - 06/28/2022 (Publication Date) - Random House Worlds (Publisher)
