The Lando Calrissian Adventures: Star Wars Legends

PROLOGUE
 
“SABACC!”
 
It was unmercifully hot. Tossing his card-chips on the table, the young gambler halfheartedly collected what they’d earned him, an indifferent addition to his already indifferent profits for the evening. Something on the unspectacular order of five hundred credits.
 
Perhaps it was the heat. Or just his imagination.
 
This blasted asteroid, Oseon 2795, while closer to its sun than most, was as carefully life-supported and air-conditioned as any developed rock in the system. Still, one could almost feel the relentless solar flux hammering down upon its sere and withered surface, feel the radiation soaking through its iron-nickel substance, feel the unwanted energy reradiating from the walls in every room.
 
Especially this one.
 
Apparently the locals felt it, too. They’d stripped right down to shorts and shirt-sleeves after the second hand, two hours earlier, and looked fully as fatigued and grimy as the young gambler felt. He took a sip from his glass, the necessity for circumspection regarding what he drank blessedly absent for once. No nonsense here about comradely alcohol consumption. Most of them were having ice water and liking it.
 
Beads of moisture had condensed into a solid sheet on the container’s outer surface and trickled down his wrist into his gold-braided uniform sleeve.
 
What a way to live! Oseon 2795 was a pocket of penury in a plutocrat’s paradise. The drab mining asteroid, thrust cruelly near the furnace of furnaces, orbited through a system of pleasure resorts and vacation homes for the galaxy’s superwealthy, like an itinerant junkman.
 
The gambler was wishing at the moment that he’d never heard of the place. That’s what came of taking advice from spaceport attendants. A trickle of moisture ran down his neck into the upright collar of his semiformal uniform. Who said hardrock miners were always rich?
 
He shuffled the oversized deck once, twice, three times, twice again in listless ritual succession, passed it briefly for a perfunctory cut to the perspiring player on his right, dealt the cards around, two to a customer, and waited impatiently for the amateurs to assess their hands. Real or imagined, the heat seemed to slow everybody’s mental processes.
 
Initial bets were added to the ante in the middle of the table. It didn’t amount to a great fortune by anybody’s standards—except perhaps the poverty-cautious participants in the evening’s exercise in the mathematics of probability. To them the gambler was a romantic figure, a professional out-system adventurer with his own private starship and a reputation for outrageous luck. The backroom microcredit plungers were trying desperately to impress him, he realized sadly, and they were succeeding: at the present rate, he’d have to drain the charge from his electric shaver into the ship’s energy storage system, just to lift off the Core-forsaken planetoid.
 
Having your own starship was not so much a matter of being able to buy it in the first place (he’d won his in another sabacc game in the last system but one he’d visited) as being able to afford to operate it. So far, he’d lost money on the deal.
 
Looking down, he saw he’d dealt himself a minus-nine: Balance, plus the Two of Sabres. Not terribly promising, even at the best of times, but sabacc was a game of dramatic reversals, often at the turn of a single card-chip. Or even without turning it—he watched the deuce with a thrill that never staled as the face of the electronic pasteboard blurred and faded, refocused and solidified as the Seven of Staves.
 
That gave him a minus-four: insignificant progress, but progress nevertheless. He saw the current bet, flipping a thirty-credit token into the pot, but declined to raise.
 
It also meant that the original Seven of Staves, in somebody’s hand or in the undealt remainder of the deck, had been transformed into something altogether different. He watched the heat-flushed faces of the players, learning nothing. Each of the seventy-eight card-chips transformed itself at random intervals, unless it lay flat on its back within the shallow interference field of the gaming table. This made for a fast-paced, nerve-wracking game.
 
The young gambler found it relaxing. Ordinarily.
 
“I’ll take a card, please, Captain Calrissian.” Vett Fori, the player in patched and faded denyms on the gambler’s left, was the chief supervisor of the asteroid mining operation, a tiny, tough-looking individual of indeterminate age, with a surprisingly gentle smile hidden among the worry-lines. She’d been betting heavily—for that impecunious crowd, anyway—and losing steadily, all evening, as if preoccupied by more than the heat. An unlit cigar rested on the table edge beside her elbow.
 
“Please, call me Lando,” the young gambler replied, dealing her a card-chip. “ ‘Captain Calrissian’ sounds like the one-eyed commander of a renegade Imperial dreadnought. My Millennium Falcon’s only a small converted freighter, and a rather elderly one at that, I’m afraid.” He watched her for an indication of the card she’d taken. Nothing.
 
A nasal chuckle sounded from across the table. Arun Feb, the supervisor’s assistant, took a card as well. There was a hole frayed in the paunch of his begrimed singlet, and dark stains under his arms. Like his superior, he was small in stature. All the miners seemed to run that way. Compactness was undoubtedly a virtue among them. He had a dark, thick, closely cropped beard and a shiny pink scalp. Drawing on a cigar of his own, he frowned as he added what he’d been dealt to the pair in his hand.
 
Suddenly: “Oh, for Edge’s sake, I simply can’t make up my mind! Can you come back to me, Captain Calrissian?” Lando groaned inwardly. This was how the entire evening had gone so far: the speaker, Ottdefa Osuno Whett, for all his dithering, had been the consistent big winner, perhaps owing to his tactics of continuous annoyance of the others. Fully as much a stranger in the Oseon as the young starship captain, at the moment he was operating on considerably less goodwill.
 
“I’m sorry, Ottdefa, you know I can’t. Will you have a card or not?”
 
Whett assumed an expression of conspicuous concentration that might have been a big success in his university classes. Ottdefa was a title, something academic or scientific, Lando gathered, conferred in the Lekua System. It was the equivalent of “Professor.”
 
Its owner was a spindly wraith, ridiculously tall, gray-headed, with a high-pitched whiny voice and a chronically indecisive manner. It had taken him twenty minutes to order a drink at the beginning of the game—and even then he’d changed his order just as the drink arrived.
 
Lando didn’t like him.
 
“Oh, very well. If you insist, I’ll take a card.”
 
“Fine,” Lando dealt it. Either the academic had an excellent poker face, or he was too absentminded to notice whether the resulting hand was bad or good. Lando looked to his right. “Constable Phuna?”
 
The squat, curly-headed tough-guy he addressed was T. Lund Phuna, local representative of law-and-order under the Administrator Senior of the Oseon. It was not, apparently, the happiest of assignments in the field. The uniform tunic hanging soddenly over the back of his chair looked nearly as worn as his companions’ work clothes. He lit cigarette after cigarette with nervous, sweaty fingers, filling the cramped, already stifling room with more pollution. He wiped a perspiration-soaked tissue over his jowls.
 
“I’ll stand. Nothing for me.”
 
“Dealer takes a card.”
 
It was the Idiot, worth zero. Given the circumstances, Lando felt it was altogether appropriate. If only he’d headed for the Dela System as he’d planned, instead of the Oseon. He’d seen richer pickings in refugee camps.
 
Bets were placed again. Vett Fori took another card, her fourth, as did her assistant, Arun Feb, asking for it around the stub of his cigar. Ottdefa Whett stood pat. A Master of Sabres brought the value of Lando’s hand up to a positive ten, as a final round of wagering commenced.
 
Arun Feb and Vett Fori both folded with a nine and minus-nine respectively. The cop Phuna hung grimly on, his broad features misted with sweat. Lando was about to resign himself, when Whett excitedly cried, “Sabacc!” slapping the Mistress of Staves, the Four of Flasks, and the Six of Coins down on the worn felt tabletop.
 
The Ottdefa raked in a meager pot: “Ah … not exactly the Imperial Crown jewels, nor even the fabulous Treasure of Rafa, but—”
 
“Treasure of Rafa?” echoed Vett Fori.
 
She might as well ask, thought Lando, she isn’t doing herself any good playing cards.
 
“I’ve heard of the Rafa System,” the mine supervisor continued, “everybody has. It’s the closest to our own. But I haven’t heard of any treasure.”
 
The academic cleared his throat. It was a silly, goose-honk noise. “The Treasure of Rafa—or of the Sharu, as we are now compelled to call it, not for the Rafa System, my dear, but for the ancient race who once flourished there and subsequently vanished without a trace—is a subject of some interest.”
 
This had been delivered in Whett’s best professional tones. Vett Fori’s weathered face, impassive enough when it came to playing cards, plainly displayed annoyance at being patronized. She picked up her cigar, stuck it between her teeth, and glared across the table.
 
“Without a trace?” Arun Feb snorted with disbelief. “I’ve been there, friend, and those ruins of your—what’d you call ’em?—‘Sharu,’ are the biggest hunks of engineering in the known galaxy. What’s more, they cover every body in the system bigger than my thumbnail. They—”
 
“Are not themselves the Sharu, my dear fellow, of whom no trace remains,” Whett insisted, his tone divided between pedantry and insulted reaction. “I certainly ought to know, for, until recently, I was a research anthropologist for the new governor of the Rafa System.”
 
“What’s a bureaucrat want with a tame anthropologist?” Feb asked blandly. He blew a final smoke ring, mashed his cigar out on the edge of the vacuum tray, and took a long drink of water. It dribbled down his chin, soaking the collar of his soiled shirt.