Star Wars_ Millennium Falcon - James Luceno [45]
Leia turned to take in the other sculptures. “Are these others genuine?”
“How we wish—since it is our goal to make the Oseon Resort as authentic as possible. Unfortunately, most Coruscant Republicana now resides in the hands of private collectors. But they are museum-quality reproductions.”
They ambled over to where Han was seated with the daughter and younger son. A droid had delivered a small feast of snacks and drinks.
“What is it you wished to speak with my father about, Captain Solo?” Doon said.
Han set his drink down. “The Millennium Falcon.”
The daughter grinned. “The galaxy's most famous vessel. Or is that infamous?”
“A bit of both,” Leia said.
Doon shook his head in amusement. “Our father was so proud to have once owned the Falcon.” He turned to Han. “He followed all of your exploits as though some small part of the ship still belonged to him. In fact, we have images of our father with the Falcon, if you'd care—”
“Yes!” Allana said, hurrying over to them.
Everyone adjusted their chairs to face a small holoprojector. Doon activated it with a remote and navigated through a menu of options. All at once there was the Falcon, in one-meter 3-D, almost as Han remembered the ship from the day Lando showed it to him.
“Here's one of Dad in the cockpit,” Doon said.
Han leaned forward, a big smile plastered on his face. “Look at that. Only one pair of chairs.” He squinted. “The instrument panel was so simple. And the same Rubicon navicomputer.”
“No dice hanging in the viewport,” Leia said.
Han made a face at her.
“Here's another, with Dad fixing something or other.”
“The port-side braking thruster,” Han said. “I can't tell you the number of times I've had to repair that jet.”
“Here, he's inside the ship …”
“The main hold,” Han said. “And a dejarik table was already there! Your father must have removed it at some point, because it wasn't onboard when Lando won the Falcon. I installed a new one to appease my copilot, Chewbacca.”
“The celebrated Wookiee,” Doon said.
Han gazed at the floor and nodded.
Leia spoke up. “Lando said that he won the ship from your father in a sabacc tournament at Bespin.”
“That's true,” Doon's brother said.
Han looked up. “Did he ever explain why he offered the Falcon as a marker?”
The siblings burst out laughing.
“He most certainly did,” Doon said finally. “And it's quite an interesting tale, if you have time.”
Han relaxed into his chair. “We have nothing but.”
IN WHAT HE OFTEN CLAIMED WAS AN HOMAGE TO HIS FATHER, CIX Trouvee was a confirmed and incorrigible gambler. He had learned to play the odds at an early age, and by eighteen had left prosperous Corulag to embark on a career as a professional player. Where his father had bet on swoop races exclusively, Cix was all over the board, and as he approached midlife he would bet on just about anything: Pod races, Chin-Bret matches, rounds of laro, pazaak, Point 5 and sabacc, the roll of a jubilee wheel ball or a cupful of dice, the weather, the population curve, or the fluctuating value of salthia beans. Fortunes passed through his hands, slipped through his fingers. As fast as the credits rolled in he would spend them—on wine, women, luxury hotel suites, suits of shimmersilk and chromasheath. More often his spending outpaced his winnings, and in his wake he left a string of bad debts, splintered friendships, and broken hearts.
For a brief period the one constant in his life was a quirky YT-1300 freighter someone had named the Millennium Falcon and others had seen fit to equip with a Class One hyperdrive, a dejarik hologame table, and a dorsal-mounted laser cannon. But when you're the owner of a fifty-five-year-old starship hosting as many retrofits as original parts, you had better be good with your hands, and Cix simply wasn't, except when it came to dealing cards, gathering winnings, or scrawling his name on markers. Cix loved the Falcon,