Archive of Our Own

Ransolm Casterfo was going to die.

Riosa was three standard days from Hosnian Prime by the fastest safe hyperspace lanes, and judging by the shifts his guards kept and the number of meals they’d given him, it had been two days already.

Then again, Riosa's rotation was six hours longer than the galactic standard, so if they were keeping to Riosan time they might be nearly upon the planet.

He harbored no illusions about his fate. Riosans were not a people given to endless debating. He would have a trial, and he would be found guilty, and he would be executed, likely within a matter of days. The only question that remained was the method by which he would die. Tradition dictated that the condemned be allowed to choose the method of his execution, within reason. Some preferred the melodrama of a public spectacle, even going so far as to request hanging by traditional Riosan vine-ropes. There were more dignified options, many of them painless, but Riosans tended to view such choices with contempt.

Given how easily the evidence against him had been fabricated, Ransolm was beginning to understand why so many worlds refused to sentence even their most depraved criminals to death.

He struggled to take a deep breath. Whenever he began to think too closely about what awaited him, panic threatened to overwhelm the calm exterior he'd maintained so far. It had only slipped once, when Senator Organa had raced to meet him before the transport left Hosnian Prime. Seeing the look in her eyes, the grief and betrayal and helplessness--it had been too much like looking into a mirror.

The ship jolted slightly, causing one of the off-duty guards to look up from the game of sabaac he was playing on his holotab.

"If you’re aiming for negative twenty-three, you'll want to place the Queen of Air and Darkness into the stasis field before the next shift," Ransolm advised, and got only a dirty look for his suggestion. When the cards on the screen shifted, leaving the guard with a useless hand, Ransolm felt a distant, wry satisfaction. Leia Organa’s influence, no doubt. “I did tell you,” he reminded the guard.

He said nothing, but Ransolm hadn’t expected him to. No one had spoken a word to him since he'd stepped on board the ship. His hands were still bound in front of him, and he was confined to the galley, but they hadn't taken other means to imprison him. They knew he was beaten, after all, and he'd never had a reputation for personal violence.

A proximity alarm wailed suddenly, and the ship shuddered hard as it was yanked out of hyperspace. Ransolm caught himself on the edge of a galley chair to keep from falling against the bulkhead. The viewport on the wall showed no sign of Riosa, but a matte-black ship blocked out the distant stars on their port side, weapons trained on the ship. Their own transport had armaments and shielding systems, but they had all been left dormant to conserve power during the hyperspace jump, and it would take at least a minute to bring them back online. If the other ship had designs on their destruction, it would be over in seconds.

It seemed Ransolm no longer had to worry about choosing his method of execution.

The guard captain, clearly woken by the commotion, charged up through the galley to the cabin. She checked herself, turned back, and pushed Ransolm back into the galley.

"Stay here," she snapped, and sealed the door behind her.

The door itself had a port-hole to the cabin, so Ransolm had the mild entertainment of watching six guards shouting over each other in a muffled pantomime while he waited for the other ship to destroy them.

While the crew was still scrambling to raise the shields, an airlock chime sounded to the aft. The crew jerked around in a comical fashion just as the inner lock slid open to reveal a humanoid in a black vacuum suit, holding a small metal cylinder in one hand.

As the crew raised their blasters, the intruder flung the cylinder into the cabin and ducked back behind the shielded door.

Noxious violet gas began venting from each end of the canister, and despite being sealed in the galley Ransolm instinctively held his breath. Blaster bolts ricocheted off the airlock door, sending up red sparks whenever they hit a segment of unshielded plating, but slowly the guards began to sink to their knees.

Ransolm watched in horror as they slumped to the ground beneath the billowing clouds of gas. Were they dead? Was this an attack meant to kill him for his supposed support of the Amaxine warriors? Perhaps a relative or a friend of Tai-Lin Garr, not content with allowing justice to take its course...

The hijacker appeared in front of the galley door. Seized with a sudden instinct for survival, Ransolm cast about the galley for anything he could possibly use as a weapon, but his guards had scoured the room long before takeoff. He backed away as the hijacker tried the door, and then put a blaster to the lock and fired.

The door slid meekly aside, revealing the hijacker in all their imposing glory, and Ransolm straightened up. No one would ever know it, but he could at least face his death with dignity.

But to his surprise, the hijacker slid the blaster back into its holster and pulled a breath-mask from their belt. "Here," they said. The voice was flattened by the helmet, and the dark transparisteel made it impossible to guess the identity, even the species, of the person inside.

Gas was beginning to seep into the galley; Ransolm's head spun with sudden dizziness. He fumbled to put the mask on with bound hands, and his mind cleared.

"Come on." The hijacker led him out to the main body of the ship, but Ransolm hesitated at the threshold.

"The crew, what did you do to them?"

"They'll live. It's a knockout agent with a small dose of amnesiac. Should last about an hour."

"What are you doing here?"

The hijacker's sigh was audible through the helmet. "Always with the questions. Why can't I ever pull off a rescue mission where the target just says 'thanks'? No, it's always 'who are you' and 'what are you doing here' and 'into the garbage chute, flyboy'."

The last one wasn't a question, but Ransolm felt that this wasn’t a time to quibble.

"You coming?"

"I..."

The hijacker waved a hand. "Fine. You want to stay here and get executed, go for it. Otherwise there's a fast ship just outside and a spare vac-suit in the airlock. Choice is yours." They started down the corridor.

After a single second's thought, Ransolm stepped out of the galley to follow them. He paused only long enough to relieve the unconscious guard captain of the key to his restraints, and then he hurried down the corridor to catch up to his apparent rescuer.

It was fairly difficult to remove his own restraints, but the hijacker—rescuer?—didn’t seem keen to assist. Finally, the cuffs released, and Ransolm tucked them into a pocket of his robes as he pulled off his breath-mask and reached for the vac-suit.

"Souvenir?" his rescuer asked dryly.

Ransolm only shrugged. Leaving the cuffs behind was a sure sign that he'd left the ship under his own power, and the fewer clues he left in his wake, the better.

The transport's vac-suit was a bulky thing, nothing at all like the sleek custom suit his rescuer wore. This was clearly an emergency measure, designed to preserve the life of whatever humanoid species happened to be aboard during a disaster--even, apparently, if they were a Wookiee. He secured the boots around his calves and sealed the front of the jumpsuit, then reached for the helmet.

As soon as he sealed the catches at the base of the helmet, a display flickered to life inside, showing in brilliant green Basic that his suit's pressurization was at 100%. He took a deep breath and nodded to show his readiness.

Then his rescuer slapped the airlock button and opened a door into space.

Ransolm had never been in a vacuum before. Of course he'd trained in zero gravity, but that was in ground-side facilities designed to simulate a space-borne environment. He expected the disorientation, the stomach-twisting feeling of freefall.

He hadn't expected the silence. He could hear his own breathing, his heart pounding in his ears, but the silence outside his helmet was like a physical pressure. Pushing off the hull of the transport made no sound, and he couldn't tell whether he was moving away from the ship or the ship was moving away from him. His rescuer seemed entirely unfazed, rocketing up towards his ship and opening the airlock. It took Ransolm significantly longer to make his way across the gulf between the two ships.

Even when he finally made contact with the hull of the other ship, there was no sound, nothing beyond the grip of his gloves to tell him that he was anchored to anything at all and not just drifting endlessly--

The outer airlock door spun open, and he pulled himself inside. The door closed again, and the room began to hum--sound, glorious sound--as the airlock pressurized and gravity reasserted itself. Still, he didn't relax until the inner airlock opened to reveal the rest of the ship. Ransolm released the catches at the base of his helmet and lifted it off. Then he stripped off the rest of his bulky vac-suit and took in his surroundings.

Everything about the little ship was compact, as befit a personal transport, and sleek, suggesting that the owner could afford to pay or style as well as function. There was only a single bunk in an alcove near the airlock. A door to the ship’s facilities stood across from it, and further down the corridor was a table that could fold down and create something of a galley.

Beyond that was the cockpit. Ransolm took a steadying breath and walked up to meet his rescuer.

From the cockpit entrance, all he could see was gray hair and the black cloth of a jacket. Ransolm politely tapped on the nearest bulkhead to alert the pilot to his presence.

The pilot looked back over his shoulder and nodded to the co-pilot’s chair. "Strap in. The nav-comp already has a course plotted, but the initial jump's a little rough. Can't beat it for speed, though."

Ransolm sat down in the co-pilot's chair and secured the crash-webbing over his chest. "Where are we headed?"

"Do you care?"

He considered. "Not particularly."

"All right, then." The pilot pulled down on the silver hyperspace lever, and the ship lurched violently, throwing Ransolm against his hastily-fastened crash webbing before the stars stretched out and the hyperdrive settled in.

The pilot sat back in his chair. "All right. Six hours to the next check-in, and we'll figure out what to do with you from there."

"You have my thanks," Ransolm said, still gazing out the viewport. "Though I must admit I am at a loss to explain what happened back there."

"Standard rescue mission. I've gotten a lot better at them over the years, if I do say so myself."

Ransolm gave into his curiosity and turned to stare at his rescuer. The sleek black racer and its craggy pilot were beginning to seem very familiar... "General Solo?"

He winced. "Stars, kid, I resigned that commission when you were still in school. Captain's fine."

"Captain, I...what are you doing here? You’re supposed to be testing the route for the final Sabers race right now. Did Senator Organa--"

"Leia doesn't know anything about this," he said sharply. "And that's how it ought to stay. She's got enough problems as it is."

"Problems that were largely my doing," Ransolm admitted, casting his eyes down. "Captain, I want you to know how sorry I am for my part in revealing Leia's heritage--"

"Leave it," he said shortly. "She knows you're sorry. Hell, she even understands why you did it. And she wouldn’t want you to pay the price for something you didn’t do. You got any idea who set you up?"

"The same person who manipulated me into shaming your wife in front of the entire Senate, I expect."

He nodded. "Wouldn't surprise me. Sounds like it's all falling apart, anyway. Shame I couldn't convince Leia to come along with me."

"She's not going to join you? Then what will she do?"

Han shook his head. "She's left the Senate behind, for good. I got a holo from her when I dropped back to sublight at the last relay point, and she filled me in on what had happened to Tai-Lin, and to you. She told me--" He cut his eyes over at Ransolm, and seemed to decide he was trustworthy. "She told me that she doesn't think the Senate has what it takes to hold the galaxy together. Said she was going to set up a failsafe, a way to defend the Republic when the Senate collapses."

"Is that what she said?" Ransolm asked quietly. "When?"

"Yeah. The look in her eyes when she said that...I wish to hell I was with her. But she told me to see the race through, that it would look suspicious otherwise. I figured I could afford to take a quick detour and right at least one wrong."

"A quick detour?" Ransolm echoed. "Riosa is a dozen light-years out of the Sabers route. They’ll realize your time is off, and they’ll pull your navigation data—“

“Which will show nothing out of the ordinary, ‘cause we’re not going to be late. Sabers races use standard hyperspace lanes, for safety purposes. But you can shave half a dozen parsecs off some of those routes without frying yourself in a stellar corona. Trust me, I’ll set a respectable pace time even with our side trip.”

“I see.” But the spaceport at the end of the race would be swarming with race officials and recording droids, waiting to capture footage of Captain Solo. And if they caught so much as a glimpse of him... “I can’t be here when you finish the route, can I?”

Han didn’t bother to deny it; Ransolm respected him more for his blunt honesty. "No, you really can't. If this were the Falcon, I could tuck you away in one of the sensor-shielded compartments, but..." He sighed. "That's not an option anymore. I got a friend I can hail, near the second-last relay station, he owes me a few favors. He could take you somewhere."

But where would he go? Riosa was a death sentence, as was Hosnian Prime, so he couldn’t go home again. His official accounts would all be frozen, but he had a small sum tucked away that would last for a few months. He could go anywhere in the galaxy—a dizzying thought.

"You don't have to decide now," Han added. "Give it some time. Even with the course I'm on, it'll still be a couple of days before we hit your drop-off point. Right now, you might want to get some rest. No offense, but you're looking a little rough."

"The prospect of imminent death is less than conducive to a good night's sleep."

"Well, you're in the clear for now. Go on. I'll wake you before we drop back to sublight--if you thought the jump to hyperspace was rough, you haven't seen anything yet."

Ransolm nodded and unbuckled his crash webbing. He hesitated at the stairs down to the galley, and turned back. "Captain...thank you," he said.

"You know I didn't really do it for you, right?"

"I know. But still."

He nodded. "Get some sleep."

* * *

Ransolm slept for ten standard hours, only waking when Han's voice crackled over the comm to warn him about their imminent drop to sublight speed. He barely got strapped in before the ship jerked and juddered as they left hyperspace, stars swinging giddily around them.

"I really need to do something about those alluvial dampers," Han muttered. "Head back to the galley and stay out of sight. Every relay station has a droid to catch footage of the racers, and they’re probably already recording. Can’t have them spotting two people in the cockpit—even if they don’t recognize you, that’s gossip my marriage doesn’t need.”

Ransolm ducked back into the galley and dropped the table down to reveal a food station stocked mostly with freeze-dried rations--but there was a caf machine, too. He made a large pot and braced himself against the bulkhead when Han shouted back a warning that they were about to return to hyperspace.

He banged his hip against the edge of the table, but he kept his balance.

Once the ship was en route again, and the residual shaking had stopped, Han left the cockpit to join him in the galley. Ransolm indicated the pot of caf, and Han poured himself a cup.

"I sent a message out to my...associate, concerning the transport of certain live goods. I may have told him you were a bantha."

"Charming."

"Well, if that beard comes in any heavier, you'll start to look the part."

Ransolm made a face and scratched idly at the stubble on his chin. He’d probably want to keep it, at least until the furor over his escape died down. He'd darken his hair a little, too, maybe cut it shorter...

“How is your time?” he asked.

Han shrugged. “Couple of hours off the expected time, but we’ll make it up on this jump. Standard route takes nine hours, but I can cut it to six—we catch the edge of the gravity well at Morr Point, and use it as a slingshot.”

"By gravity well, I'm sure you don't mean the black hole at the center of the Morr system."

Han gave him a sharp grin and took a sip of caf. "Hm, not bad. I thought a Senator would have people to brew him a cup of caf."

"I've found it doesn't do to become too reliant on others."

"Fair enough. Tell you what." Han opened a compartment in the galley wall and pulled out a small, battered flask. "With the week you've had, I think you could use some of this."

Ransolm unscrewed the cap, then hesitated. "It's not Port in a Storm, is it?" he asked warily.

"Port in a-- stars, no. Do I look crazy? Don't answer that."

Ransolm shook his head. "Sorry. It's just--nothing. Never mind." He poured a measure from the flask into his cup. It had the golden color and smoky scent of Corellian brandy, and after a few sips he began feeling truly warm for the first time in days.

He needed a shower, and a change of clothing, and at least three more shots of brandy, but he thought that things might really be all right someday. He'd never be the same as he was, of course, and his life was forfeit if he was ever caught, but he'd made a life for himself once, long ago. He could do it again.

Han finished his cup of caf and stood up. “I’m going to get a couple of hours’ sleep. You can stay here in the galley, or sit in the cockpit if you want. Just don’t touch anything, all right?”

Ransolm nodded, his hands still curled around his cup of caf. Han eyed him skeptically, and left the flask on the table.

In space, time was a strange construct. Without true night and day, routines became disorienting and frequently fell apart. So most ships were designed to lower lights at specific intervals, to mimic the solar cycle of the pilot’s preferred planet.

Captain Solo seemed to keep the ship’s lights constant, no matter what the hour. Ransolm wondered if it was a strategy for long-haul jumps, or if he’d merely repurposed the timing switch to give him a little more control of the hyperdrive.

It would be another day or so before they reached Captain Solo’s ‘old friend,’ who would no doubt be an individual of deeply questionable repute. They slept in shifts in the ship’s tiny bunk, and Ransolm spent most of his waking hours in the ship’s cockpit, staring out the viewscreen and wondering what he was going to do with himself now.

From the rear of the ship, he heard an alarm buzz, and wondered if it was anything to be concerned about. Instead, the alarm shut off with an unnecessarily loud bang, and a moment later the door to the ship’s head slid closed. The pipes rattled and hissed as the shower started.

Ransolm walked back to the galley to make a cup of caf for Captain Solo.

When he emerged a few minutes later, he looked grizzled and more than slightly grumpy, but his expression lightened on seeing the caf. “You’re not half-bad,” he said, scooping up the mug Ransolm had set out for him.

“High praise.”

“The way Leia talked about you, I expected you to be another stiff-necked absolutist with an Empire fetish. At least, I did at first.”

Ransolm eyed him over the rim of his mug. “I’m afraid to ask how you viewed me later.”

“After your run-in with Rinnrivin Di, Leia’s opinion of you turned pretty favorable. For a while there, I wondered if the two of you might...”

Horror seemed to freeze Ransolm from his throat down to the pit of his stomach. "You thought--you thought I would try to--to seduce a married senator? That I would have so little honor as to--"

Han held up a forestalling hand. "It's not cheating when everybody lays their cards on the table. Leia and I, we knew from the start that life was going to pull us in different directions. And I love her and Ben more than anything else in this galaxy, but we're practical people at heart. We decided a long time ago that if we needed...companionship, while we were apart, then it could be arranged. Provided we were honest about it."

Ransolm knew of several people from primarily monogamous cultures who made similar arrangements, but he had never expected Leia Organa to be one of them. But as far as Ransolm was concerned, taking advantage of that arrangement had never been—and would never be—an option.

"I promise you, Captain, the Senator...er, the Princess and I were only ever friends." He looked down. "And in the end, I'm afraid we weren't even that."

"You were," Han countered. "If you weren't, she wouldn't have been so angry about you getting set up."

"She takes injustice very personally."

"Mm-hm. But it takes a lot to get her as riled up as she was when she told me what happened." Han finished his caf with an undignified slurp and clapped Ransolm on the shoulder. “I'm going to see if I can tune those alluvial dampers a little better. I siphoned some of the power out of them to kick up the hyperdrive, but that's not going to do us any good if we shake apart on our next drop to sublight."

Ransolm jerked his head up. "Is that likely?"

"Nah. Probably not, anyway. Like I said, I'm going to work on them. Go to sleep--it'll be fine."

Ransolm stared after Han's departing figure, faintly appalled. Skirting black holes, depowering the alluvial dampers...he'd be lucky if he survived this rescue, after all.

Ransolm awoke to a proximity alarm and steeled himself for the drop out of hyperspace. This time the jolt was barely noticeable, which meant that the captain must have had some success with the alluvial dampers. Ransolm cleaned up in the ship’s head, glaring at his reflection. He’d never liked the way that he looked with a beard, but that was to his advantage—he’d never worn one, so he might not be immediately recognized.

He found Captain Solo in the cockpit just after they returned to hyperspace.

“Morning,” he said.

Ransolm raised an eyebrow. “Is it?”

Han shrugged. “In hyperspace, any time you wake up might as well be morning.”

“I see.”

"I got a response from that friend who owes me a favor. Lando'll be waiting at the next relay in one of his freighters. I'll swing up close and you can use the vac-suit to cross over to his ship. I don't know what exactly he has planned as far as getting you where you want to go, but you can trust Lando."

"That would be General Calrissian?" The Hero of Tanaab, former mayor of Cloud City...it seemed as though Ransolm was getting a celebrity tour of Rebellion agents these days.

Han laughed. "Call him that when you meet him. He'll love it. He won't ask too many questions--he's a scoundrel from way back, so he knows how to keep a secret. Anywhere you want to go, he'll arrange it. Might not be fast, and it might not be pretty, but he'll get you on your way."

"I'm grateful, Captain Solo. If I--if there's ever anything I can do to repay you--"

"Forget it, kid. Have you decided where you want to go? What you're going to do?"

He had, though he hadn't realized it until this moment. "You said that Leia was starting a Resistance." He squared his shoulders. "I want to help."

* * *

The Resistance was barely a week old, and already Leia felt more alive than she had in years. This was the life she loved, the life she should never have left behind. Instead of arguing about how best to safeguard the Republic, she was doing something about the dangers they were facing. They were only a handful so far, pilots and political staffers. They didn’t even have a headquarters yet, but it was something.

It was a start.

"Uh, ma'am?" Joph Seastriker approached her, frowning. "There's a message for you. Came in just now, marked urgent."

Urgent, and private. The holotab Seastriker held out to her required a thumbprint authorization before the message would decrypt. Leia took it and pressed her thumb to the scanner.

The message decrypted, just a few short lines.

“Everything all right?” Joph asked.

Leia handed over the holotab. “See for yourself.”

Joph frowned at the message. “Crushed velvet? Is that some kind of code?”

“If it is, it’s not one I’m familiar with.”

“Then it might be a trap.”

She found herself smiling. “Whatever else it may be, I can promise you it isn’t that.”

 “Lon…that’s an Alderaanian name, isn’t it?”

“In a way,” she said, half to herself. “I’ll go and check it out.”

“With backup, right?”

Leia shook her head at his determination. “That might draw attention, don’t you think? No, I’m simply a civilian running an errand. See if Greer needs some help with the Mirrorbright--I’ll be fine.”

She took her own speeder to the docking bay at the northern edge of the city. It still felt like a luxury to do her own flying. Of course Greer was a better pilot than Leia had ever been, but she’d been hired because flight time was wasted time, if Leia was the one doing the flying. Instead of piloting, she could be answering communiqués from fellow Senators, politely declining public appearances, and scheduling dinners with her colleagues months in advance. There was more than enough to be done for the Resistance as well, but they could get along without her for an hour or two.

Leia anchored the speeder in front of the massive domed warehouse labeled 300 and stepped inside. A loader droid was busily stacking cargo containers the size of Leia’s apartments. Although it lacked anything in the way of a face, it spoke to her when she passed. “May I assist you in your search today?”

“No, thank you. I’m here to pick up a delivery in Docking Bay 326.”

“Would you like to arrange a transport?”

The dock was large, but depending on what Han had sent her, she wanted to be alone when she received it. “Thank you, but that won’t be necessary.”

Who knew what Han had come across--a crate of blaster power cells, just fallen off the back of a freighter, maybe. There was little that would surprise her about anything Han found anymore.

She passed Docking Bay 320 and turned down the row to 326. The containers were all listed on a holoscreen by the entrance to the bay. Container 11AB8 was at the bottom of a stack, so at least she wouldn't have to flag down another loader droid.

It was halfway down the long row, and it didn't inspire confidence. It was battered durasteel, dented and scratched and much, much too large for a mere eighty kilos of fabric.

Not that she'd ever believed that was what Han was really sending her.

The container was secured by a simple durasteel combination lock. She tried their wedding date, only to have the lock flash red. She replaced the numbers with Ben's birthdate, and the panel turned green. Pressurized air hissed out of the cargo container. Was there something alive inside?

The interior of the cargo container was so dark that it appeared empty at first. Then, as her eyes adjusted, she caught sight of a shadowy figure approaching the entrance of the container. Tall and thin, wearing the same formal robes she had last seen him in--

That crushed velvet you like.

Her mouth dropped open in undignified shock. "Ransolm Casterfo," she said, feeling a smile cross her face. "Welcome home."