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Authors: Troy Denning

Recovery (5 page)

BOOK: Recovery
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“I'd like to believe you.” Han fired a stun bolt into the Arcona's ribs. “But I just can't take the chance.”

Leaving Izal to slump over the side of his chair, Han holstered his blaster and hit the throttles. The ambushers' rate of closure began to slow. Some of the leaders started to fire, but Han did not even raise the
Falcon
's power-hungry energy shields. The ship's sensor array computer had identified the newcomers as a motley mix of Y-wings and old T-65 X-wings, and neither of those could fire effectively at such long range.

C-3PO's voice came over the intercom. “Captain Solo?”

“Have the stowaways got Leia?” Han asked. There was a time when his thoughts wouldn't have leapt instantly to the worst scenario, but a lot had changed in the galaxy since then—and in him. “If they've got Leia, you tell them—”

“Mistress Leia is well and quite alone,” C-3PO said. “Aside from me, of course.”

“Keep it that way.” Han activated the navicomputer and began to punch coordinates; though the course to Commenor remained the same, transit times would have to be recalculated from the new entry point. “And don't bother me unless that changes.”

“Of course, Captain Solo.” A distant streak of red flashed above the cockpit canopy as a cannon bolt reached maximum range and faded away. “But—”

“Threepio, not now!”

The starfighters, especially the X-wings, were still closing. Han plotted a course projection and saw what he had known intuitively: they would reach effective firing range only a few seconds before the
Falcon
entered hyperspace.

Han slammed his palm against the yoke. “Sith spit!”

He changed the tactical display to a larger scale. Sitting dead ahead, well beyond the range of anything less sensitive than the
Falcon
's reconnaissance-grade sensor suite, was a fast-freight of 250 meters. Not large, but large enough to carry a tractor beam that would prevent the
Falcon
from jumping to hyperspace.

Han cursed again and canceled the calculations. He brought the
Falcon
around hard, and the starfighters angled to cut him off. Daggers of light began to slice the darkness to his right. Han brought the energy shields up, then felt a shudder as both sets of the
Falcon
's powerful quad laser cannons began to fire.

“Leia?” he gasped. “Threepio?”

“We're still here, Captain Solo,” the droid replied. “In the first-aid bay as you instructed.”

Han glanced over the fire-control computer to see if Izal had left the quad lasers on automatic. He hadn't. “Then who's on the guns?”

“Captain Solo, that's what I was—”

A rhythmic hissing sounded from the seat behind the pilot's, and then all Han could hear was his own scream. Paying no attention as the first pirate shots blossomed against the energy shields, he leapt up and reached for his blaster.

A clawed hand pushed him down. “Sit,” rasped a deep voice. “This one shall replace Jedi Waz.”

The claw removed itself, and Han glanced over to see a huge scaled figure in a brown Jedi robe. The newcomer lifted Izal Waz out of the copilot's seat with one hand, then tossed him to the rear of the flight deck and slipped into his place. A thick tail flopped over the arm of the chair, and beneath the robe's cowl, Han glimpsed a reptilian face with slit-pupiled eyes and upward-jutting fangs. An adult Barabel.

A sheet of crimson light flashed along the
Falcon
's starboard side. Han's attention remained fixed on the Barabel. With scales as black as space and a tail that forced him to perch on the edge of the seat, his jagged features made him look as dangerous as his robe did mysterious. Han only hoped the Jedi apparel was evidence of a more patient nature than most Barabels possessed.

The Barabel pointed a claw at Han's hand, still resting on his holstered weapon. “This one will let you blast him later. For now, perhapz you fly the ship.”

“Whatever you want.” Aware that even without the Force, the Barabel could have taken the blaster—and probably the arm holding it—anytime he wanted, Han grabbed the yoke with both hands. “Where we going?”

“You are the pilot, Han Solo.” He waved a claw at the tactical display, which showed a flight of X-wings streaking in to cut them off. “Though this one thinkz we should turn burnerz and run.”

“Can't.” Han pointed to the fast-freight's symbol, now giving chase in the upper left corner of the tactical display. “She'll snag us with a tractor beam. Old pirate trap.”

The
Falcon
's cannons lashed out in rapid-fire sequence. The lead starfighter dissolved into static, mirrored in the darkness outside by a distant orange bloom. Han whistled, awed as much by the timing of the attack as by its accuracy. The other three X-wings swung into a front oblique attack. Again, the
Falcon
's laser cannons flashed. Again, an X-wing burst into a ball of superheated gas.

When the fireball died this time, it was replaced by a pair of white dots. They were a little larger than stars and a whole lot brighter.

The white dots swelled to white disks.

“Concussion missiles?” the Barabel asked.

“Not that lucky,” Han didn't even bother to check the tactical display for propellant trails. He had seen plenty of those expanding white dots—though usually from the bridge of a Super Star Destroyer. “Proton torpedoes.”

The white disks swelled into white circles.

Han nosed the
Falcon
down into a wild corkscrewing evasive pattern. Somehow, the mysterious gunners remained accurate, crippling two starfighters as the main body of the pirate fleet reached effective range. The first proton torpedo arced past so close that the canopy went white.

The Barabel sissed. “Someone wantz you dead. Really wantz you dead.”

Han blinked his vision clear and saw a Y-wing zip past the cockpit, a crazy line of laserfire chasing it along. Another X-wing came in firing, and he had to turn head-on to force it to pull up. When he could finally check the tactical display, he found a dozen starfighters circling the
Falcon
, with another dozen hanging back to cut off escape. The good news was that the second proton torpedo had already passed by, its propellant trail tracing a long arc away from the
Falcon
's tail.

“They don't want us dead,” Han said. The torpedoes had been fired with disabled homing beacons. “They're forcing our hand.”

A pair of battered X-wings streaked into view, the
Falcon
's cannon bolts warming their shields. They collided in front of the cockpit, and a pair of rhythmic hisses, the first sounds Han had heard from the turrets, sounded over the intercom. Then pirates were all over the
Falcon
, coming in close and battering its shields from every angle. Depletion warnings and overload signals beeped and buzzed.

The Barabel studied the instrument panel in helpless confusion. “Where is the load balancer?”

“I'll handle the shields.” Han jerked a thumb at the navicomputer. “Can you use that?”

The Barabel bristled his scales. “We are good pilots.”

“Okay—I didn't mean anything by it,” Han said. “Plot a course to Commenor.”

He pulled the
Falcon
out of its evasive pattern and turned toward the fast-freight. The cockpit shuddered and the lights dimmed as the starfighters landed a devastating volley, and a damage-control buzzer announced a hull breach in the number two cargo hold. Two more X-wings vanished from the tactical display. Han sealed the breached hold. Then, finally, the pirates began to stand off, keeping the pressure on but now concentrating on avoiding the deadly streams of light pouring from the
Falcon
's cannon turrets.

Han shifted more power to the rear shields and looked over to check on the Barabel's progress. The calculations were almost finished, but the final coordinates lay closer to Corellia than Commenor. Han pretended not to notice, but cursed inside and searched his memory for some hint as to who Izal Waz and his Barabel friends could be working for. Not the Yuuzhan Vong, at least not directly; the Yuuzhan Vong hated Jedi. And certainly not for whoever had hired the pirates; they had killed too many. Maybe a hidden cabal of Dark Jedi, hoping to use Leia to somehow turn the war to their advantage.

Han shifted the tactical scale so it would display only what a standard sensor suite might reveal, and the fast-freight vanished off the screen. Trying to make it appear that he was fine-tuning the data filters, Han quietly opened his own input to the navicomputer and began calculations for the trip to Commenor.

The Barabel looked over. “They will know from our initial course we are going to Commenor.” He completed his calculations and sent them to Han's display for verification. “This rendezvous is safer.”

“Safer for you.”

“For you,” the Barabel insisted. “They are not after
us
.”

The fast-freight appeared on the tactical display. Han pushed the
Falcon
into what he hoped would look like an evasive climb. The starfighters closed, hammering his shields, trying to drive him back toward the freighter. Han held his turn, trying to convince the enemy pilots he really had been surprised. The turret gunners made it look good by dispersing their fire to slow pursuit.

Something popped in the life-support control panel, and an acrid stench filled the air. The Barabel pulled off the cover and smothered a burning circuit board with his bare palm, then looked over wide-eyed.

“You are trying to get us killed?”

“This needs to look good,” Han said.

The
Falcon
bucked as the fast-freight, still too distant to see with the naked eye, locked on with its tractor beam. Han spun them perpendicular to the direction of pull—then cut back the throttles to avoid escaping. He did not have to ease off much; the tractor beam was a powerful one.

The
Falcon
's cannon turrets spun to attack their captor.

“No!” Han ordered on the intercom. “Keep the fighters away.”

There was a short silence, then a voice rasped, “Tesar?”

The Barabel—Tesar—studied Han, then said nothing and started to tend damage alarms.

“Listen,” Han began, “I'm the—”

The turrets spun back toward the starfighters. Another pirate vanished from the tactical display, and the rest began to stand off again. They continued to pour fire at the
Falcon,
though they seemed more interested in keeping the deadly laser cannons occupied than approaching close enough to cause damage. The
Falcon
continued to slip toward the fast-freight.

Han returned to his calculations. Tesar watched for a moment, then tapped a claw on his own coordinates.

“This is better,” he said. “Trust me.”

Han did not even look up. “Where have I heard that before?”

“Your enemies are well organized. Even if we escape this—”

“I have a plan,” Han assured him.

“—they will have someone waiting on Commenor.”

“Better the enemy I know than one I don't,” Han retorted.

The
Falcon
slipped faster toward the freighter. Han added power, but the slide continued to accelerate.

“We are not your enemy, Han Solo,” Tesar said.

“Quiet.” Han was still struggling to finish the calculations. “And kill those alarms. I'm working here.”

Tesar made no move to obey. “Why do you not trust us? We are Jedi Knightz.”

“I said quiet!”

Thinking he just might be quick enough if he caught the Barabel by surprise, he reached for his blaster—then Tesar extended a hand, and Han was nearly jerked from his chair as weapon and holster tore free of his belt.

The Barabel caught the blaster and tucked it inside his robe. “This one said you could blast him
later
.”

Rubbing his thigh where the holster thong had snapped, Han said, “Look, Luke Skywalker is my brother-in-law. I
know
the Jedi, and you're not one of them.”

The scales rose on Tesar's face, and his pupils narrowed to angry slits. He studied Han, his nostrils flaring and his long tongue flicking his lips, then he turned his face away.

“We are still young, but we
are
Jedi.” His reflection in the canopy was twisted into a snarling mask. “If you know the Jedi, then you must know Master Eelysa.”

“Of course,” Han said. Eelysa had been one of Luke's earliest pupils, a girl born on Coruscant soon after the Emperor's death. Taken to the academy on Yavin 4 as a child, she had matured into one of Luke's most trusted Jedi Knights and now spent most of her time on complicated, years-long missions. “But I haven't seen her in—well, since she was a teenager younger than Jaina.”

“Yes, you have.” When Tesar looked back, his face was more composed. “Eelysa is the one we are guarding. She is the Master of our Master.”

“The Master of your Master?”

“She taught my mother on Barab I,” Tesar said. “When we learned she had been injured, we were sent to Corellia to guard her.”

Han felt instantly sick and foolish. Now that Tesar had mentioned Eelysa's name, the woman from the bacta tank
did
look familiar. And spying on Corellia was exactly the kind of high-risk, long-term mission in which she specialized. If anyone was going to train Jedi Knights he had never heard of, it would be Eelysa.

“Look, I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything by what I said.”

The Barabel looked confused. “Then why did you say it?”

Before Han could explain, another Barabel voice rasped over the intercom, “Captain, can we shoot the frigate yet?”

“Frigate?”

The tactical display now showed the starfighters standing completely off, and the generic fast-freight tag had been changed to KDY frigate,
Lancer
-class.

BOOK: Recovery
2.78Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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