Star Wars: The Han Solo Trilogy I: The Paradise Snare (41 page)

Han was going too fast to stop. With a yell of terror, he leaped as hard as he could—

—and
managed to clear the yawning gap. He landed heavily on the other side, fell, and rolled over, gasping, wind knocked out, trying to get to his feet again. He skidded on the icy permacrete, flailing, just as a stun beam
splatted
right beside him.

Han’s entire right side went numb.

The Corellian crashed back to the permacrete with an agonized grunt. Letting himself go limp, he waited, hoping that he’d regain the use of his right side in time. Depending on the intensity level Shrike was using, it might take two minutes … or ten.

Breathing was torture, but Han gulped down every lungful, ignoring the pain. He needed to get his wind back, in case feeling returned to his right side.

Footsteps approached from his left. Shrike, going around the airshaft Han had hurdled. Han lay still. Only the white plume of his breath revealed that he still lived.

The footsteps paused beside him, circled him. Han could see Shrike’s form dimly, through his eyelashes. Then a boot kicked him viciously in his right leg. Han gasped with the pain. “You low-life scum,” Shrike spat. “For two credits I’d dump your worthless hide off the edge for what you did.”

The fact that Han could feel pain in the place where Shrike’s heavy boot had struck him was good. The stun paralysis was wearing off. But Han did not move, only lay limp as Shrike grabbed him by the collar of his jacket and dragged him over the permacrete, bumping and slithering, toward the nearest turbolift.

The trader captain was cursing steadily and, Han realized with a flare of satisfaction, walking with a distinct limp. The Corellian made himself the heaviest, deadest weight he could as he bumped along over the rooftop, feeling the icy scrape of the permacrete. His right hand tingled as it dragged, and that was good, too.

When Shrike reached the turbolift, he let go of Han’s collar. It was hard to just let himself fall, but Han managed to make it look good, without banging his head too hard. Shrike’s glittery-eyed countenance, a bruise darkening his
jaw, appeared in his field of vision. “Now we’re going down in this lift, and you’re going to behave yourself, you little vrelt. We’re going to be real chummy, you and me. I’m going to say you’re my buddy who had too much to drink.”

Han could hear the turbolift coming. He flexed the muscles of his right leg, his right arm. They responded, if sluggishly. He didn’t have much time …

“So tell me, Han, did you make it into the Imperial Academy?” Shrike asked, just as though Han could speak. “Is that why you were out treating yourself good tonight, eh?”

He laughed. “The Imps must be real hard up if they’d take a loser like you.” He spat, and warm spittle hit Han’s face, just above his right eye. Han was careful not to react. The turbolift was very close. When those doors opened, Shrike would be distracted for a few precious seconds, and then … then he would make his move.

Imperceptibly, Han flexed his right fingers, and they answered the command of his brain. Shrike was still ranting. “Those Imperials … can’t shoot straight, can’t pilot, and can’t fight worth a hoot. It’s a wonder old Palpatine can get himself out of bed in the morning. All a bunch of losers …”

The turbolift doors opened. Shrike looked up, just as Han lunged up off the permacrete.

The element of surprise served him for a moment. Han managed to knock the blaster out of Shrike’s hand again, but then Garris was on him. Iron-hard hands clamped around the younger man’s throat. Han’s eyes bulged as he hooked a leg behind Shrike’s and sent the man over backward. Shrike didn’t release his grip, so Han went down with him, and they landed in a kicking, punching sprawl.

Han slammed a fist into Shrike’s midsection, heard the man grunt in pain. The fingers around his throat loosened for a second—then. Shrike released his grip and tried to gouge Han’s eye.

His
right
eye. The viciously gouging thumb skidded in Shrike’s own saliva, and Han turned his head and snapped like an animal. His teeth closed on Shrike’s thumb,
clamped down. Shrike screamed as Han tore his flesh. The Corellian tasted blood.

Han took advantage of the man’s momentary distraction to bring his knee up into Shrike’s midsection. The older man’s breath whooshed out in a stinking rush of white, into the cold night air.

Han heaved upward, throwing Shrike off him. The man lost his grip and went sprawling backward. Han scrambled for where he’d heard the blaster land—and his fingers found it.

Shrike was already up and heading purposefully for the younger man, when Han came up onto his knees, the blaster pointed directly at him. Han ostentatiously thumbed the intensity level up to its highest setting. “Your turn to freeze, Shrike,” he said. Speaking brought on a spasm of coughing and searing pain in Han’s abused throat, but he managed to get Shrike in his sights.

Shrike laughed, and slowed, but didn’t stop. He was perhaps six meters away. “Now, Han, son,” he said coaxingly, “old Captain Shrike was just having a little fun with you, is all. I wasn’t going to turn you over to those Hutts, no indeed. Did you know you
killed
one of them, boy? Hutts don’t like that, no they don’t. They’re never going to stop searching for old ‘Vykk Draygo,’ you know?”

“Stop right there,” Han said, and was terrified to hear the quaver in his own voice. He’d never shot anyone down in cold blood before. Especially someone he
knew
. Could he do it?

Shrike grinned as if he could read Han’s mind. “C’mon, Han. You know you ain’t going to shoot me. You can’t. I’m like your daddy, almost.”

Han shook his head and replied with a Huttese obscenity so blistering that Shrike raised his eyebrows. “Oh, my, you’ve developed such a dirty mouth while you were gone, ain’t you, kid?”

He was still moving. Only about four meters separated them now. Han tightened his grip on the blaster, but he was horrified to realize the muzzle was wavering.

“Let’s go down below and talk about this, Han,” Shrike
said, his voice low and soothing. “I won’t hurt you, you’ve got my word on it.”

“Your word?” Han laughed, then coughed. “That’s a laugh. Your word isn’t worth spit.”

“Sure, my word. Besides … if you shoot me, boy, you’ll never find out about your parents. Who they were … why you wound up being dumped into those alleys where I found you.”

Han stared at Shrike. “You know who they were? You know why I was abandoned?” He swallowed, and it was searing pain. “Tell me, and I may let you live.”

Shrike was almost within grabbing distance of the blaster now. Only a meter or so away. Han knew he should shoot him,
knew
Shrike couldn’t be trusted—but still he hesitated. “Tell me, Shrike!”

“I’ll tell you everything when you give me the blaster,” Shrike said. “Everything. You have my word.”

Shoot him! Now!
Han’s mind screamed.

With a wash of red light, a blaster bolt struck Garris Shrike directly in the chest. The captain threw up his hands, a look of terror and pain contorting his features. He fell backward like a stone, dead before he hit the permacrete.

Han stared wildly at his hand. His finger was on the trigger of the blaster, but he hadn’t moved it … had he?

The shot, he realized, a second later, had come from
behind
him.

Han whirled, still on his knees, to find himself facing another man. He was human, young, medium tall, slender build. Darkish hair frosted by moonlight. He held a drawn blaster, and every line of him screamed “bounty hunter.”

“Okay, kid, it’s over,” he said, removing a pair of wrist-binders from his belt. “Stand up. You’re coming with me.”

Those first two shots!
Han thought.
It must have been him. He followed me up here, and just waited for Shrike to take me down, so he could step in and get me
.

As if he’d sensed what Han was thinking, the bounty hunter added, “I knew old Shrike would find you. The Hutts don’t have a picture of you, so I followed Shrike,
’cause he practically raised you, didn’t he, Vykk? I knew he’d pick you out for me.”

No!
Han’s mind screamed.
Not now! Not
again!

He was still stiff from the paralysis, exhausted and hurt from the fight with Shrike. Every muscle screamed with pain and weariness.

The bounty hunter gestured with the blaster. “Drop your blaster, kid, or I’ll stun you right in the head and scramble your brains good. The Hutts want you
alive
, but they didn’t say nothing about in your right mind. Drop it.”

Shaking, Han dropped the blaster from his nerveless fingers. With a grunt of effort, he tried to get up, but his right leg buckled beneath him.

“My leg …” he mumbled. “Right leg won’t take my weight … Shrike kicked me.”

“Yeah, I saw him. Not very professional of him, but old Shrike always was hot-tempered,” the bounty hunter said. Moving forward, he added, “Now I’m going to give you a hand up. Don’t try—”

With a demented howl, Han hurled himself headfirst into the bounty hunter’s midsection.

This man was younger than Shrike, stronger and faster. But Han was fighting like a madman, with the strength borne of utter desperation. He had nothing to lose, and he knew it.

The bounty hunter went over backward with a yell of surprise. Han threw himself after him, pummeling the man. Recovering himself, the bounty hunter slammed Han across the temple with the muzzle of his blaster.

Blood spurted, ran into Han’s left eye, but the Corellian didn’t let it slow him down. He clawed his way up the other’s body as though it were a jungle vine and headbutted the bounty hunter, slamming his forehead into the man’s nose. Han heard and felt cartilage break against the bone of his skull. The man’s shrill scream rang through the night.

Cursing, the bounty hunter grappled with Han, slamming him on the back and in the kidneys with the blaster. Han grabbed his arm and slammed his hand against the
permacrete,
wham … WHAM!
The blaster dropped from the man’s fingers. Han butted the bounty hunter in the face again, ignoring the splitting of his own skin.

“You’re NOT taking me!” the Corellian yelled, slamming his head into the man’s face repeatedly. With a yell of terror, the bounty hunter heaved upward with all his strength and sent Han flying.

The Corellian hit, tried to roll, and slammed up against the structure that housed the turbolift. The bounty hunter, his face a gory mask from his broken nose and split lips, rushed for Han, murder in his eyes.

Han waited until the last possible second, then dodged. As the man went by, Han slammed his full weight into the other’s shoulder.

The bounty hunter’s head impacted with the stone structure with a
crack
that seemed to echo throughout the icy night.

The man jerked, went limp, then slid down the wall, to lie motionless on the permacrete.

Weaving, biting his lip, and swallowing bile, Han lurched to his feet and stumbled over to the man. Two fingers against his throat assured the Corellian that the bounty hunter was now as dead as Garris Shrike, who was lying sprawled a few meters away, staring up at the twin moons with blank, sightless eyes.

Han slid down the wall in his own turn and just sat there, his head whirling, sick and exhausted. He began to shake all over, and the bout lasted for nearly a minute.

Gotta get hold of myself
, he thought dully.
Gotta think. Think …

Climbing back to his feet, Han staggered over to the bounty hunter again and stood eyeing him. The man was about his own size, and he, too, had brown hair. Darker than Han’s own, but that might not be noticed …

Han’s breath puffed white as he yanked on the man’s boots, pulling them off. Slowly, methodically, he set about stripping the bounty hunter.

Five minutes later, Han stood swaying, dressed now in the bounty hunter’s clothing. Grimly, he began putting his
own clothes onto the corpse … his worn gray pilot’s jumpsuit, his battered lizard-skin jacket, his boots. He replaced the bounty hunter’s blaster in his holster. Lastly, he took a handful of credits, and all of his faked IDs, and placed them in the man’s inside pocket, sealing the pocket shut. Then he sealed the jacket closed, too.

Stumbling and limping, Han went looking for Shrike’s blaster. He found it, finally, and went back to the body. Wincing, he adjusted it to its highest setting, aimed the weapon, then, turning his head to the side, he fired directly into the corpse’s face. When he forced himself to look, the dead man no longer
had
a face—or eyes.

Or retinas.

Han staggered away a few feet and was thoroughly, wretchedly, sick. The thought of what that meal had cost him made him even sicker …

With a groan of effort, he grabbed the body beneath the arms and dragged the bounty hunter across the icy permacrete, just as Shrike had dragged him. He went backward slowly, carefully, until he was once again beside that deep, deep airshaft that he’d jumped.

Han peered down, then looked away quickly, fighting dizziness. The shaft went down a long, long way.

He rolled the body to the edge, then, with a hard push of both hands, sent the bounty hunter over the edge, tumbling out into empty air.

Han didn’t watch the body fall. With dragging, limping steps, he lurched back to Shrike’s body and placed the captain’s blaster in the dead fingers. Then he pressed the button to summon the turbolift.

When the doors opened, he nearly fell into the lighted interior.

The turbolift started down, and Han stood swaying, bracing himself with both hands. He had to work at not passing out.

It had been a long night …