Star Wars: The Han Solo Trilogy I: The Paradise Snare (43 page)

Chewbacca made a sound halfway between a moan and a snarl. Han shook his head. “No, that means you don’t owe me a thing, don’t you get it? I owed her, but I couldn’t repay her. So I helped you out, which makes us even … square. So will you
please
take those credits I gave you, and go back to Kashyyyk? You ain’t doin’ me any favors staying here, hairball. I need you like I need a blaster burn on my butt.”

Affronted, Chewbacca drew himself up to his full Wookiee height. He growled low in his throat.

“Yeah, I know I tossed away my career and my livin’ that day on Coruscant when I stopped Commander Nyklas from shootin’ you. I
hate
slavery, and watchin’ Nyklas use a force whip ain’t a particularly appetizing sight. I know Wookiees, you see. When I was growin’ up, a Wookiee was my best friend. I knew you were gonna turn on Nyklas before you did it—just like I knew Nyklas would go for his blaster. I couldn’t just stand there and watch him blast you. But don’t go tryin’ to make me out as some kinda hero, Chewie. I don’t need a partner, and I don’t
want
a friend. My name says it all, pal. Solo.”

Han jerked a thumb at his chest. “Solo. In my language, that means me, alone, by myself. Get it? That’s the way it is, and that’s the way I like it. So … no offense, Chewie, but why don’t you just
scram
. As in,
go away. Permanently
.”

Chewie stared at Han for a long moment, then he snorted disdainfully, turned, and strode out of the bar.

Han wondered disinterestedly if he’d actually managed to convince the big hairy oaf to leave for good. If he had, that was reason for celebration. For another drink …

As he glanced around the bar, he saw that over in the corner several patrons were gathering around a table. A sabacc game was forming. Han wondered whether he ought to try to get in on it. Mentally he reviewed the contents of his credit pouch, and decided that might not be a bad idea. He usually had very good luck at sabacc, and every credit counted, these days.

These days …

Han sighed. How long had it been since that fateful day when he’d been sent to assist Commander Nyklas with the crew of Wookiee laborers assigned to complete a new wing on the Imperial Hall of Heroes? He counted, grimacing as he realized that he’d lost days on end in there … days probably spent in a dark haze of ale and bitter recrimination. In two days it would be two months.

Han’s mouth tightened and he ran an unsteady hand through his unruly brown hair. For the past five years he’d kept it cut short in approved military fashion, but now it was growing out, getting almost shaggy. He had a sudden, sharp mental image of himself as he’d been then—immaculately groomed, insignia polished, boots shining—and glanced down at himself.

What a contrast between then and now. He was wearing a stained, grayish shirt that had once been white, a stained, gray neo-leather jacket he’d purchased secondhand, and dark blue military-style trousers with his Corellian blood-stripe running down the outside seam. Only the boots were the same. They were custom-fitted when each cadet was commissioned, so the Empire hadn’t wanted them back. Han had been commissioned just a little over eight months ago, and no junior lieutenant had ever been prouder of his rank—or of those shining boots.

The boots were scuffed now, and worn. Han’s lip curled as he regarded them. Scuffed and worn by life, all the spit and polish gone … that about described
him
these days, too.

In a moment of painful honesty, Han admitted that he probably wouldn’t have been able to stay in the Imperial Navy even if he hadn’t gotten himself cashiered for rescuing and freeing Chewbacca. He’d started his career with high hopes, but disillusionment had quickly set in. The prejudice against nonhumans had been hard to take for someone raised the way Han had been, but he’d bitten his tongue and remained silent. But the endless, silly bureaucratic regs, the blind stupidity of so many of the officers—Han had already begun to wonder how long he’d be able to take it.

But he’d never figured on a dishonorable discharge, loss of pension and back pay, and—worst of all—being blacklisted as a pilot. They hadn’t taken his license, but Han had quickly discovered that no legitimate company would hire him. He’d tramped the permacrete of Coruscant for weeks, in between alcoholic binges, looking for work—and found all respectable doors closed to him.

Then, one night, as he’d tavern-hopped in a section of the planet-wide city near the alien ghetto, a huge, furred shadow had flowed out of the deeper shadows of an alley and confronted Han.

For long moments Han’s ale-fogged brain hadn’t even recognized the Wookiee as the one he’d saved. It was only when Chewbacca began speaking, thanking Han for saving his life and freeing him from slavery, that Han had realized who he was. Chewie had been quite direct—his people didn’t mince words. He, Chewbacca, had sworn a life debt to Han Solo. Where Han went, from that day forward, he would go, too.

And he had.

When Han had finally gotten them passage off Coruscant, piloting a ship with a load of contraband to Tralus (the cargo had been magnetically sealed into the hold—Han hadn’t had the equipment or the energy to break in and find out exactly what it was he was smuggling), Chewbacca had gone with him. On the week-long voyage, Han began teaching the Wookiee the rudiments of piloting. Space travel was boring, and at least that gave him something to do besides brood over lost futures …

Once on Tralus, he turned over his ship and cargo, then went looking for another assignment. He wound up at Truthful Toryl’s Used Spaceship Lot, asking the Duros for work. Toryl was an old acquaintance, and he knew Han was a reliable and expert pilot.

The Empire was tightening its grip all the time, taking away the rights of its worlds as well as its citizens. Duro had a shipbuilding industry nearly equal to that of Corellia, but they had recently been prohibited by Imperial directive from placing weapons systems in their ships. Han’s clandestine cargo proved to be a shipment of components useful in outfitting ships with weapons.

By the time they reached Duro, Chewie was becoming a fair copilot and gunner. Han hoped that teaching the Wookiee these skills would make it easier to get rid of him on some world. If he knew the Wookiee could hire on as a skilled pilot or copilot, he wouldn’t hesitate to dump him in some port and then lift ship—or so Han told himself.

Once on Duro, Han drank up some of the profits from his mission, while waiting to be contacted for another piloting job. His patience was rewarded one day when a Sullustan approached him and offered him good pay to take a ship from Duro, avoiding any Imperial ports of call, a third of the way across the galaxy to Kothlis, a Bothan colony world.

Of course the sleek, swift little craft was “hot”—stolen from some wealthy owner’s landing pad. Han had to remind himself that he was no longer in the business of keeping the law—he was in the business of breaking it.

So he set his jaw and piloted the stolen vessel to her new home on Kothlis. Then he went looking for another assignment, and eventually found one. On the surface, this job seemed legit. Han was to ferry a large nalargon from Kothlis to Devaron.

Han had never heard of a nalargon before, which wasn’t surprising, as his exposure to music had been limited. A nalargon proved to be a very large instrument that was operated by a keyboard and foot pedals. Pipes and sub-harmonic resonance generators produced sound on many wave bands. The instruments were in demand for the jizz craze that was sweeping the galaxy.

Accordingly, the huge instrument was brought aboard the ship Han had been assigned, bolted to the deck, then left sealed in the cargo compartment.

Han investigated the instrument once he and Chewie were safely in hyperspace. He tapped it, poked and nudged it, turned it on, then tried pressing the keys and pedals. No sound, except the sound he made trying to make it work.

But his tappings proved it wasn’t hollow. Han sat back on his heels, gazing at the huge instrument. The thing was obviously a dummy—a shell, with something inside. What?

Han knew from his stint in the Imperial Navy that Devaron was a world in turmoil. Not long ago a group of rebels had risen against the Imperial governor, demanding independence from the Empire. Han’s lip curled disdainfully. Stupid fools, thinking they had a chance against the Empire. Seven hundred of the rebels had been captured when the ancient holy city of Montellian Serat had been overrun by Imperial troops a few months ago. They’d been summarily executed without trial, killed without mercy. The remaining rebels were still hiding out in the hills, holding out, attacking commando fashion, but Han knew it was only a matter of time before they, too, would be ground beneath Palpatine’s heel, their world rigidly controlled by the Empire, as so many other worlds had been.

Eyeing the nalargon, Han made some mental calculations based on the instrument being hollow. Yeah … a short-bore mobile laser cannon would just about fit inside that shell. The weapon could be mounted on the back of a landskimmer, and was capable of blowing small targets—a building, or a short-range Imperial fighter—into very small pieces.

It could also be blast rifles, of course. Ten or fifteen would fit inside there, if they were cleverly packed.

Whatever was inside the nalargon, Han had a bad feeling about the assignment he’d taken on. He resolved to land the ship, then walk away from it and not go back. He had fake landing codes, provided by the Bothans. He’d use them, and then get away as quickly as he could …

He’d landed yesterday, and for all Han knew, the ship was still sitting on the field with the nalargon in her cargo hold. But he had a hunch that the rebels on Devaron hadn’t wasted any time …

Han shook his head a little blearily, half wishing he hadn’t had that last ale. The sour taste was still in his mouth, and his head buzzed. Han looked from side to side, testingly, and the room stayed still. Good. He wasn’t too drunk to play sabacc and win.
Let’s get on with it, Solo. Every little credit helps …

The smuggler rose to his feet and strolled quite steadily across the room to the table. “Greetings, gentles,” he said, in Basic. “Got room for another player?”

The dealer, a Devaronian male, turned his head with its waxed, polished horns to regard Han questioningly. He must have decided that the newcomer looked okay, because he shrugged and gestured at the vacant seat. “Welcome, Pilot. As long as your credits hold out, so does your welcome.” He grinned, showing sharp, feral teeth.

Han nodded, then slid into the seat.

He’d first learned to play sabacc when he was about fourteen. Han anted credits into the high-stakes pot, the “sabacc pot,” then picked up the two cards he’d been dealt and scanned them, all the while covertly studying his opponents. When the bet for the “hand pot” came round to him, he tossed the requisite number of credit disks into that pot, too.

Han had the six of staves and the Queen of Air and Darkness, but at any moment the dealer could push a button, and all the card-values would change. Han eyed his opponents: a tiny Sullustan, a furry Devaronian female, the Devaronian male dealer, and a huge female Barabel, a reptiloid being from Barab One. This was the first time Han had seen a Barabel up close, and she was an impressive sight. Over two meters tall, covered with tough black scales that would repel even a stun blast, the Barabel had a mouthful of daggerlike teeth and a clublike tail that reportedly made them nasty customers in a fight. This one, who had introduced herself as Shallamar, seemed peaceful enough, though. She picked up the newest card-chip she’d been dealt and studied her hand intently through narrowed slit-pupiled eyes.

The object of sabacc was to get cards to equal, but not exceed, the number twenty-three—either positive or negative. In case of a tie, positive totals beat negatives.

At the moment the cards in Han’s hand had a numerical value of positive four. The Queen of Air and Darkness had a value of minus two. Han could throw that card into the interference field, which would “freeze” its value, then hope to get the Idiot and a card with the face value of three. Since the Idiot had a value of zero, this would give him an “Idiot’s Array,” which would beat even a pure sabacc … that is, cards whose value added up to either positive or negative twenty-three.

As Han hesitated, gazing at his Queen, the card-chips rippled and altered. His Queen was now the Master of sabers. The six of sabers had become the eight of flasks. His total was … positive twenty-two. He waited while the other players examined their card-chips. The Barabel, the female Devaronian, and the dealer threw in their hands disgustedly—they’d “bombed out” by exceeding twenty-three.

The Sullustan raised the bet, which Han matched and raised. “I call,” the little alien said, laying down his card-chips with a flourish. “Twenty,” he announced.

Han grinned and put down his own. “Twenty-two,” he announced casually, laying down his own hand. “Afraid that hand pot’s mine, pal.”

The other players grumbled a bit as he scooped up their money. The Barabel female hissed and gave him a look that could have melted titanium, but said nothing.

The Sullustan took the next hand, and the Devaronian dealer the one that followed. Han eyed the growing sabacc pot, and decided to try to go for the bigger payoff.

They continued to play for several more hands. Han won the hand pot again, but nobody had gotten the sabacc pot. Han tossed the three of coins and the Idiot into the interference field, and his luck held—the very next change of cards left him holding the two of flasks.

“Idiot’s Array …” Han said casually, tossing the two down next to the other two cards in the interference field. “The sabacc pot is mine, ladies and gentlemen …”

He bent forward to scoop up the pot, and the Barabel female let out a roar. “Cheater! He’s got a skifter, he must have! No one can be so lucky!”

Han sat back and stared at her, outraged. He had cheated at sabacc plenty of times, using skifters—cards that would assume different values when their edges were tapped—and in other ways. But this time he’d won fair and square!