Star Wars: The Han Solo Trilogy I: The Paradise Snare (9 page)

“Sir?” The R2 unit that had been so quiet for so many hours suddenly came back to life. “I must advise you that we have reached the orbit of Ylesia. You must stand ready to make your descent and landing.”

“Thanks for telling me,” Han said. Going over to the control banks, he scanned the instruments, mentally calculating their descent. This wasn’t going to be easy. He had no way to interface with the navicomputer, except via the R2 unit. A pilot had to make split-second decisions, at times, and in cases like that, Han wouldn’t be able to wait for the R2 unit to reply.

The ship suddenly shivered, then rocked slightly.

They were hitting atmosphere, Han realized.

He took a deep breath and glanced at his air pak reading, realizing it was going to be close … very, very close.

Here we go
, he thought, switching to manual control of the
Ylesian Dream
. “Hey, R2,” he said tightly, adjusting his course slightly.

“Yes, sir?”

“Wish me luck.”

“I-beg-your-pardon, sir, this unit is not—”

Han swore, and the
Ylesian Dream
headed down, for the surface of a planet he couldn’t even see. He
could
see the sensor readouts and the infrared scanners, though, and he realized that Ylesia was a world of tempestuous air currents, even in the upper layers of the atmosphere. Mapping sensors created a global portrait of the planet: shallow seas studded with islands, and three small continents. One lay nearly at the north pole, but the other two, the eastern and western continents, lay nearer the equator, in what must be temperate zones.

“Great,” he muttered to himself, locating the ship’s home-in beacon. He could use it as a guide to plan his landing. The landing field was on the eastern continent. That must be where the Ylesian colony of priests and religious pilgrims was located.

The
Dream
rocked wildly, swooping through the swirling air currents like a child on a rope swing. Han’s suit gloves were clumsy on the undersized diagnostic controls as he
used his stabilizers to steady their descent. Trying to get the feel of the controls, Han yawed them to port, then overcompensated, sending them skittering to starboard.

On the infrared image, a huge blob of red suddenly loomed up.
That’s a huge storm!
Han thought, using his laterals to even out their descent. He allowed the
Dream
to drift a few degrees north, figuring that he’d miss the storm, then swing back south later, when he was beneath the maelstrom.

The ionized particles left in the wake of all that lightning were playing havoc with his instruments, Han realized. He gulped air, felt his chest tighten, and had to fight back panic. Good pilots couldn’t afford to let their emotions get in the way, or they’d wind up dead and that would end their trip real quick, wouldn’t it?

“R2,” Han said tightly, “see if you can chart me those storm areas so I can avoid the ion trails that lightning is leaving. Concentrate on the direct flight path between our present location and the landing field on that eastern continent.”

“Yes, sir,” the R2 unit said.

Moments later the electrical storm sites appeared before him. “Give me a scaled-down version of that chart in the corner of this screen, R2,” Han ordered. Usually it would be the navicomputer’s job to “merge” the intended flight path with the geographical features and the storm cells, and to suggest an intended course, which the pilot could then implement and modify as needed.

Han had never missed having a navicomputer at his disposal more than he did at this moment.

He slowed their headlong rush fractionally, then was forced to kick in their thrusters to get them out of the way of yet another wind shear from a storm cell.

Sweat was dripping down his face now as he fought the tiny controls, forcing
Ylesian Dream
into maneuvers only a swoop or a military fighter could reasonably be expected to tackle. Han realized he was still gasping, and wondered for a split second whether it was from stress and adrenaline or whether his air was running out.

He couldn’t spare the second it would take to check the air pak.

They were now only a kilometer above the surface of the planet, coming in with a rush. Too fast! Han slowed them, using the braking thrusters roughly. Gee forces seized him, and he felt as though something were squeezing his chest in a giant vise. He was gasping steadily now, and he dared to look down at his air pak.

Empty! The status indicator was solidly in the red zone.

Hold together, Han
, he counseled himself.
Just keep breathing. There’s got to be enough air in your suit to support you for a couple of minutes—at least
.

He shook his head, feeling light-headed and dizzy. His breath began to burn in his chest.

But they were almost slow enough now to land. He braked again, lightly, and the ship bucked suddenly.
I’ve lost my forward stabilizer!

Han fought to compensate. Still too fast, but there was nothing more he could do about that. He flicked on the repulsorlifts and began to set her down, feeling the ship’s vibration through his knees and legs as he knelt on the deck.

Hold together, baby!
he thought at the
Dream. Hold together—

With a huge
whooooommpppp!
the forward portside repulsor shorted out. The
Dream
yawed wildly to port, hit the ground, then bounced upward. The starboard repulsor blew, and then its entire starboard side impacted with the ground, nearly flipping the vessel over.

Wham!
With a hideous
crunch
that Han could feel through his entire body, the
Ylesian Dream
crashed into the surface of the planet, shuddered once, and was still.

Han was thrown violently across the cabin. His helmet impacted with the bulkhead, and he lay there, arms and legs flung wide, dazed. He fought to stay conscious. If he passed out, he’d never wake up again. Trying to pull himself up into a sitting position, Han grunted with effort. Waves of blackness threatened. He triggered his suit communications channel. “R2 … R2 … come in!”

“Yes, sir, I am here, sir.” The droid’s mechanical tones sounded a bit shaken. “If you don’t mind my saying so, sir, that appears to have been a most unconventional landing. I am concerned that—”

“Shut
UP
and
OPEN THE CARGO AIRLOCK!
” Han wheezed. He managed to push himself up into a sitting position, but he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to stay up. He was swaying like a drunk in a high wind.

“But, sir, I warned you that in the interests of security, all entrances would be sealed pending—”

Han found the blaster he’d stuck into the outside pocket on his suit and, drawing it, leveled the weapon at R2. “R2,
YOU OPEN THAT AIRLOCK NOW, OR I’LL BLAST YOUR METAL HIDE INTO ATOMS!
”

The droid’s lights flashed frantically. Han’s finger tightened on the trigger as he wondered whether he’d have the strength to crawl to the airlock. Blackness hovered at the edges of his vision.

“Yes, sir,” the R2 said. “I am doing as you request.”

Moments later Han felt the concussion as air
whoomped
into the
Dream
with near-explosive force. Gasping, he counted to twenty, then, with the last of his remaining strength, wrenched off his helmet. He let himself sink back down onto the deck.

He gasped, found he could breathe, and gulped huge lungfuls of fresh air. Warm air, humid air, air laden with smells he couldn’t identify. But it was rich with oxygen, eminently breathable, and that was all he cared about at the moment.

Closing his eyes, Han concentrated on simply breathing, and felt exhaustion overwhelm him. His head throbbed, and he needed just a moment to rest. Just a moment …

   When Han swam back up to full consciousness and opened his eyes, he found he was staring into a face out of a nightmare.
That is the ugliest critter I’ve ever seen!
was his first thought. Only years of experience in dealing with
nonhumans of all varieties made him able to control his initial reaction.

The face was broad, with two bulbous, protruding eyes, and covered with leathery grayish-tan skin. No visible ears, and only slits for nostrils. Above the nostril slits was a large, blunt horn that was nearly as long as Han’s forearm. The mouth was a wide, lipless split in the huge head.

Han shook his own pounding head and managed to sit up, noting from his surroundings that he appeared to be in some type of infirmary. A medical droid hovered across the room, lights flashing.

His host (if that was who the creature was) was big, Han realized. Much bigger even than a Wookiee. It somewhat resembled a Berrite, in that it walked on four tree-trunklike legs, but it was far larger. This creature’s head was appended to a short, humped neck that was attached to a massive body. Han figured its back would reach his shoulders when he was standing up. The leathery skin covering its body hung in creases, wrinkles, and loose folds, especially on its short, almost nonexistent neck. The skin shone with an oily gleam.

The four short legs ended in huge, padded feet. A long, whippy tail was carried curled over its back. For a moment Han wondered if the creature had any manipulatory limbs, but then he noticed two undersized arms that were folded against its chest, half-hidden by the loose folds of neck skin. The being’s hands were delicate, almost feminine, with four long, supple fingers on each hand.

The being opened its mouth and spoke in accented, but understandable Basic. “Greetings, Mr. Draygo. Allow me to welcome you to Ylesia. Are you a pilgrim?”

“But I’m not …” Han muttered, his head spinning. For a moment the name didn’t connect, then things snapped into place. Of course. He clamped his mouth shut, thinking that maybe he’d gotten a worse knock on the head than he’d realized. Vykk Draygo was the alias whose ID he’d currently been carrying.

Han had several alter egos, with proper documentation
to back them up. Ironically, he had
nothing
by way of ID under his true name.

“Sorry,” he muttered, holding his hand to his head, hoping his slip would be excused as a result of his head injury “I’m still kind of shaken up, I guess. No, I’m not a pilgrim I came here to answer a job advertisement for someone—preferably a Corellian—to do the piloting here.”

“I see. But how did you happen to be aboard our ship when it crashed?” the creature inquired.

“I wanted to reach Ylesia as quickly as possible, so I tool the opportunity to stow away on the
Ylesian Dream
,” Han said. “I’d have had to wait a week for a commercial flight and the ad said a pilot was urgently needed. Did you get my message?”

“Yes, we did,” the being said. Han watched it intently wishing he could read its expression. “We were expecting you—but not in the
Ylesian Dream
.”

“See, I brought the ad with me.” Han reached for his jumpsuit that was hanging over a chair beside the bed and extracted the holo-cube that featured the Ylesian advertisement he’d replied to. “It says you need someone to star right away.”

He handed the cube over. “So … Vykk Draygo here and I’m applying for this job. I’m Corellian, and I fit al your qualifications. I just … well, I wanted to say that I’m sorry about crashing the
Dream
. Your ship’s a different model than any I ever piloted, but a couple of hours on a simulator will fix that. And I’m afraid that your atmospheric currents came as a surprise.”

The being scanned the cube, then placed it on the table The corners of the massive, lipless mouth turned upward slightly. “I see. Mr. Draygo, I am the Most Exalted High Priest of Ylesia, Teroenza. Welcome to our colony. I am impressed at your initiative, young human. Traveling aboard a robot ship in order to answer our ad so quickly speaks well for you.”

Han frowned, wishing his head didn’t hurt quite so much. “Well … thanks.”

“I am impressed that you managed to control and land a
robot craft. Few human pilots have been able to react quickly enough to deal with this world’s challenging weather patterns. The damage to our ship is not serious, and repairs are already under way. You landed on soft ground, which was fortunate.”

“Does that mean I get the job?” Han asked eagerly.
Great! They’re not mad!

“Would you be willing to sign a year’s contract?” Teroenza asked.

“Maybe,” Han said, leaning back and relaxing, hands behind his head. “How much?”

The High Priest named a sum that made Han smile inwardly. Even though it was more money than he’d hoped for, he was too much of a trader not to automatically bargain.

“Well, I dunno …” he said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “I made more than that in my previous position …”

A lie, but not one they’d be able to disprove. Vykk Draygo had indeed made more than that—Han had paid well to make sure his alter ego’s job record showed that he could command the highest wages. It had taken all of Han’s savings, plus the proceeds from two dangerous heists that Garris Shrike hadn’t known anything about, to finance those alterations in his alter ego’s job record—but Han had wanted Vykk Draygo to be able to command a high salary.

Teroenza pondered that information, then said, “Very well, I can offer you thirty thousand for the year, with a bonus of ten at the end of the first six months, providing you make every assigned flight on schedule.”

“Bonus of fifteen,” Han said automatically. “And you provide the training sims.”

“Twelve,” countered Teroenza. “And you pay for the sims.”

“Thirteen,” Han said. “
You
supply the sims.”

“Twelve and a half, and we provide the sims,” the High Priest said. “Final offer.”

“Okay,” Han said, “you got yourself a pilot.”

“Excellent!” Teroenza actually chuckled, a deep, booming, oddly melodious sound.

Quickly the contracts were produced, and Han signed them, then allowed a retinal scan as proof of his identity.
Hope they’re like everyone else
, he thought,
and just do a general, system-wide check of my retinal patterns
. If the priests ordered a comprehensive—and very expensive—all-systems search to determine whether “Vykk Draygo’s” retinal scan was unique, they’d eventually discover that it wasn’t. Vykk Draygo, Jenos Idanian, Tallus Bryne, Janil Andrus, and Keil d’Tana all shared the exact same retinal patterns—which wasn’t surprising, as all of those individuals were, in fact, Han Solo.