Star Wars: The Han Solo Trilogy I: The Paradise Snare (39 page)

He sealed the front of his coverall, then picked up his jacket. Only then did he notice that Bria’s duffel was gone.

With a low moan of anguish, he saw something white protruding from the pocket of his jacket. Han pulled it out—and found himself holding a pouch filled with high-denomination credit vouchers. And there was something else, too …

A note. Written on creased and folded flimsy. Han shut his eyes, clutching it. It was nearly a full minute before he could force himself to open his eyes, force himself to read:

S
he’ll come back
, was Han’s first thought, and
I’ve lost her forever
 … was his second. He stared wildly around the room, feeling as if it might explode if he didn’t
DO
something. With a loud curse he hurled his jacket at the wall, then he yanked the pillows off the bed and flung them, too. Not enough—Han wondered frantically if he were going mad. His head felt too small to contain his mind, and he was filled with the need to howl his pain and anguish aloud, like a Wookiee.

“AAAAHHHHHHHHH!” he cried, and grabbing the battered chair that was one of the room’s three pieces of furniture, Han swung it over his head and sent it crashing full-tilt into the door. A loud curse from his next-door neighbor followed. The chair lay there on the threadbare floor matting, unbroken. The door was still intact, too.

Han collapsed onto the bed and just lay there for several minutes, head buried in his arms. The pain came and went in waves. His chest ached, simply breathing
hurt
. His only relief came when he felt numb all over.

Somehow, the numbness was the worst of all.

After a long time, it occurred to Han that he had not finished Bria’s letter. Except for the pile of credit vouchers, it was all he had left of her, so he dragged himself upright and squinted in the dim light to read the shaky words on the flimsy:

Han made himself finish the letter all the way through. Each word burned its way into his mind like a laser torch. When he finished, he decided to go back and reread it, because he was trying to put off the moment when he’d have to start feeling and thinking again. While he was reading Bria’s flimsy, it was as if she were still here. He could almost hear her voice. Han knew that the moment he stopped reading, she would be gone again.

But this time, although he squinted hard, he couldn’t make out the words. They were too blurred.

“Honey,” he whispered to the letter, his throat so raw that he could barely force the words out, “you shouldn’t have done this. We were a
team
, remember?”

Hearing himself use the past tense, Han shuddered, like a man in the grip of a fever. He got up and began pacing back and forth, back and forth. Moving seemed to be the only thing that could help him bear this. Waves of anger and frustration alternated with moments of grief so profound that he thought it might be easier to go mad.

She lied. Never loved me. Rich girl, stuck-up, just having a fling … used me to escape, used me till she got bored. I hate her …

Han groaned aloud, shaking his head.
No I don’t. I
love
her. How could she
do
this to me? She said she loved me. Liar! Liar? No … she meant it. Face it, Han, she’s been suffering, you know it. Bria was troubled, in pain …

Yes, she’d been in pain. Han remembered all those nights he’d found her sobbing, and had held her, tried to comfort her.
Baby … why? I tried so hard to help. You shouldn’t be alone. You should have stayed. We’d have worked it out …

He was terrified that her addiction might send her running back to Ylesia. Han had no illusions about Teroenza’s reaction if she did. The t’landa Til had no capacity to feel
pity or to be merciful. The High Priest would order Bria killed if he ever laid eyes on her again.

Han stared dazedly around the squalid little room. Had it only been last night that they’d been here, in each other’s arms? Bria had held him tightly, fiercely. Now Han realized the reason for her passion. She’d known she was holding him for the last time …

He shook his head. How could things change so irrevocably in just a few hours?

Turn time back
, some childish part of his mind said.
Make it be THEN, not NOW. I don’t like NOW. I want it to be THEN …

But of course that was stupid. Han caught his breath, and the sound was ragged, filled with pain. Almost a sob.

Suddenly he couldn’t stand being here, seeing this dreadful little room, any longer. Stuffing his few belongings into his small bag, Han distributed handfuls of credit vouchers into his inside pockets, against his skin. Then he put on his ancient jacket and stuffed the blaster into the front of it.

He walked out, down the hall, past the sleazy-looking woman at the desk.

And kept walking …

All day he walked, moving like a droid through the unsavory crowds of this area, which was one of the “borderline” red-light districts that intersected with one of the nonhuman enclaves. He did not eat, could not face the idea of food.

He was always conscious of the stolen blaster in the front of his jacket. With part of his mind, Han rather hoped that someone
would
try to rob him. That would give him an excuse to lash out, to maim or kill—he wanted to
destroy
something. Or someone.

But nobody bothered him. Perhaps there was some aura he projected, some body language that warned others to keep “hands off.”

His mind kept playing tug-of-war with his heart. He went over and over everything they’d ever said and done. Had he done something wrong? Was Bria a lovely, troubled,
but decent girl fighting a deadly addiction? Or was she a spoiled, callous rich kid who’d been playing a cruel game? Had she ever
really
loved him?

At some point Han found himself on a street corner between two massive stone piles of rubble. In his hands was Bria’s flimsy, and he was trying to read it by the flickering light of a brothel’s sign. Han blinked.
Must be raining …
His face was wet …

He looked up at the sky, but of course, there was no sky, only a rooftop, high above. He held out a hand, palm up. No rain.

Folding the letter, Han put it away carefully. He resisted the momentary urge to shred it, or blast it into cinders. Something told him he’d regret it if he did.

Whatever she was, she’s GONE
, he decided, straightening his shoulders.
She’s not coming back, and I’ve gotta pull myself together. First thing tomorrow, I go looking for Nici the Specialist at The Glow Spider …

Han realized it was now late at night. He’d been wandering the streets for twelve or fifteen hours. Fortunately, in this district, some places never slept. The Corellian realized that he needed both food and sleep—he was so empty and exhausted that his head spun.

He began walking slowly back the way he’d come, realizing that every step felt as though he were treading on burning sand. His soles were abraded and blistered, and he limped.

The pain in his feet was a welcome distraction.

From now on, it’s just me, Han Solo
, he thought, stopping and peering up at the night sky, barely visible at the top of an airshaft. One star—or was it a space station?—winked against the blackness. Han’s mental declaration had the conviction of a sworn oath.
Nobody else. I don’t care about anybody else. Nobody gets close, from now on. I don’t care how pretty she is, how smart, or how sweet. No friend, no lover …
nobody
is worth this kind of pain. From now on, it’s just me … Solo
. With one part of his mind, he realized the grim irony of his inadvertent play on words, and he chuckled hollowly. From now on, his name
was
him. His name had come to stand for what he was, what was inside him.

Solo. From now on. Just me. The galaxy and everyone in it can go to blazes. I’m Solo, now and forever
.

The last of the youthful softness had vanished from Han’s features, and there was a new coldness, a new hardness in his eyes. He walked on into the night, and his boot heels sounded hard against the permacrete—as hard and unrelenting as the shell now sheathing his heart.

   A week later Han Solo walked toward the Hall of Admissions of the Imperial Space Academy. The building was a huge, topmost-level structure, massive and quietly, solidly dignified in design.

The light from Coruscant’s small white sun made him blink. It had been a long time since he’d seen sunlight, and his eyes were still sensitive, still easily irritated.

Having one’s retinal patterns altered was possible, as Han had just proved, but it hadn’t been a pleasant experience. He’d had the laser surgery and cell rearrangement, then he’d spent a day in a bacta tank, healing. He’d then worn a bacta visor for three more days, lying in a little back room at Nici’s “clinic.”

He’d put his forced inaction to good use, though, and had listened to hours of canned history and literature recordings, boning up for the examinations he hoped to begin. Han was under no illusions that the Academy testing would prove easy for him. His education had been spotty, at best.

Nici the Specialist had been worth every credit of his exorbitant fee. “Han Solo” now existed in the Imperial database, along with his retinal patterns, and other identifying marks. (Most of these scars were brand-new, carefully placed on his body by Nici’s medical droids. Han had had most of his old scars erased.)

“Han Solo” now had IDs that were indistinguishable from those possessed by every loyal citizen of the Empire. For the first time in more than a decade, he was “clean”—Han
Solo wasn’t wanted by anyone for anything. He no longer had to glance guiltily behind him or try to grow eyes in the back of his head. He didn’t have to stay alert for the betraying flash of light of a suddenly revealed blaster muzzle. He still tensed at loud noises, but that was just reflex.

Han Solo was a regular citizen, not a hunted fugitive.

He still had Vykk Draygo’s and Jenos Idanian’s IDs, buried deep in a credit case, but he was simply waiting for a good chance to dispose of them. Han’s face had never appeared on a
WANTED
poster or in a database, only his original retinal patterns. And they were gone, erased.

As he mounted the stone steps to the Hall of Admissions, Han’s strides were sure and confident. He walked up to the human recruiting officer sitting behind the desk and smiled politely. “Hello,” he said. “My name is Han Solo, and I’d like to apply for admission into the Imperial Academy. I’ve always wanted to be a Naval officer.”

The clerk did not smile back, but he was civil. “May I see your identification, Mr. Solo?”

“Certainly,” Han said, and laid it on the desk.

“This will take a moment. Please take a seat.”

Han sat, feeling inner tension, but telling himself he had nothing to be afraid of. Renn Tharen’s credits had seen to that …

Minutes later the clerk handed Han’s IDs back to him and offered a remote smile. “Everything checks out, Solo. You can begin the application and testing process today. Are you aware that over fifty percent of the candidates are not accepted? And that fifty percent of those accepted never complete their course at the Academy?”

“Yes, sir, I am,” Han said. “But I’m determined to try. I’m a good pilot.”