Star Wars: The Han Solo Trilogy I: The Paradise Snare (44 page)

“You can take your accusations and stick ’em in your ear!” the Corellian burst out indignantly. Of course the Barabel didn’t have any visible ears, but his meaning wasn’t lost on her. Dropping his right hand down to his thigh, he silently unsnapped the strap on the top of his holster. Shaking his head vehemently, he added, “I wasn’t cheating! You were just outplayed, sister!”

Left-handed, Han reached across the table, grabbed a fistful of credits, and stuffed them into his pocket. Nobody moved or spoke, so he reached for the remaining handful. In a blur of reddish fur, the Devaronian female’s hand shot out, grabbed his wrist, and pinned it to the table. “Maybe Shallamar is right,” she said, in strongly accented Basic. “We should search him to make sure.”

Han glared at her. “Take your hands off me,” he said very quietly. “Or I’ll make you really sorry.”

Something in his eyes and voice must have impressed her, because she let go of him and stepped back.

“Coward!” Shallamar snarled at the Devaronian. “He’s just a puny human!”

The Devaronian shook her head and backed away, indicating that she wanted no further part in the conflict.

Han smiled smugly as he reached for the last of the card-chips. Seeing that smile, the Barabel roared again. One armored, sharp-taloned hand came sweeping down in a mighty blow that smashed the table in two, sending board, credits, and card-chips flying. Snarling, she advanced on Han. “No! I’m going to bite your head off, cheater! We’ll see how good you are
then
!”

Han took one look at her gaping maw, realizing that she was big enough to make good on her threat, and went for his blaster. His right hand dropped to his thigh with blurring speed, then the well-worn grip was there, nestled against his palm.

His hand, still moving with extraordinary speed, started back up as he began his draw—

—only to stop short when the blaster hung up in the holster!

Han had barely a second to realize that the blaster’s front sight, mounted on the end of the barrel, was caught at the bottom of his holster. He tugged, trying to free his weapon.

The Barabel leaped for him. Han jumped back, but not far enough. Shallamar’s huge, sharp talons grabbed the front of his jacket, slashing the tough material as though it were tissue. Still yanking at his trapped blaster, Han was hauled toward the Barabel’s wide-open mouth so fast his vision blurred. He let out a choked gasp as a blast of hot, reeking reptiloid breath engulfed him.

Suddenly Han glimpsed a blur of brownish tan at the corner of his vision, just as a huge roar nearly deafened him. A long, furred arm snaked around Shallamar’s neck, jerking her back, away from Han.

“Chewie!” Han yelled. He’d never been so glad to see someone in his life.

The Barabel roared back at the Wookiee, dropping the Corellian as she swung around to grapple with her attacker.

“Hold her for a second, Chewie!” Han yelled, yanking at the bottom of his holster as he twisted the grip of his blaster. At last! He pulled it up and sighted at the Barabel as she wrestled with the Wookiee, but he couldn’t get a clear shot.

The two huge beings, snarling and hissing, rampaged across the room, knocking over tables and chairs. The other sabacc players and denizens of the bar scattered before the fray, screaming advice and curses in multiple languages.

The Sullustan sabacc player dropped his hand to his own blaster, but when he saw that Han was now armed, he turned and flung himself behind the bar.

Shallamar and Chewbacca swayed back and forth, locked in a grim parody of a loving embrace, each testing the other’s strength, trying to get each other off balance. “Chewie, c’mon!” Han yelled. “Let’s get outta here!”

Chewbacca and Shallamar whirled in a blur of brown fur and black scales, then Shallamar lowered her head and snapped at the Wookiee’s arm. Her needle-sharp teeth sheared off a chunk of fur and meat. The Wookiee roared in agony and, with a burst of strength, grabbed the Barabel’s arm and slung her around with dizzying speed, so fast that her feet slid out from under her. As she went down, Chewie also grabbed her tail, swinging her so hard she was airborne.

With a final howl of triumph, Chewbacca released his grip and sent the huge reptiloid flying across the room, while sentients scattered to avoid her trajectory. Shallamar landed on her back amid a ruin of chairs, tables, and sabacc card-chips.

Stun won’t work, don’t want to kill
—a jumble of thoughts raced through Han’s mind as he thumbed the setting on the blaster, aimed, and fired at the dazed Shallamar, hitting her at half force just below one huge knee joint. She hissed in pain and sagged back, black scales smoking and steaming.

“Chewie, c’mon!” Han yelled, snapping off a stun shot at the sabacc dealer, who was aiming a blaster at the Wookiee. The Devaronian went down without a sound. Chewie, dripping blood, was right behind Han as they raced for the exit, knocking over chairs and tables.

The tavern’s owner, a Devaronian female, blocked his way, screaming curses and threats, but Han slapped her aside with the barrel of his blaster and kept running. He slammed the door with his shoulder, then bounced off. Locked!

Swearing in six nonhuman languages, Han thumbed the indicator on his weapon up to its highest power, and blasted the door. The proprietor howled in protest, but the Corellian and the Wookiee were already gone.

Han and Chewbacca pelted down the squalid alley, then swung out onto the street with its rustic-looking buildings made of blue native wood and stuccoed permacrete. A chilly breeze made the Corellian shiver. It was early spring here on Devaron’s south polar continent.

Han quickly holstered his blaster as he dropped his pace to a fast walk. “How’s the arm, pal?”

Chewie groaned, ending in a snarl. Han glanced down at the damage. “Well, it was your choice to come back,” he pointed out. “Not that I’m sorry you did, mind you. I … I want to say … uh … thanks for saving my rear.”

The Wookiee made an interrogatory sound. Han shrugged. “Well, sure, I guess …” he mumbled. “I’ve never had a partner before, but … yeah, why not? It can get kinda boring on long space flights without someone to talk to, I guess.”

Chewie rumbled with satisfaction, despite his pain. “Don’t push your luck,” Han said dryly. “Listen, we got to get that arm seen to. There’s a med droid’s clinic across the street. Let’s go.”

An hour later the two were back on the street. Chewie’s arm, after a bacta treatment, was sheathed in a protective bandage, but the med droid had assured them that Wookiees were quick healers.

The Wookiee had just finished commenting that he was hungry, when Han heard a soft call from the shelter of a nearby doorway. “Pilot Solo …”

Han stopped in his tracks and looked over to find a Duros male beckoning to him. He glanced from side to side, but the Devaronian street scene was quiet and peaceful. This section near the town square was reserved for pedestrian traffic. “Yeah?” he replied, in a low voice.

The blue-skinned Duros motioned for Han to follow him into a nearby alley. The Corellian walked to the mouth, turned the corner, then stood with his back against the wall, hand on the grip of his blaster. “Okay, this is as far as I go without knowing what you want.”

The Duro’s mournful expression lengthened even farther. “You are not a trusting sentient, Pilot Solo. I was referred to you by a mutual friend, Truthful Toryl. He said you are an excellent pilot.”

Han relaxed slightly, but didn’t take his hand off his gun. “I’m good, all right,” he said. “If Truthful Toryl sent you … prove it.”

The Duros gazed straight at him with calm, moonstone-colored eyes. “He said I was to tell you that the
Talisman
you brought him is no more.”

Han relaxed and took his hand off his weapon. “Okay, you’ve convinced me he sent you,” he said. “State your business.”

“I need a ship delivered to Nar Hekka, in the Hutt system,” the Duros said. “I am willing to pay well … but, Pilot Solo, you must
not
allow Imperials to board her should you run into any patrols.”

Han sighed. More intrigues. But the Duros’s offer interested him. He’d been planning all along to eventually make his way to Nar Shaddaa, the “Smuggler’s Moon” that orbited Nal Hutta. Now would be as good a time as any. From Nar Hekka, he could easily catch a ship to Nal Hutta or Nar Shaddaa.

“Tell me more,” he said.

“Only if you can raise ship within two hours,” the Duros said. “If not, tell me, and I will look elsewhere for a pilot.”

Han considered for a moment. “Well … I could maybe change my plans … for the right price.”

The Duros named a figure, then added, “And the same sum upon delivery.”

Han snorted, then shook his head, though inwardly he was surprised at how high the initial bid was. “C’mon, Chewie,” he said, “we’ve got places to go, people to see.”

Too quickly, the Duros named another, higher sum.

This guy must really be desperate
, Han thought as he pretended to hesitate for a beat. He shook his head. “I dunno … it’s not worth my butt if the Imperials are lookin’ for this ship of yours. What’s she carrying?”

The Duros’s expression did not change. “That I cannot tell you. But I will tell you that if you deliver the ship and its contents safely to Tagta the Hutt, he will be pleased, and pleasing a Hutt Lord is generally considered to be a good thing for one’s financial well-being. Tagta is Jiliac the Hutt’s highest-ranking subordinate on Nar Hekka.”

Han’s ears pricked up. Jiliac the Hutt was a very high-ranking Hutt Lord indeed. Maybe this Tagta would give him a recommendation to the boss …

“Hmmmmmmmm …” Han scratched his head, then named a sum. “And all in advance,” he added.

The Duros’s pale blue skin seemed to grow even paler, but then he nodded. “Very well as to the sum, but half up front. You will receive the rest from Tagta, Pilot Solo.”

Han considered, then nodded. “Okay, you’ve got yourself a deal. Chewie”—he turned to address the Wookiee, who was hovering nearby, listening intently—“go on back to that lockbox where we left our stuff and get it, will you, while I conclude my business with our friend here?”

The Wookiee rumbled a soft assent.

“Thanks. I’ll meet you on the north side of the town square in an hour, okay?”

Chewbacca nodded and moved off down the street.

Han walked closer to the Duros, and said, “Okay, you’ve got yourself a pilot. We’ll raise ship within two hours. Fill me in on the rest of it. Where do I find this Tagta the Hutt?”

Within minutes Han had all the details. The Duros handed over a sheaf of credit vouchers, gave him the ship’s security code, and the location of the vessel. Then the blue-skinned alien melted away into the dimness of the alley.

Han had a couple of minutes to kill, so he grabbed a quick bite at the cafe next door. He had to argue with the Devish female chef to get her to
cook
his meat. But it was worth it. The food drowned the last of the ale-induced muzziness. Clearheaded, his energy renewed, Han felt considerably cheered.

On his way to the town square, he stopped off at a secondhand shop that catered to spacers of all species. There he bought a beat-up black lizard-hide jacket to replace the one the Barabel had shredded. Respectably clothed again, he started up the street toward his rendezvous with Chewbacca.

Han knew something was up long before he reached the town square. The sound of a huge crowd was unmistakable. They seemed to be shouting in unison. The skin at the back of Han’s neck prickled suddenly as he realized that there was something
familiar
about those words. They weren’t in Basic, but he’d heard those simple, repetitious phrases before.

But where?

I’ve got a bad feeling about this …
he thought, turning the corner and seeing the crowd. They were chanting. Chanting, swaying, rocking with religious fervor. Mostly Devaronians, of course, but there were a smattering of humans and other sentients. Han’s gaze raked the crowd, following it to the front. A hastily erected dais stood there, and atop it, leading the revival, stood a figure out of Han’s past.

Oh, no!
he thought.
This is a Ylesian revival, and that missionary is Veratil! I can’t let him see me!

Five years ago, Han had spent almost six months on the steaming, fungus-infested world of Ylesia. He’d been working as a pilot before taking the examinations to get into the Academy, practicing and honing his piloting skills. Ylesia was a world at the edge of Hutt space, where a race of beings called the t’landa Til—distant cousins of the Hutts—offered “pilgrims” supposed religious sanctuary.

The t’landa Til sent missionaries to many worlds to preach about the One and the All. Han had known that for years, but he’d never been unlucky enough to run into a Ylesian revival before now.

For a wild moment the Corellian wanted to draw his blaster, shoot Veratil down, and yell to the assembled crowd of potential pilgrims, “Go home! It’s all a big fake! They just want you so they can enslave you, you fools! Get out of here!”

But how could he make them believe him? To most sentients in the galaxy, Ylesia was perceived as a place of religious retreat, where the faithful gathered, and those wishing to hide from their pasts could find sanctuary.

The fact that the Ylesian “sanctuary” would turn out to be a trap was known only to the lucky few—like Han—who’d managed to escape. No doubt Veratil had a transport standing by to load the pilgrims on board. Unfortunate sentients who followed him would have no idea that their voyage to Ylesia would lead only to slavery in the spice factories, then, when they grew too weak or sick to work, they’d face death in the spice mines of Kessel. Ylesia was a golden dream for the faithful, but the reality was a world of bondage and unending toil.

Teroenza, Veratil’s boss, was the High Priest of Ylesia. Before fleeing the colony, Han had robbed the t’landa Til leader of the most valuable pieces in a rare and extensive collection. He’d left Teroenza wounded, but alive.

Han had escaped Ylesia in Teroenza’s personal yacht, the
Talisman
. Soon after his getaway, Han discovered that the t’landa Til and their Hutt overlords had placed a fat bounty on the head of “Vykk Draygo”—Han’s alias. Han had to change his identity, even his retinal patterns, to escape detection and capture.