The Han Solo Adventures (13 page)

“Solo-captain,” Atuarre interrupted his thoughts, leaning into the cockpit, “isn’t it time we spoke? We’ve been here for nearly ten Standard Time-Parts, and our course of action is no clearer than when we arrived. We must reach some decision, don’t you agree?”

Han broke off gazing out the canopy at the distant speck, barely visible, of Mytus VII. All around the
Millennium Falcon
rose the peaks and hills of the tiny asteroid on which she was concealed. “Atuarre, I don’t know how Trianii feel about waiting, but me, I hate it worse than anything. But there’s nothing else we can do; we have to sit tight and play out our hand.”

She wouldn’t accept that. “There are other courses of action, Captain. We could attempt to contact Jessa again.” Her slit-irises dwelled on him.

Han shifted around in the pilot seat to face her directly, so quickly that she drew back reflexively. Seeing this, he reined in his temper, “We could waste all kinds of time looking for Jessa. When her operation ran, after we got hit by the IRDs, she probably dug a hole and pulled it in after her. The
Falcon
can cook along at point-five factors over Big L, but we still might waste a month looking for the outlaw-techs and not find them. Maybe word will find its way to Jessa, or one of the prearranged blind transmissions, but we can’t bank on her. I don’t count on anybody but me; if I have to bust Chewie out of there alone, I’ll do it.”

Some of the tension left her. “You aren’t alone, Solo-Captain. My mate is there at Stars’ End, too. Your fight is Atuarre’s.” She extended a slim, sharp-clawed hand. “But come, now, take some food. Staring at Mytus VII cannot help and may be distracting us from solutions.”

He pushed himself up out of the seat, taking one more look at the distant planet. Mytus VII was a worthless rock, as worlds went, revolving around a small, unexceptional sun at the end of the wisp of stars that was the Corporate Sector. Stars’ End, indeed. There’d be scant danger of anyone’s happening on the Authority’s secret prison facility here, unless he came looking for it specifically.

Since Mytus VII had been listed in the charts as being at the outermost edge of its solar system, Han had broken into normal space nearly ten Standard Time-Parts before, deep in interstellar space, far out of sensor range. He’d come in from the opposite side of the system, entering a thick asteroid belt halfway between Mytus VII and its sun, and hunted up what he’d wanted, this jagged hunk of stone. Using his star-ship’s engines and tractors, he’d brought the asteroid onto a new course, one that would allow him to take a long-range peek at Stars’ End, sure that no one there would notice the slightly unusual behavior of one tiny mote in the uncharted asteroid belt.

He’d spent most of his time monitoring the planet’s communications, studying it by sensors, and watching the occasional ship come and go. Monitored commo traffic had told him nothing; most of it had been encrypted in codes that had resisted his computers’ analyses. Plaintext messages had been either mundane or meaningless, and Han suspected that at least some of them had been sent strictly for appearances’ sake, to make Stars’ End look like an ordinary, if remote, Authority installation.

Now he trailed Atuarre into the forward compartment, Bollux was seated near the gameboard, his plastron open. Pakka was stalking a jetting remote back and forth. The remote, a small globe powered by magnetic fields and repulsor power, turned, dove, climbed, and dodged unpredictably. The cub hunted it with tail twitching and quivering, obviously enjoying the game. The remote eluded him time and again, demonstrating more than its usual maneuverability.

As Han watched, Pakka nearly caught the globe, but it evaded his pounce at the last second. Han looked to the ’droid. “Bollux, are you directing that remote?”

The red photoreceptors trained on him. “No, Captain. Max is sending information pulses to it. He’s much better at anticipation and dictating random factors than I, sir. Random factors are extremely difficult concepts.”

Han watched the cub make a final, long spring and catch the remote in midair, pulling it to the deck and rolling over and over with it in sheer delight. Then the pilot sat at the gameboard, which often doubled as a table, and accepted a mug of concentrate broth from Atuarre. They had used up fresh supplies several Time-Parts before and were now sustaining themselves on the
Falcon
’s ample, if bland, emergency rations.

“There have been no new developments, Captain?” Bollux asked. Han presumed the ’droid already knew the answer and had asked only out of a sort of programmed conversational courtesy. Bollux had turned out to be an entertaining shipmate who could spin hours of tales and accounts of his long years’ work and the many worlds he’d seen. He also had a repertoire of jokes programmed into him by a former owner, and an absolutely deadpan delivery.

“Zero, Bollux. Absolutely zilch.”

“May I suggest, sir, that you assemble all available information in sum, recapping it? Among sentient life forms, new ideas sometimes emerge that way, I have noticed.”

“I bet. After all, aren’t most decrepit labor ’droids armchair philosophers?” Han put his mug down, rubbing his jaw thoughtfully. “Anyway, there isn’t much to tote up. We’re on our own—”

“Are you sure there’s no other resource?” Max chirped.

“Don’t start that again, lowpockets,” Han warned. “Where was I? We’ve found the place we want, Mytus VII, and—”

“How high is the order of probability?” Max wanted to know.

“Up an afterburner with the order of probability,” Han snapped. “If Rekkon said it’s here, it’s here. The installation has a pretty big power plant, almost fortress class. And quit interrupting, or I’ll take a drill to you.

“Let’s see. We can’t hang around forever, either; supplies are running low. What else?” He scratched his forehead where the synth-flesh patch had flaked away, leaving new, unscarred skin.

“This is a strictly off-limits solar system,” Atuarre contributed.

“Oh, yeah, and if we get nailed here without a mighty good alibi, they’ll stick
us
in jail, or whatever.” He smiled at Bollux and Blue Max. “Except you boys. You, they’d probably recycle into lint filters and spittoons.”

He dragged the toe of his boot back and forth on the deck. “Not much more to it; only that I’m not leaving this stretch of space without Chewie.” Of all the things he’d mentioned, he was surest of that. He’d spent many long watches in the
Falcon
’s cockpit, haunted by what his Wookiee partner might be undergoing. A hundred times since taking up this vigil, he’d almost cut in the ship’s engines to shoot his way into Stars’ End and get his friend out or get flamed in the attempt. Each time, his hand had been stayed by the memory of Rekkon’s words, but it was a constant struggle for Han to restrain his impulses.

Atuarre had plainly been thinking along the same lines. “When the Espos came to evict us from our colony world,” she said slowly, “some Trianii tried armed resistance. The Espos were brutal in their interrogation of prisoners, seeking the ringleaders. It was the first time I had seen anyone use The Burning. You know what I refer to, Solo-Captain?”

Han did. The Burning was a torture involving the use of a blaster set at low power, to scorch and sear the flesh off a prisoner, leaving only blood-smeared bone. Usually, a leg would be first, immobilizing the victim; then the rest of the skeleton was exposed, inch by inch. Any other prisoners could be made to watch, to break their will. The Burning seldom failed to obtain answers, if answers were to be had; but in Han’s opinion, no being who employed such methods deserved to live.

“I will not leave my mate in the hands of the kind of people who would do that,” Atuarre was saying. “We are Trianii; death, if it comes to that, is not something we fear.”

“Not a very linear analysis,” Blue Max piped up.

“Well, who said
you’d
understand it, birdhouse?” Han scoffed.

“Oh, I comprehend it, Captain,” Max said with what Han could’ve sworn was a note of pride. “I just said it wasn’t very—”

He was interrupted by a beep from the commo monitoring suite. Han was out of his chair and halfway to the cockpit by the second beep. Just as he slid into the pilot’s seat, a last, sustained beep signaled the end of the transmission.

“The recorder bagged it,” Han said, hitting the playback. “I don’t think it was encrypted.”

It was a cleartext message, sent economically, in burst. He had to slow down the playback by a five-to-one factor before it ungarbled.

“To: Corporate Vice-President Hirken, Authority facility at Stars’ End,” the audio-reconstruction began. “From: the Imperial Entertainers’ Guild. We beg the Viceprex’s indulgence and forgiveness, but the troupe scheduled to stop at your location has been forced to cancel its itinerary because of transportational mishap. This office will schedule a replacement immediately, when a troupe with a ’droid of the requisite type becomes available. I am, distinguished Viceprex, your abject servant, Hokkor Long, Secretary in charge of scheduling, Imperial Entertainers’ Guild.”

Han’s fist hit the console on the last syllable. “That’s it!”

Atuarre’s expression mixed befuddlement with doubt of Han’s soundness of mind. “Solo-Captain, that’s what?”

“No, no, I mean that’s
us
. We’re in! We just got dealt a wild card!”

He whooped, slammed his fist in his palm, and nearly ruffled Atuarre’s thick mane from glee. She retreated a step. “Solo-Captain, has the oxygen pressure dropped too low for you? That message was about entertainers.”

He snorted. “Where’ve you been all your life? He said
replacement
entertainers. Don’t you know what that means? Haven’t you ever seen the broken-down acts the Guild’ll throw in to fill a play date, just so they can hang on to their agent’s fee? Haven’t you ever gone to some bash where they promised a class act, then at the last second they pull a switch and stick in some…”

It dawned on him that they were all staring at him now, photoreceptors and Trianii eyes. He half sobered. “What else can we do? The only other thing I’ve thought of is to fly into Mytus VII backward so they’d think we were leaving. But this is even
wilder
. We can do it. Oh, they’ll think we stink like banta droppings maybe, but they’ll buy the lie.”

He saw Atuarre was far from convinced, and turned to Pakka. “They want entertainers. How’d you like to be an acrobat?”

The cub made a little bounce, a kind of strain to speak, then, frustrated, sprang into a backflip to swing upside down from an overhead control conduit by his knees and tail.

Han nodded approval. “What about it, Atuarre, for your mate’s sake? Can you sing? Do magic tricks?”

She was nonplused, resenting his appeal to Pakka and his invocation of her mate. But she saw, too, that he was right. How many chances like this would come their way?

The cub began clapping his paws for Han’s attention. When he got it, Pakka shook his head energetically in answer to Han’s last question; then, still hanging upside down, he put paws on hips and made wriggling motions.

Han’s eyebrows knit. “A… dancer? Atuarre, you’re a dancer!”

She cuffed her cub’s rump sharply. “I am not, er, unskilled in the rites of my people.” Han saw she was embarrassed; she riveted him with a defiant stare. “And what of you, Solo-Captain? With what will you astonish your audience?”

He was too exhilarated with the prospect of action to be dampened. “Me? I’ll think of something. Inspiration’s my specialty!”

“A dangerous specialty, the most dangerous of all, perhaps. What of the ’droid? What ’droid? We don’t even know what kind of ’droid they meant.”

“Ah, a
replacement
’droid, remember?” Han talked fast, to sell his point, gesturing at Bollux. The ’droid made strangely human prevocal sounds, a creak of astonishment, and Blue Max got out a “Wow!” as Han rattled on.

“We can say the Guild got it wrong. So Stars’ End wanted a juggler or whatever and they get a storyteller. So what? We’ll tell them to go sue the Entertainers’ Guild!”

“Captain Solo, sir, if you please,” Bollux finally interjected. “With your kind permission, sir, I must point out—”

But Han already had his hands on the ’droid’s weatherbeaten shoulders, eyeing him artistically. “Hmm, new paint, of course, and there’s plenty aboard; it often pays to slap a coat on something before resale, especially if you didn’t own it to begin with. Scarlet liqui-gloss, I think; a five-coat job’s all we have time for. And maybe some trim. Nothing flashy, no scrollwork or filigree; just some restrained silver pinstriping. Bollux, boy, you can stop worrying about obsolescence after this, ’cause you’re gonna lay ’em in the aisles!”

Their approach and planetfall were uneventful. Han had altered the drift of their captive asteroid to take him back out of range of the Authority’s sensors and then abandoned it. Once back in deep space, he’d made a nanno-jump, barely brushing hyperspace, to emerge near Mytus VII and its two small moonlets.

The
Falcon
identified herself, using the Waivered registration obtained by Rekkon. To that was added the proud announcement that she was the grand touring vehicle of Madam Atuarre’s Roving Performers.

Mytus VII was a place of rocky desolation, airless, its distance from its sun rendering it dim and cheerless. If anybody escaped Stars’ End, he’d have no place to go; the rest of the solar system was untenanted, none of its planets being hospitable to humanoid life.

The Authority’s installation was marked by groupings of temporary dormitories, hangars and guard barracks, hydroponics layouts, dome-sheds and weapons sites. The ground was gouged and pocked where construction of permanent subsurface facilities was in progress, but there was at least one finished structure already. In the middle of the base reared a tower like a stark, gleaming dagger.

Evidently no tunnel system had been completed yet. The whole complex was interconnected by a maze of tunnel-tubes, like giant, pleated hoses radiating from their boxy junction stations, a common arrangement for construction sites on airless worlds.

There was only one sizable vessel on the ground, an armed Espo assault craft. There were also smaller craft and unarmed cargo lighters, but Han had checked carefully for picket ships this time and was satisfied that there were none.

Han, checking visually for that heavyweight power plant his sensors had spotted, failed to locate it and wondered if it might be in that tower. He shot a second look at the tower, thinking something about it looked strange. It was equipped with two heavy docking locks, one at ground level and the other near its summit, the former hooked up to a tunnel-tube. He would very much have liked to run a close sweep of the place to see if he could pick up a high concentration of life forms that might indicate prisoners, but dared not for fear of counterdetection. Being caught probing the base would spell the end of the masquerade.

He made an undistinguished approach, nothing fancy, revealing none of the
Falcon
’s hidden capabilities. The attentive snouts of turbo-lasers tracked the ship exactingly. Ground control guided the starship down, and one of the tunnel-tubes snaked out, its folded skin extended by its servoframe, its hatch-mounted mouth sealing to the
Millennium Falcon
’s hull, swallowing the ship’s lowering ramp.

Han shut down the engines. Atuarre, in the oversized copilot’s seat, said, “I tell you one last time, Solo-Captain: I don’t wish to be the one to do the speaking.”

He brought his chair around. “I’m no actor, Atuarre. It’d be different if we were just going to jump in, spring the prisoners, and kiss off, but I can’t cut all that chitchat and play the role.”

They left the cockpit. Han was wearing a tight-cut black body suit, converted into a costume by the addition of epaulets, piping, shining braid, and a broad yellow sash, over which he’d buckled his blaster. His boots were newly polished.

Atuarre was bedecked at wrists, forearms, throat, forehead, and knees with bunches of multicolored streamers, Trianii attire for festivals and joyful occasions. She’d applied the exotic perfumes and formal scents of her species, using up the tiny supply she had in her belt pouch.

“I am no actress, either,” she reminded him as they met the others at the ramp hatch.

“Did you ever see a celebrity?”

“Authority execs and their wives, when they came to our world as tourists.”

Han snapped his fingers. “That’s it. Smug, dumb, and happy.”

Pakka was costumed as his mother was, wearing the scents appropriate to a pre-adolescent male. He handed his mother and Han long, billowing metallic capes, hers coppery and his an electric blue. Han’s small wardrobe had been ransacked for material for the costumes, and the capes had come from the thin insulating layers of a tent from the ship’s survival gear.

The fitting, seaming, and alterations had been a problem. Han was all thumbs when it came to tailoring, and the Trianii, of course, were a species who had never developed the art because they never wore anything but protective clothing. The solution had come in the form of Bollux, who had been programmed for the necessary skills, among others, while serving a regimental commander during the Clone Wars.

The ramp was already down; all that remained was to open the hatch. “Luck to us all,” Atuarre bade them softly. They piled hands, including Bollux’s cold metal ones, then Han reached for the switch.

As the hatch rolled up, Atuarre was still objecting. “Solo-Captain, I still think you ought to be the one to—” At the foot of the ramp, the tunnel-tube was crammed with body-armored Espos brandishing heavy blasters, riot guns, gas projectors, fusion-cutters, and sapper charges. Whirling, Atuarre gushed, “Oh, my! How thoughtful! My dears, they’ve sent us a guard of honor!”

She touched up her glossy, fine-brushed mane with one hand, smiling down at the Security Policemen charmingly. Han wondered why he’d ever worried. The Espos, keyed up for a shootout, stared popeyed as she swept down the ramp, the profusion of streamers rippling and snapping behind her, her cape shimmering. Her steps sounded with the anklet-chimes that Han had run off for her from shipboard materials, using his small but complete tool locker.

At the front of the Espo ranks was a battalion commander, a major, his black swagger stick held behind his back, spine stiff, face rigid with officiousness. Atuarre descended the ramp as if she were receiving the keys to the planet, waving as if to acknowledge a standing ovation.

“My dear,
dear
General,” she halfsang, intentionally giving the man a promotion, “I’m simply beyond words! Viceprex Hirken is too kind, I’m sure. And to you and your gallant men, thanks from Madam Atuarre and her Roving Performers!” She swooped right up to him, ignoring the guns and bombs and other items of destruction, one hand playing with the major’s ribbons and medals, the other waving her gratitude to the massed, dumbfounded Espos. A dark, high-blood-pressure blush rose out of the major’s collar and climbed swiftly for his hairline.

“What is the meaning of this?” he sputtered. “Are you saying you’re the entertainers Viceprex Hirken is expecting?”

Her face showed cute confusion. “To be sure. You mean word of our arrival wasn’t forwarded here to Stars’ End? The Imperial Entertainers’ Guild assured me it would communicate with you; I
always
demand adequate advanced billing.”

She swept a grand gesture back up the ramp. “Gentlemen! Madam Atuarre presents her Roving Performers! First, Master Marksman, wizard of weaponry, whose target-shooting tricks and glittering gunplay have astounded audiences everywhere!”

Han walked down the ramp, trying to look the part, sweating under the tunnel-tube’s worklights. Atuarre and the others could use their real names with impunity here, since those names had never appeared in Authority files. But Han’s might have, and so he’d been forced into this new persona. He wasn’t altogether sure he liked it now. When the Espos saw his blaster, weapons came up to cover him, and he was cautious to keep his hand away from it.

But Atuarre was already chattering. “And, to amaze and amuse you with feats of gymnastics and spellbinding acrobatics, Atuarre presents her pet prodigy—”

Han held up a hoop he had brought down with him. It was a ring-stabilizer off an old repulsor rig, but he’d plated it and fitted it with an insulated hand-grip and a breadboarded distortion unit. Now he thumbed a switch, and the hoop became a circle of dancing light and waves of color as the distortion unit scrambled the visible spectrum, throwing off sparks and flares.

“—Pakka!” Atuarre introduced. The cub dived through the harmless light-effects, bounced off the ramp, and executed a triple forward somersault, into a double twist, and ended bowing deeply to the surprised major. Han scaled the hoop back into the ship and stepped to one side.

“And lastly,” Atuarre went on, “that astonishing automaton, robotic raconteur, and machine of mirth and merriment,
Bollux
!”

And the ’droid clanked stiffly down the ramp, long arms swinging, somehow making it all look like a military march. Han had knocked out most of his dents and dings and applied a radiant paint job, five layers of scarlet liqui-gloss, as promised, with glinting silver pinstriping, painstakingly limned. The ’droid had been converted from an obsolescent into a classic. The mask-and-sunburst emblem of the Imperial Entertainer’s Guild embellished one side of his chest, a touch that Han had thought would raise their credibility.

The Espo major was stumped. He knew Viceprex Hirken was expecting a special entertainment group, but was not aware of any clearance for one’s arrival. Nevertheless, the Viceprex attached particular importance to his diversions, and wouldn’t take kindly to any meddling or delay. No, not kindly at all.

The major put on as cordial an expression as his gruff face could achieve. “I’ll notify the Viceprex of your arrival at once, Madam, ah, Atuarre?”

“Yes, splendid!” She gathered her cape for a curtsy and turned to Pakka. “Fetch your props, my sweet.” The cub skipped back up the ramp and returned a moment later with several hoops, a balance-ball, and an assortment of lesser props scrounged up aboard ship.

“I’ll escort you to Stars’ End,” said the major. “And I’m afraid my men will have to hold on to your Master Marksman’s weapon. You understand, Madam: Standard Operating Procedure.”

Han steeled himself and handed his blaster over butt-first to an Espo sergeant as Atuarre nodded to the major. “Of course, of course. We must never ignore the proprieties, must we? Now, my dear,
dear
General, if you’d be so gracious…”

He realized with a start that she was waiting for his arm, and extended it stiffly, his face livid. The Espos, knowing their commanding officer’s temper, hid their grins carefully. They formed up a hasty honor guard as Han hit the ramp control. The ramp pulled itself up quickly and the hatch rolled closed. They would reopen for no one but himself, Chewbacca, or one of the Trianii.

The major, after sending a runner ahead, led the group off through the tunnel-tube mazework. They were a long walk from the tower, and passed through several of the tread-mounted junction stations, to the surprised gazes of black-coveralled tech controlmen. Their footsteps and Bollux’s clanking joints echoed through the tunnel-tubes, and the new arrivals noticed a gravity markedly lighter than the Standard gee maintained onboard the
Millennium Falcon
. Air in the tubes had the tang of hydroponics recycling, a welcome change from shipboard.

They came at last to a large, permanent air lock. Its outer hatch swung open at a verbal order from the major. Han caught a quick glimpse of what he knew must be the tower’s side, surrounded by the tunnel-tube’s seal, that confirmed something he’d thought he’d seen when landing.

Stars’ End, or at least the tower’s outer sheath, was molecularly bonded armor, of a single piece. That made it one of the most expensive buildings—no, he corrected himself,
the
most expensive building—Han had ever seen. Enhancing the molecular bonding of dense metals was a costly process, and doing it on this scale was something he’d simply never heard of.

Inside the tower, they passed down a long, broad corridor to the central axis, which was a service core that also housed elevator banks. They were hurried along, with little chance to gawk, but they did see techs, Authority execs, and Espos coming and going. Stars’ End itself didn’t appear to be particularly well manned, which didn’t jell with the theory that it was a prison.

They entered an elevator with the major and a few of his men and were whisked upward in a high-speed ride. When the elevator opened and they trailed the major out, they found themselves standing beneath the stars, which shone so brightly and were packed so tightly overhead that they seemed more like a mist of light.

Then Han realized they were on top of Stars’ End, which was covered with a dome of transparisteel. There was an apron of bright flooring by the elevators. Beyond that began a small glen, complete with miniature streamlet, and flowers and vegetation from many worlds, landscaped down to the last bud and leaf. He could hear the sounds of birds and small animals, the hum of pollinating insects, all of which were confined to the roof garden, he assumed, by partition fields. The glen was cleverly lit by miniature sun-globes of various colors.

Footsteps to their right made them turn. A man came around the curve of the tower’s service core, a tall, handsome patriarch of a man. He wore superbly cut uppermost-exec’s attire—a cutaway coat, formal vest, pleated shirt and meticulously creased trousers, set off by a jaunty red cravat. His smile was hearty and convincing, his hair white and full, his hands clean and soft, his nails manicured and lacquered. Han instantly wanted to bop him in the skull and dump him down the elevator shaft.

The man’s voice was sure and melodious. “Welcome to Stars’ End, Madam Atuarre. I am Hirken, Vice-President Hirken, of the Corporate Sector Authority. Alas, you come unheralded, or I’d have greeted you with greater pomp.”

Atuarre feigned distress. “Oh, honorable sir, what shall I say? We were contacted by the Guild and asked to serve as a replacement act, at the last moment, as it were. But I was told the Secretary in charge of scheduling, Hokkor Long, would make all arrangements.”

Viceprex Hirken smiled, a charming drawing back of red lips from chalk-white teeth. Han thought how useful that smile and smooth voice must be in Authority board sessions. “Totally unimportant,” the Viceprex announced. “Your appearance is thus an unexpected pleasure.”

“Why, how gracious of you! Never fear, my kind Viceprex; we’ll distract you from the problems and pressures of your high office!” To herself, though, Atuarre swore Trianii vengeance:
If you’ve hurt my mate, I vow I’ll see your living heart in my hand!