Han rolled over onto his side, then levered himself up into a sitting position. The guards who had shoved him into the chamber stepped back out and slammed the portal shut behind them. Han was alone in the echoing gloom.
He looked around, wondering what was next. At least he was out of that cell. That was something. Not much, maybe, but something. And of course, whatever came next was not likely to be an improvement. In his experience, it was reasonably safe to be filed away in a cell. It was when you were pulled out that the trouble began.
Han got himself up onto his feet and looked around. The walls and floors of the place were made of some sort of utilitarian dark gray stresscrete, and there was a dank scent to the air that suggested the windowless chamber was underground. The room was about twenty meters wide and thirty long, with the central floor set a half meter below a two-meter-wide platform that ran around the chamber’s perimeter. There were four heavy steel doors, one on each side of the chamber, each of them opening out onto the perimeter platform. Anyone who stood on the platform would be looking down at whoever was in the central area.
The door he had entered was at his back, and he was facing a not quite thronelike chair made of dark wood on the opposite side of the perimeter platform. The chair was large and grand enough that whoever got into it would probably be taller sitting than standing. Han would have an eye-level view of the occupant’s knees. That chair told him a good deal about why he was here, and who was going to see him.
Han continued his survey of the chamber. Aside from the throne chair, the place was undecorated, and poorly lit. Nor was it that well made. There were cracks in the floor, and whatever sort of stresscrete they had used in the walls was crumbly-looking. A rush job.
Han had been in a lot of impressive places, and a lot of places that tried to be impressive. This place definitely fit into the second category. The Human League had clearly wanted a chamber that would overawe its prisoners as the Hidden Leader sat in judgment—or watched them die for the fun of it—but clearly the League hadn’t had the time or resources for a first-class job. All very interesting, but it wasn’t the sort of information that might help keep him alive.
Han turned his attention back to the chair. That was obviously where the Big Man would sit when he got here—and Han had a very good idea of who the Big Man was going to be.
There was really only one man it could be. His cousin, Thrackan Sal-Solo. Good old murderous, scheming, vindictive, paranoid Thrackan. That was the who, but what was the why? At a minimum, Thrackan wanted to get a look at Han. There was good news and bad news in that. Obviously, they had been keeping him alive for this meeting. But would they have any reason to keep him alive afterward? Did Thrackan have any further use for him?
After all, Han had blown up half a squadron of Pocket Patrol Boats. That was offense enough to get a fellow executed most places, and this place was no better than most.
Nor would his relationship to Thrackan do him any good. Once Thrackan had indulged his curiosity, he would be quite capable of killing Han on the spot.
No, Han knew he wasn’t going to live through this because of family feeling. He would have to make himself seem valuable to Thrackan if he wanted to survive. But he had no intention of being the slightest help to Thrackan’s Human League.
So how to seem to be valuable without actually doing these thugs any good?
Han heard something moving on the other side of the doors behind the not-quite-throne. He had run out of time for thinking.
Han backed away a step or two from the door. If Thrackan the adult was anything like the Thrackan of Han’s childhood, he was going to have to be careful, very careful, in the way he played this. Thrackan, as he recalled, had been quite young when he had started making a show of pulling the wings off insects and beating up smaller children. He had found out very early just how loudly a reputation for cruelty could speak. Here’s what I do to someone I’m not even mad at. What do you think will happen if I get mad at you? There were those in the Galaxy for whom cruelty, threats, and intimidation were art forms. Not Thrackan. He used them as blunt instruments, weapons. Which was not to say that he did not enjoy his work.
The doors swung fully open and a double line of seedy-looking men in officers’ uniforms came in. One column turned and marched around the corner of the platform to the left of the throne, the other to the right. The two columns lined up on the perimeter platform to either side of the big chair, turned, and faced forward, eyes straight ahead, staring at each other across the center of the room, right over Han’s head.
Judging by the insignia, which seemed to follow the old Imperial pattern, these were some very senior officers indeed. But today’s field marshals had, no doubt, been yesterday’s malcontents. Fancy uniforms and a forest of shoulder pips did not make the wearer a seasoned officer worthy of respect. These fellows were no more the equals of the Imperial officers of the past than a child with a toy lightsaber would be a match for Luke Skywalker.
By the looks of their paunches, none of them had done any real training in years. Their bleary eyes, flushed faces, and unshaved jaws—and the smell of strong drink that wafted in with them—told Han that at least some of these very grand officers had been doing some fairly serious celebrating the night before. That was a bit premature. How could even the most drunken of fools think that the Human League had won already?
Plainly, this crowd was not made up of Galaxy-class minds. They were here as window dressing, and nothing more. Han paid them no more mind. He turned his attention back to the open door behind the big chair. There was a moment’s delay, either because the Great Man was running late, or because someone thought it made for a more dramatic entrance. But then, Thrackan Sal-Solo, onetime Hidden Leader of the Human League, and now the self-declared Diktat of the Corellian Sector—came into the room. He walked with the brisk, steady confidence of a man who knew exactly what he was doing and where he was going, a man absolutely certain he could do the job at hand. Thrackan Sal-Solo stepped around the right-hand side of the big chair, came forward to the edge of the platform and paused there a moment. He stared long and hard at his long-lost cousin, and Han stared back.
Han felt as if he were staring into a strange, distorting mirror. Thrackan wore Han’s face, or else Han wore his. Not that one could not be told from the other. Thrackan’s hair was darker, a black-brown shot through with gray. He was a few kilos heavier, and he had a neatly trimmed beard. Thrackan was perhaps two or three centimeters taller than Han. There was a harshness, a ruthlessness, not just in Thrackan’s expression, but in the set of his face, as if that look of anger and suspicion was the one his face fell into most naturally.
But even those differences did little more than emphasize how much they were alike. Han felt as if that imaginary mirror were showing him the man he might have been. He did not like the idea. Not one little bit. This first meeting was a lot more disconcerting than he had expected it to be.
It was not just Han who saw the resemblance. The uniformed types that lined the two sides of the room were obviously supposed to keep eyes ahead, but not one of them could resist the temptation to stare first at Han, and then at Thrackan. Small murmurs of astonishment filled the room.
Indeed, it seemed as if Thrackan were the only one who did not find it all off-putting. He looked down at Han with a calm and steady gaze.
Han decided he had better do his best to take it all in stride as well. Or at least pretend. “Hello, Thrackan,” he said. “I sort of figured I’d be seeing you.”
“And hello to you, Han,” his cousin replied, in a voice that was startlingly similar to Han’s. “Some things never change, do they?”
“I’m not exactly sure I know what you mean.”
“Back in the old days, Han,” Thrackan said. “Back in the old days. You were always the one who liked to play games. And I was always the one who had to come in and clean up after you.”
“That’s not exactly the way I remember it,” Han said. Thrack
an had never cleaned up after himself, let alone anyone else. But he had always been good at making it seem like he had. Most bullies were good at playing the victim. Thrackan had never had the slightest problem blaming others for his foul-ups, or taking all the credit for someone else’s effort and success. “But you’re right,” Han went on. “Some things never change.”
“This time there’s rather a lot to clean up,” Thrackan went on. “You shot up my spaceport, damaged or destroyed six of my Pocket Patrol Boats, and allowed that X-TIE Ugly fighter to escape,” Thrackan said. “We believe that X-TIE managed to jump into hyperspace. If its pilot is able to get word to the New Republic, that could throw many of my plans into disarray.”
“I thought the spaceport and the PPBs belonged to the Corellian government. I didn’t think they were yours,” Han said.
“They are now,” Thrackan said. “For that matter, the government is mine as well. But just now the point is that the games you are playing have caused me a great deal of trouble.”
“I’m real broken up about that,” Han said.
“I doubt it,” Thrackan said. “I wouldn’t be, if I were you. But the question remains—what am I to do with you?”
“I have a suggestion.” Han said, his voice light and casual. “Let me go and then let me accept your surrender. I might be able to get the New Republic to go easy on you.”
“I don’t suppose you’d be willing to explain why I should do that.” Thrackan said, the trace of a smile on his face.
“Because you’re going to lose, Thrackan,” Han said. “Because that X-TIE got through, and even if it didn’t, someone else will get the word out, somehow. And you’re up against the same New Republic that beat the Empire. If they could take on the Emperor and Darth Vader and Admiral Thrawn and the Death Stars, what makes you think they should have any problems with the likes of you? Why not save everyone a lot of trouble and give up now?”
Thrackan smiled, but there was nothing warm or happy about his expression. Instead, the smile made him look colder, harsher. He shook his head sadly. “Still the same old Han. Beaten up, dirty, unshaved, a captive fresh from a night in his cell, and still full of the same old tired bluster and bluff.” He hesitated a moment, and leaned back in his chair. “There’s a very good reason I’m not going to lose,” he said. “I’ve won already. It’s all over. The New Republic might be able to cause me some limited trouble, but nothing more. Not unless they want a few inhabited star systems vaporized. Otherwise, they will leave me strictly alone.”
Han hesitated a moment before replying. Was there anything behind that claim? There was no doubt that a star had gone supernova, a star that had no business doing any such thing. The League had claimed responsibility, but how could a bunch of ignorant malcontents and thugs manage to blow up a star? “That was a nice parlor trick,” Han said. “But I’m not sure you can repeat it.”
“Oh, we’ll convince you,” Thrackan said. “Have no doubt of that.” His voice, his manner, were absolutely confident. If it was a bluff, it was an awfully convincing one.
“So why am I here, Thrackan?” Han asked, in a tone of voice that made it sound as if he were a busy man who had more important things to do. With most people, it would have been a suicidal display of arrogance. But Han knew his cousin. A show of politeness would have won Han little more than a sneer of contempt from Thrackan.
“In such a hurry to get back to your cell?” Thrackan asked with a wicked smile.
Han resisted the temptation to let out a sigh of relief. Until that moment he hadn’t been sure if Thrackan intended him to live long enough to see his cell again. “No,” he said. “But I’m not much interested in trading threats, either. Why am I here?”
“I did have the vague idea that you might be willing to cooperate with me. Act like a patriotic Corellian, help me get rid of these New Republic interlopers. But I never did have much hope for that idea. It’s not going to happen, is it?”
“Not in a million years.”
“All right, then,” Thrackan said. “If you won’t help me, why should I keep you alive?”
That question would have terrified most people under the circumstances, but Han knew Thrackan from way back. Even a few moments’ reacquaintance told him he hadn’t changed much since the old days. If Thrackan had already decided to kill him, he wouldn’t have wasted his time with word games. Han would already have had a blaster hole through his chest. Thrackan’s cruelty had never been capricious or pointless. Whenever he did something vicious—or indeed anything at all—it was because doing it benefited him directly. Nor had Thrackan ever been shy about letting others do his dirty work, or been much interested in putting himself to extra effort. There was no way to know for sure, but at a guess, Thrackan had genuinely not yet decided whether or not to let Han live. He could go either way. And that meant the reasons for letting him live or die were in the balance. The reasons for killing Han were depressingly obvious, but why would Thrackan want him alive?
“There are lots of good reasons for not killing me,” Han said, trying to stall for time. He tried to sound calm and confident, but Han’s tone of voice didn’t seem very convincing, even in his own ears.
“Perhaps you could help me think of a few,” Thrackan said coolly.
Think, Han told himself. Work it out. Why would Thrackan want him alive? Wait a second. Why were any of them alive? It was obvious that the Human League had deliberately timed its phony uprising to coincide with the trade summit, when lots of off-planet movers and shakers would be on Corellia. And all of those brass were staying in the Governor-General’s residence, Corona House. If the League had wanted to, it could have blown the building to smithereens, killing everyone inside, decapitating the planetary government at a stroke, and killing the New Republic’s Chief of State as well.
But they had done no such thing. Han had been at Corona House when the assault came. In his best judgment, it had been a clumsily executed surgical strike, not a bungled decapitation attempt. It was clear that the League had intended to bottle up the Governor-General and Leia and the rest of the higher-ups in Coronet House by sealing off all the exits and burying them in rubble. That Han had managed to escape was a testament to their incompetence, not their intent.
It was hard to escape the notion that Thrackan wanted Leia and the others for use as bargaining chips, hostages. Suddenly Han understood. His cousin was keeping him alive in hopes of using him to ensure Leia’s cooperation in whatever plots he was hatching. But if he needed something from Leia, that meant Thrackan Sal-Solo was not the master of all he surveyed, all bluster to the contrary. Han grinned, and this time he wasn’t trying to pretend. “There’s no reason at all to keep me alive,” Han said. “None whatsoever. At least there isn’t if you don’t care how upset the Chief of State gets. And she tends to get real angry when members of her family are murdered in cold blood.”
Thrackan was suddenly angry. “I don’t need your Chief of State,” he snapped.
“Then why did you work so hard to capture her?” Han demanded. “Why was the revolt timed for the beginning of the trade summit?”
“Quiet!” Thrackan half shouted. “I’ll ask the questions around here. One more word out of you about your wife and I swear I’ll kill you myself, here and now, no matter how much I need you alive.”
Han said nothing, but simply smiled, knowing that he had won and that Thrackan knew it. Han had called his bluff.
Thrackan glared at him and drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. “I had forgotten just how much you used to drive me crazy,” he said. “But I think I can at least remind you that it is not wise to try and score points off me. Besides,” he said, gesturing to the men lining the two sides of the room, “my officers have been working very hard and they deserve some recreation.” Thrackan smiled again, and, if anything, it was an even more unpleasant expression than it had been the last time. “Honor detail may stand at ease,” Thrackan said, keeping his eyes squarely on Han. The thugs-in-uniform r
elaxed, shifted their feet, and smiled at each other with a certain nasty eagerness. “Captain Falco, instruct the keepers to send the ah—other—prisoner—in.”
One of the greasier-looking officers saluted and said, “Yes, sir.” He pulled a comlink out of his pocket and spoke into it. “Send it in, Sergeant.”
There was a moment’s pause, one that Han did not enjoy at all. Then, faintly at first, but gradually getting louder, Han could hear muffled footsteps coming from behind him, from beyond the door he had come through. Han turned to face the door, and backed away from it. Doing so put Thrackan directly behind him, but it seemed to Han that, all things considered, his cousin was dangerous no matter where he was. He was, at any rate, the danger Han knew. Best to concentrate on the danger he didn’t know.
The doors swung open and a pair of heavily armed Human League troopers came in, their blasters at the ready. They immediately took up positions on either side of the door, with their backs to the wall. Han had rated no such precautions. It would seem the Leaguers regarded the whatever-it-was as far more of a threat than Han.
After a moment’s pause, the “other prisoner” came in—and suddenly Han understood all the precautions. The “other prisoner” was a Selonian. Even thugs and fools knew to take Selonians very seriously indeed.
And this Selonian was a big and tough-looking female, though that was no surprise. All the Selonians ever seen in public were big, tough, and female.
Selonians tended to be a trifle taller and more slender than humans. They had somewhat longer bodies, and shorter arms and legs. Though normally bipedal, they could go on all fours when they wanted. Their hands and feet had retractable claws, good for climbing or digging—also very good in a fight. They were strong swimmers, with short, powerful tails that helped steer and propel them in the water, and served as a counterbalance while walking—and, not incidentally, as a fearsome club in a fight.
Ambush at Corellia Page 32
