Star Wars - Han Solo and the Lost Legacy

by Brian Daley

  The opening of the door brought Han out of a troubled sleep filled with visions of strangers doing terrible things to the Millennium Falcon.

  Then, abruptly, Survivors wearing their extravagant costumes dashed into the quiet chamber, carrying glow-rods and weapons, making resistance sheer folly. Their weapons were a fascinating assortment: ancient beam-tubes powered by heavy backpacks, antiquated solid-projectile firearms, and several spring-loaded harpoon guns of the sort the lake men used. Han’s worse fear, that the Survivors would use their anaesthetic gas again and thus preclude any action on their captives’ part, was unrealized. He found himself breathing easier for that; he had no intention of ending his life passively.

  With shouted instructions and gesticulations the Survivors herded their captives out of the chamber. They formed a forward and rear guard, keeping their weapons trained watchfully so there would be no opportunity for mishap. Chewbacca rumbled angrily through it all and nearly turned on one Survivor, who had jabbed the Wookiee with a harpoon gun to hurry him along. Han restrained his friend; all the other Survivors were out of reach, and there was no place to hide in the stone corridors. They had no choice but to move as ordered.

  This time Han got a clearer impression of the underground warren. The corridors, like the chamber in which they had been held, were carefully and precisely cut, arranged along an organized central plan, their walls, floors, and ceilings fused solid to serve as support. Thermal plates warmed them, but Han could see no dehumidifying equipment, though he was certain it must exist. Everything implied a technology in excess of what the Survivors seemed capable of fully utilizing. Han was willing to bet these capering primitives did simple maintenance by rote and that the knowledge of the original builders had been lost long ago.

  He saw unhelmeted Survivors for the first time, mainbreed humans who, aside from an unusual number of congenital defects, were unremarkable. The prisoners passed heated, well-lit hydroponic layouts. The glow-rods and thermal plates in them made Han wonder about the power source; something suitably ancient, he presumed, perhaps even an atomic pile.

  Badure’s thoughts had been paralleling his own. “Regression,” the old man said. “Maybe the base was built by stranded explorers, or early colonists?”

  “That wouldn’t explain their unreasoning shunning of the other Dellaltians,” Skynx put in. “They must have taken elaborate precautions to avoid notice all this time, even in these desolate—”

  He was silenced when a Survivor singled him out with the end of a beam-tube, gesturing with unmistakable fury. Conversation stopped. Han saw that Bollux had been right; the warren had clearly been built for many more people than now occupied it. In some stretches light and heat had been shut down to conserve power or had failed altogether.

  They passed a room from which odd, rhythmic sounds issued. For just an instant when he drew even with the doorway, Han had a view of the interior.

  Colored lights strobed in the darkness, flashing on the walls and ceiling in arresting swirls and patterns. Someone was chanting in the Survivors’ tongue; underscoring the chant was the pulsing of a transonic synthesizer, as much felt as heard.

  Han almost stopped short and had to step quickly to keep from being jabbed with a harpoon, thinking, Hypno-imprinting! Crude version, but completely effective if you catch your subjects early enough. Poor kids. It explained a lot.

  Then they felt cold night air on their faces and their breath crystallized before them. They left the Survivors’ warren by a different door than that by which they had entered.

  The mockup landing field was a different sight in the night than it had been during the day; it was now a scene of barbaric ceremony. The stars and Dellalt’s two moons brightened the sky; glow-rods and streaming torches lit the entire area, reflected by the sides of the dummy aircraft. At the edge of the ritual field, by the steep snowfield that sloped to the valley below, a large cage had been erected, a pyramid of bars, assembled piecemeal. Its door was a thick, solid plate, its lock in the center, inaccessible from within the cage.

  Near the cage was a circle of gleaming metal, broader than Han was tall, suspended from a framework, suggesting an enormous gong. It was inscribed with lettering of an unfamiliar type, consisting of whorls and squares alternating with dots and ideographs.

  Closer in, toward the center of the light, was a wide metal table, a medi-lab appurtenance of some kind. Near it were piled the prisoners’ weapons and other equipment. The implication of the table hit them at once: a sacrificial altar.

  Han was ready to make a break then and there; the pyramidal cage seemed firmly anchored to the rock, so sturdy that even Chewbacca’s thews wouldn’t prevail against it. But the Survivors had been through this procedure before. They were alert and careful, with weapons trained in clear lines of fire. Han noticed that the muzzles and harpoons were pointed toward the captives’ legs. If the scheduled sacrificees made any wrong moves, the Survivors could shoot and still not be deprived of their ritual.

  This decided the pilot against any immediate action. There was still a chance his plan would work, provided Bollux and Blue Max were flexible enough to adapt to circumstances as they arose. The ’droid was separated from the rest of them, complying with their captors as Han had instructed him.

  The other captives were chivvied to the cage, ushered to the circular door plate that swung open on oiled hinges. It took every scrap of Han’s resolve to enter the pyramid; once inside he stood there closely watching the Survivors’ preparations.

  The strange people were decked out in their finest garb. Now that he understood a little more about them, Han could interpret the Survivors’ costume. A ground-crewman’s blast-suit had become, over generations, an insect-eyed getup. Spacesuit speaker grilles had evolved into pointy-fanged mouths painted on imitation helmets; communication antennae and broadcast directors were represented by elaborate spikes and antlers of metal. Back tanks and suit packs were adorned with symbolic designs and mosaics, while tool belts were hung with fetishes, amulets, and charms of all kinds.

  The Survivors whirled, leaped, and tootled their instruments, striking finger chimes and drums. Two of them beat the great wheel of metal with padded mallets, the gongings resounding back and forth across the valley.

  With the prisoners’ arrival, things began to build toward a climax. A man mounted a rostrum that had been set near the altar. A silence fell.

  The man wore a uniform festooned with decorations and braid; his trousers were seamed with golden cloth. He wore a hat that was slightly small for him, its military brim glittering with giltwork, a broad, flashing medallion riding its high crown. Two aides set a small stand on the rostrum beside him. It held a thick circle of transparent material about the size of a mealplate.

  “A log-recorder disk!” exclaimed Skynx. The others competed to ask him if he was sure. “Yes, yes; I’ve seen one or two, you know. But the Queen of Ranroon’s is back in the treasure vaults, is it not? What one is that, then?”

  No one could answer. The man on the rostrum regaled the crowd, delivering loud phrases that they echoed back to him, applauding, whistling, and stomping their feet. Flickering torchlight made the scene seem even more primeval.

  “He’s saying they’ve been a good and faithful people, that the proof is there with him on the rostrum, and that the High Command won’t forget them,” Skynx translated.

  Han was amazed. “You understand that garble?”

  “I learned it as Bollux did, from the data tapes, a pre-Republic dialect. Can they have been here that long, Captain?”

  “Ask the Chamber of Commerce. What’s he saying now?”

  “He said he’s their Mission Commander. And something about mighty forces afoot; the rescue they’ve been promised will surely come soon. I—something about their generations of steadfastness, and deliverance by this High Command. The crowd keeps chanting ‘Our signal will be received.’ ”

  With a final tirade the Mission Commander gestured to the pyramidal cage.
Until now Bollux had stood to one side of the proceedings, surrounded by gray-clad, masked Survivors who chanted and rattled prayer clackers at him, descendants of techs entrusted with maintenance of machinery.

  But now the ’droid broke out of their ring, moving quickly to take advantage of the surprise he had caused. He crossed to stand with his back to the pyramid’s door. The Survivors who had been about to fetch their first victim for the “transmission” wavered, still awed by the automaton. The ’droid hadn’t been able to secure a weapon, a departure from Han’s vague plan, but felt that he could wait no longer to make his move. Even in the rush of events Han wondered about the origin of the Survivors’ reverence for mechanicals. Surely there had never been a ’droid or robot through these mountains before?

  The Mission Commander was exhorting his followers. Bollux, his photoreceptors glowing red in the night, slowly opened the halves of his chest plastron. Blue Max, carefully coached by the labor ’droid, activated his own photoreceptor, playing it across the crowd. Han heard sounds of indrawn breath among the Survivors.

  Max switched from optical scanning to holo-projection mode. A cone of light sprang from him; there hovered in the air an image he had recorded off Skynx’s tapes, the symbol of Xim the Despot, the grinning death’s head with the starburst in each black eye socket. From his vocoder came recorded tech readouts from the tapes in the language of the Survivors.

  The crowd drew back, many of them thrusting their thumbs at Bollux to fend off evil. Max put forth more images he had taken from the information Skynx had compiled: an ancient fleet of space battlewagons in flight against the stars; the brilliance of a full-scale engagement with exploding missiles, flaring cannonfire, and probing lasers; battle standards passing in review, displaying unit colors that had been forgotten long ago. The entire time, the ’droid was surreptitiously edging to the pyramidal cage’s door. While the crowd was riveted to Max’s performance, Bollux manipulated the door’s handle behind his back.

  A yell went up from the assembled Survivors just as Bollux succeeded in throwing the bolt on the stubborn lock. Blue Max had projected a halo of the war-robot’s cranial turret that Skynx had brought onboard the Millennium Falcon. Max held the image, capitalizing on their response, rotating it to show all sides. The Survivors jabbered animatedly among themselves, moving back from the frightening ghost-holo. Bollux stepped away from the cage door.

  Max began running through all the other visual information he had stored about Xim’s war-robots. Schematics, manual-extracts, records of the ponderous combat machines in motion, closeup details of construction, and full-length views. All the while, Bollux moved slowly forward. Step by step the crowd yielded ground, seemingly hypnotized by Max’s projections. In the excitement and poor light nobody noticed that the cage door was now unlocked.

  “He may not be able to hold them much longer,” Han whispered. Bollux was now at the center of a near-circle of Survivors.

  “Time to jump,” Badure said.

  Han agreed. “Make your way to the edge of the field. Nobody stops for anybody else, understood?”

  Hasti, Badure, and even Skynx nodded. Unarmed, they could do little except run from the Survivors. Each individual would be responsible for his own life; stopping to give aid would be suicidal and expected of no one.

  Han swung the door open slowly and stepped through. Shouting, gesticulating Survivors were still occupied with Bollux. The Mission Commander had left his rostrum to try to make his way through the crowd to Bollux, but was having trouble making headway through the press of his own people. Han waited while the others emerged.

  Chewbacca slipped through the door and moved off like a shadow. Badure moved with less agility, then Hasti. Skynx exited and set off at once for the edge of the field. Low to the ground, he was nearly impossible to see. The Ruurian didn’t pause or look back; he adhered to Han’s directions completely, having acquired some of the necessary makeup of an adventurer. Han moved around the end of the cage to bring up the rear. He nearly backed into Hasti. “Where’s Badure?” she mouthed silently.

  They couldn’t spot him at first, then made out the old man as he nonchalantly strolled around the edge of the crowd, heading for the abandoned altar where the weapons lay. No one paid him any heed; all of them were transfixed by Max’s holos of a war-robot being put through its paces, firing weapons, and lumbering through basic infantry tactics.

  “He’s going for the guns,” Han whispered. Chewbacca, who had also paused, stood with them, watching the old man’s progress.

  “We can’t help him now; he either makes it or not. We’ll wait at the edge of the field as long as we can.” He didn’t know if he was happy Badure was trying for their weapons, feeling naked and helpless without his blaster, or dismayed that the old man was risking his life.

  Just then a Survivor sentry, coming in off his post, stepped out of the darkness and nearly stumbled over Skynx. The Ruurian chirped in fear and went into reverse. The guard’s eyes bulged in amazement at the woolly, many-legged creature, then he fumbled for the flame-rifle at his shoulder, crying out an alarm.

  A shaggy arm reached out and the weapon was snatched from his hands. Chewbacca’s fist shot through the air and the guard was lifted, stretched out stiff as a post, to fall on the landing field, his left foot quivering.

  People on the fringe of the crowd had heard the guard and repeated the alarm. Heads turned; in a moment the shout was taken up by many voices. Han ran, took the bell-mouthed flame-rifle, and slewed it in a wide, horizontal arc. A wash of orange fire streamed over the heads of the crowd. Survivors dropped to the ground, grabbing for their weapons and screaming conflicting orders at one another. Han could hear the shrieking Mission Commander trying futilely to bring order out of chaos.

  Badure, having reached the altar, was out of the crowd’s immediate line of sight. He shouldered Chewbacca’s bowcaster and bandoleer of ammunition and began tucking weapons into his belt.

  Shots were now being pegged across the field at them. “Keep out of the way!” hollered Han, elbowing Chewbacca behind him. He backed slowly, covering the withdrawal and creating a diversion for Badure. He directed his discharges into the ground between himself and the massed Survivors, making puddles of fire to spoil their aim and sending intermittent streamers of flame over them to force their heads down. A line of tracer bullets chewed up the field a meter or two to his right, and a pale particle beam barely missed his head.

  The escapees needed cover badly, but their section of the field was open and offered none. Chewbacca, with sudden inspiration, ran for the gong and, back and arm muscles swelling with effort, lifted it from its support hooks, his widespread arms grabbing it by two carrying handles welded to its back.

  The slugs, beams, and flames of the firefight dissected the air. The Survivors’ shots were gaining in accuracy, though they weren’t used to such a pitched battle. Badure, running in a low crouch to work his way back to his companions, was spotted by the crowd. Somebody let fly with an old rocket pistol, blowing up a clot of stone in his path. In a frantic effort to change course, Badure lost his balance, and Survivors’ shots began to converge on him.

  Chewbacca grounded the gong in front of Han as he and the others took shelter behind it. Projectile and energy weapons splashed and ricochetted from the shield; whatever the gong was made of, it was very durable material.

  Han blazed away at the Survivors to keep them from pressing the attack against Badure. He had been spending the flame-rifle’s ammo recklessly and knew he might soon find himself defenseless. Badure, struggling to rise, was having trouble. The Survivors’ aim was zeroing in on him now, and he returned the fire as well as he could.

  I warned him, thought Han. Life-Debt or no, it’s everyone for himself. He had trouble selling the idea to himself, though.

  Then the decision was taken from him. Issuing a deafening Wookiee battle cry, Chewbacca moved off, holding up the gong to protect himself. Han looked back and saw that Hasti and Skynx were
watching him. The girl, he thought, would surely run to help Badure if he didn’t.

  “Don’t just stand there,” he snarled. “Get to cover!” He gave her a shove toward the edge of the field and dashed off the other way, laying down heavy fire as he sprinted, zigzagging after the Wookiee.

  “You crazy fur-face!” he roared at his first mate when he had caught up to him. “What’re you doing, playing captain again?” Chewbacca took a moment from angling and maneuvering the gong for an irritated, explanatory growl.

  “Life-Debt?” Han exploded, dodging around his friend into the open to snap off a pair of quick shots. “And who pays up if you lose us ours?”

  But he maintained his fire, sideskipping along behind the straining, gong-toting Wookiee and bounding from cover to either side of him to get off a shot or two. Flames lit the scene, and the air was smoky and hot from the firefight. The flame-rifle’s discharges were growing weaker, and its range was decreasing.

  Skirting a section of field torn and ruptured by the battle, they finally reached Badure, who was pressed down flat on the ground, shooting with the pair of long-barreled power pistols. Chewbacca heaved the gong between the old man and the oncoming shots. Han coaxed a last feeble flicker from the flame-rifle, then threw it aside. Dropping to one knee, he helped Badure up. “Last bus is leaving now, Lieutenant-commander.”

  “I’ll take a one-way on that,” panted Badure, adding, “glad you could make it, boys.”

  Han snagged his own blaster from Badure’s belt, and a sudden confidence steadied him. He stepped into the clear, crouched low, and let off a series of quick shots. Two Survivor marksmen who had been taking careful aim with heavy-particle beamers fell away in different directions, their wounds smoking.

  Han ducked back, waited a beat, then stepped into the open again on the same side of the gong, eluding the aim of those who had been waiting to see him emerge on the opposite side. His bolts dropped two more enemies from the ragged firing line. But Survivor flankers could be seen in the wavering light, fanning out to either side in an effort to cut off retreat.