Journey to Star Wars: The Force Awakens Smuggler's Run: A Han Solo Adventure (Star Wars: Journey to Star Wars: The Force Awakens)

by Greg Rucka

  What else? The bay was littered with exactly the sorts of things he’d come to expect from such places. Crates of replacement parts scattered here and there, the refueling system, its pressure pumps and hoses—that could be a big boom if he could somehow disrupt it—the great big magnetic-field generators maintaining the energy barrier overhead. Solo glanced up, saw the shimmering blue, Cyrkon’s polluted night sky above glowing a dull reddish brown, Miss Fortune coming slowly into view, riding its repulsors silently, the distant air traffic gliding past beyond, the—

  Solo blinked and nudged Chewie with his elbow, using his eyes to direct the Wookiee’s gaze skyward. Miss Fortune was making a slow turn, almost hovering now. As they watched, the ventral hatch on the yacht slid open, and a moment later the turret dropped into place, rotating to point at them.

  She’s out of her mind, Solo thought.

  The stormtrooper without armor—because that’s what he was, Solo had decided—was searching Ematt, and being thorough about it. Another trooper stood with him, holding three sets of binders.

  Chewie huffed.

  “The magnetic shield is still up,” Solo said.

  Chewie huffed again. There was a look in his blue eyes.

  “It’s not my fault.” Solo turned suddenly, stepping closer to the Wookiee until their chests were almost butting. “And I don’t want to hear talk like that again.”

  “I told you to be quiet—” the stormtrooper said.

  “You tell him to be quiet,” Solo snapped.

  Beck glared at them both, and Ematt twisted where he stood, his hands now out in front of him, the binders ready to snap onto his wrists.

  Chewie leaned down and growled loudly, blasting Solo with hot breath and calling him something that Solo would’ve been ashamed to say to his own mother.

  “Listen, furball,” Solo said. “You say that again I’ll make you regret it.”

  “Get your Wookiee under control,” Beck said.

  Chewie snarled, showing Solo his teeth. He said it again.

  “That’s it. I’ve had enough out of you,” Solo said, and he swung and punched Chewie in the jaw. It was a good punch, and on anyone else it would’ve certainly rocked him, if not knocked him back on the seat of his pants.

  Chewie barely moved his head. He roared and both hands came up. Then with all of his substantial Wookiee strength, he shoved Solo, sending him flying back into the stormtrooper behind him. The first collision caused a second, then a third, a clatter of armor hitting the floor and Solo landing atop the pile. Stormtroopers were pointing their rifles at Chewie, but the Wookiee lashed out, catching one alongside his helmet and sending him tumbling. He grabbed another one and literally swung him at yet a third.

  “Stun him!” Beck shouted.

  Solo, still atop the stormtrooper Chewbacca had thrown him into, twisted and wrenched the blaster rifle from the trooper’s hand. He thumbed the selector to turn the weapon from stun, raising it and rolling all at once. He put the sights on the generator nearest him and fired. Blaster bolts flew and smashed into the machinery, bursting through its exterior casing, and Solo fired again. The generator blew, exploding into fragments and fire, and then Solo was up on a knee and sighting at the second generator, across the bay. He knew it was a much harder shot, but he fired anyway. The second generator blew at once, and above them the magnetic shield vanished, immediately replaced by the howling of the heated, toxic air rushing into the docking bay. Tiny particles of smog stung his eyes and instantly coated the back of his throat. Solo felt himself immediately beginning to perspire, and just as immediately felt the sweat evaporating from his skin.

  Everyone was moving at once, now, Chewie roaring. Beck was wheeling around in place, her blaster coming up, and Ematt and the stormtrooper without armor were grappling with each other.

  “Get down!” Solo shouted and launched himself at Ematt, catching the man around the waist and dragging him to the deck just as Miss Fortune opened fire from its belly turret.

  The first salvo of shots slammed straight into the group of stormtroopers Solo had left behind. He heard shouts, cries of pain, and scrambled to his feet, dragging Ematt with him. Chewie was already halfway to the Falcon, dropping the ramp, and Solo all but threw Ematt after him. His eyes and throat were burning from the pollution, the foul atmosphere already feeling like it was corroding his flesh. The heat was climbing; it had its own weight, trying to cook him inside and out. The stormtrooper who had taken their weapons was flat on the ground, facedown, hit by the turret fire.

  “Run! Go!”

  Another salvo from above, too close for Solo’s comfort as he dropped the E-11 and scooped up his and Chewie’s weapons. Stormtroopers were firing, but Miss Fortune’s salvos were forcing them into cover, and now Solo was racing after Ematt, who was sprinting for the ramp. Chewie was out of sight, already inside. Solo saw Beck screaming orders, saw her raising her blaster, and then the stormtrooper without armor was pulling her into cover. An instant later Miss Fortune was racking shots where the Imperial officer had been standing. Solo was almost at the ship when he felt his right leg go suddenly numb as he was grazed by a stun bolt. He managed to collapse on the ramp as it began to raise. Ematt pulled him forward, into the safety of the Falcon.

  “Chewie! Time to leave!” Solo pulled himself upright using Ematt and the side of the hull, then half hopped, half limped through the main compartment and toward the cockpit. The ship came to life beneath his boots; he could feel it leaping suddenly into the air. Sweat ran into his eyes, making them sting. Ematt stumbled and Solo had to brace himself, and then he was in the cockpit and falling into the pilot’s seat.

  “Told you I’d think of something,” he said, reaching for the headset with one hand and taking the yoke with the other.

  Chewie barked and slapped a battery of switches. Behind them, Ematt was taking the navigator’s seat and already strapping himself in.

  “You two play it fast and loose,” Ematt said.

  “It’s worked so far.”

  Chewie snorted.

  “I barely touched you.” Solo finished setting the comlink headset in place and turned on the speakers in the cockpit. “I’m the one who’s gonna be bruised, pal. Miss Fortune, this is the Falcon.”

  “Figured I owed you one, Han.”

  “This settles my tab?”

  “Not on your life,” Delia said. “You get him?”

  “I’m here, Delia,” Ematt said. “Nice friends you’ve got.”

  “Beggars can’t be choosers. I’m thinking it’s time for all of us to get out of here.”

  Chewie rumbled in agreement, and Solo rocked the throttle forward, bringing the Falcon off of repulsors and feathering the engines to life. The ship responded, surging and eager, and already outside the canopy Solo could see the pollution of Cyrkon melting away, the stars springing into view. Off the starboard side, the Miss Fortune was keeping pace, wisps of the upper atmosphere streaming from the ship’s hull like smoke from a dying fire.

  The Falcon began bleating, and Chewie checked his deck, slapped another two switches, and reached up behind him, powering up the weapons. Solo glanced at his sensors and twisted to stab one of the buttons on the navicomputer, bringing it to life.

  “Angle the deflectors,” he said to Chewie, then pointed at Ematt. “You better know where we’re going.”

  “I know where we’re going.”

  “Feed it to the navicomputer.” Solo twisted back. His leg was beginning to throb, the stun wearing off. Ahead of them and far too big, the Star Destroyer was turning into view, a flight of tiny dots in tight formation heading their direction from beneath the massive vessel. “Delia, eight marks at one-one.”

  “We see them. TIEs.”

  “How long until you can make the jump to lightspeed?”

  “Couple of minutes.”

  “Just stay away from that Star Destroyer.”

  “You think?”

  “Destination is programmed,” Ematt said as the navicom
puter beeped. “It’ll take a couple minutes before the jump is plotted. Can we hold them off?”

  Solo checked his sensors again, then the view from the cockpit. The TIEs were closing in, fast.

  “I don’t think we have a choice,” he said.

  BECK COULD TASTE blood in her mouth, where she’d bitten her own lip when Torrent had saved her life. She had no doubt that was what he had done, either; while she’d understood the Corellian and the Wookiee were playing at something, the attack from above had been entirely unexpected. She just had never accounted for the possibility that the rebels might have close air support, and it was a mistake that had cost her—the same way the Rodian’s willingness to die had cost her, the same way she had never imagined it was an act of which any rebel was capable. Another miscalculation on her part, one she would never make again.

  Half her stormtroopers were dead or wounded, hit by blasts from the ship overhead. She could easily have been among them. Her normal eye stung, tears running down her cheek from the sickening air that now howled through the docking bay, but the tears evaporated almost as quickly as they appeared, leaving salt stuck to her cheek. The heat was ghastly and turned her mouth dry. She winked, trying to clear her good eye, speaking to the comlink in her hand.

  “Vehement, respond.”

  “Captain Hove.”

  “Two ships just took off, the YT-1300 and another. I want those ships, Captain. I want those ships, I want the crews, I want them alive.”

  “They just appeared on our scopes.”

  “They do not make hyperspace, is that clear?”

  “We’re not an Interdictor, Commander. We don’t have the ability to—”

  “No excuses!” Beck was shouting, she realized. Rising over the wind came the roar of the transport as it slid into place overhead and began to come in for a landing. “I’m on my way up. Do not allow those ships to escape!”

  “As you order, Commander.”

  The transport was down, its main ramp dropping.

  “With me,” Beck said.

  Torrent rose from where he’d been kneeling by one of the dead stormtroopers. His expression was grim, and she wondered if the trooper had been a friend, wondered how Torrent could tell the troopers apart when they were all in identical armor. He got to his feet.

  “Let’s move,” he told the remaining stormtroopers.

  Quickly and as a unit they filed into the back of the transport. Beck hit the panel to raise the ramp, and the ship was lifting off before the pressure seals had locked, the foul atmosphere of Cyrkon abruptly banished. Beck coughed, clearing her lungs, and felt as if something was trying to scrape open her throat. The stormtroopers, in their helmets, had been spared the worst of the noxious air. Torrent hacked a couple of times. Beck wiped the tears still streaming down her unmarred cheek and made her way to the cockpit.

  “I want to be on the Vehement in three minutes,” she told the pilot.

  The pilot nodded and gave the ship full throttle. The engines rose to a fever pitch, the atmosphere burned past, and ahead of her Beck could see the Star Destroyer, enormous and imposing and appearing much closer than it was. The two smaller ships, the Millennium Falcon and the other, unidentified vessel, appeared minuscule in comparison, even as the transport banked to give them wide berth.

  “Miss Fortune,” Torrent said from over her shoulder. She glanced back and saw that he was looking past her at the same view. “It’s the ship I tracked the bounty hunters to before following them into Motok.”

  Beck nodded slightly, making a mental note to further investigate Miss Fortune. There was no way to engage either ship, not in the transport. They had to avoid them, had to get back to the Vehement where she would be able to assert some control over the situation once more. Knowing all this didn’t help her, didn’t relieve the feeling of powerlessness consuming her, the growing frustration.

  “They’ll need a few minutes before they can jump to hyperspace,” Beck said. “We can still catch them.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Torrent said.

  For the first time, she thought he sounded less than enthusiastic.

  The second flight of TIEs screamed past them as the transport made its final approach. Beck waited impatiently as the ship completed its landing in the main ventral bay of the Vehement, and as soon as she felt the ship locking down, she was hitting the release and exiting before the ramp had completely lowered. She ran, not caring who saw, to the main lift, shoved aside the two lieutenants waiting for the car to arrive, stepped in, and headed for the bridge.

  She emerged into a calm that immediately annoyed her. Captain Hove stood with his back to her at the far end of the Star Destroyer’s bridge, staring out the viewport, his hands clasped behind him. She ran down the central walkway, the command and control pits on either side, slowed to a jog, then a walk. Hove heard her coming and turned to greet her.

  “Commander Beck. Two flights launched and engaged, we—”

  “Move us in closer. I want tractor beams on those two ships, the Falcon and the other one.”

  Hove closed his mouth tightly and arched an eyebrow. “There are eight TIE fighters—”

  “Yes, I heard you, Captain. I’m wondering if you heard me.”

  He looked distinctly uncomfortable and glanced to his right, looking past Beck to the array of crew and officers all doing their best to appear not to be listening. Beck didn’t care if they were overheard, but Hove obviously did, and he lowered his voice, stepping closer.

  “Commander, the TIEs are engaged with the enemy. Activating the tractor beam risks capturing our ships, as well as the quarry.”

  “I am aware.”

  “The modulation required to capture the quarry will tear a TIE apart if it also finds itself caught in the tractor beam.”

  “I am aware of that, as well.” Beck fixed him with a stare. “Is this a problem, Captain?”

  Hove spoke slowly. “Those are our pilots, Commander.”

  “You insist on stating the obvious, Captain. You have my orders. Execute them at once, or I shall have you arrested for dereliction of duty and aiding and abetting the enemy.”

  Hove’s jaw tightened, his back straightened. He inclined his head, clicked his heels, then turned to face the command deck.

  “Close to tractor beam range,” he ordered, and Beck was somewhat mollified to find no hesitation or uncertainty in his voice as he spoke. “Target the freighter and the yacht.”

  The order was echoed around the bridge, a flurry of motion at the helm. The Star Destroyer began its turn to port, and through the bridge windows Beck could see Miss Fortune and the Millennium Falcon once more, still small but gradually coming closer. Flashes of turbolaser fire cut the darkness, needles of red and green and blue slicing through space as the ten ships twisted and spun and danced together in combat.

  “Beam control, confirm,” Hove said.

  The response was immediate, loud and clear. “At your order, Captain.”

  “Time to target?”

  “One minute, eleven seconds.”

  Hove turned to face the windows again and canted his head slightly toward Beck. “It will be close, but we should catch them before they can make the jump to hyperspace.”

  Beck kept her eyes on the battle, slowly coming closer. One of the TIEs tried to cut across the Falcon’s stern, sweeping into another pass, and a line of green reached out from Miss Fortune and touched the fighter along one solar panel. The TIE broke apart, exploding an instant later. Seven against two.

  “For your sake, Captain,” Beck said, “I hope you’re correct.”

  “GOT THREE MORE coming around, starboard at two-eight mark seven!” Ematt said.

  Chewie snarled.

  “What’d he say?”

  “He said, ‘Shoot them.’” Solo played the throttle, dropping thrust on the Falcon’s starboard sublight engine and at the same time pulling the yoke to the left and back, bringing the ship around in a nearly uncontrolled spin and loop. The artificial gra
vity aboard the Falcon, a fraction of a second behind the maneuver, struggled to compensate, and Solo nearly flew free of the pilot’s seat. Chewbacca snorted.

  “I’ll strap in when I’m not trying to keep us all from dying,” Solo retorted. “Delia, how you doing?”

  “We’ve had better days!”

  Another TIE seemed to come out of nowhere, firing as it went, and shot overhead so close Solo was certain he could see the pilot in the fighter’s tiny cockpit. The Falcon shuddered as laser fire raked the dorsal hull. The deflector display to Chewbacca’s left flashed, the small graphic representation of the ship that had been glowing green to indicate the shields were at full power now beginning to shift to yellow. The Wookiee reached under the console, pulled a coil of wiring free with an attendant burst of sparks, and shoved the end into one of the sockets at his right elbow. The display flared, the yellow vanished, and the green returned.

  “That’ll work for now,” Solo said. “Hold on.”

  Outside the canopy, the starfield whirled like someone was trying to send it down a drain as Solo brought the starboard engine back to match thrust with the other two propelling the Falcon. They shot forward, the ship now rapidly rolling around and around as it went.

  “I can’t get a shot if you do that!” Ematt said.

  “I’m giving you a shot,” Solo said. “Get ready.”

  The Falcon came out of its last roll and Solo jinked to port, then dipped the nose before yanking back on the yoke, hard, putting the ship into a tight Corellian turn and inverting their flight and direction. The TIEs that had fallen off with the Falcon’s acceleration reappeared dead ahead, closing fast, four of them in tight attack formation. Chewie chortled.