by Greg Rucka
“Hey, yeah,” Strater said. “Like how you’re talking about a bar that’s in a ship in a port and we’re in a bar in a ship in a port.”
The woman looked toward the entrance of the cargo bay and stared at the bouncer for a moment. “With a Shistavanen bouncer working the door.”
“And a redhead at the bar.”
The old man said nothing. He’d had one hand beneath the table himself for the past half hour, and now his fingers began to wrap around the grip of the heavy blaster holstered on his thigh.
“They could’ve changed the name,” Strater said.
“You idiot.” The burly one didn’t look away from the old man, but he was clearly responding to his tattooed friend. “Of course they changed the name. Serendipity. He even said that was what the name meant in the original Durese.”
The old man met the burly one’s stare, then glanced over the man’s shoulder again. He grinned. “So who’re you with? The Irving Boys? Or the Guavians? Or Ducain? I’d put money on Ducain. He always went low rent on the hired help.”
There was a moment’s pause before the credit dropped. The burly one moved first, his hands reappearing above the table, a blaster in each. The woman, a half fraction behind him, yanked the haft of her vibro-axe from where it rode on her back and thumbed the activator as she brought it close to the old man’s throat. The weapon hummed, and the old man could feel the rapid cycle of the blade’s near-invisible vibration through the air, in his teeth. Strater was the slowest, the last to figure it out, fumbling his own weapon up and flushing even darker with the embarrassment of having been played for a fool.
“Solo,” the burly one said.
“You want to be careful with that?” Han Solo used his free hand to push the vibro-axe’s handle gently, trying to move the blade away from his throat. “Guy could get hurt.”
Neither the axe nor the woman budged.
“Seriously,” Solo said.
The burly one set both elbows on the table, each of his blasters now pointing directly at Solo’s face. He spoke conversationally, relaxed, clearly certain the situation was his to control.
“We want the ship,” the burly one said. “That’s it. You hand over the Falcon and maybe you walk away.”
Solo smiled, then found himself grinning in a way he hadn’t in years. “That sounds like an unfair deal, actually.”
“It’s the best you’re going to get, old man.”
Solo considered the distance between the vibro-axe and his throat and decided it was far enough to risk shaking his head. “I don’t think so. I think I’ve got a counter offer.”
“You’ve got nothing to bargain with.”
From behind him, at the bar, Delia Leighton said, “He’s got this.”
Solo didn’t turn to see what she was doing, but he didn’t need to. The Miss Fortune may have changed its name once or twice, or even half a dozen times in the past thirty-odd years—he’d honestly lost count. And it may have seen a few modifications here and there—a new waitress to replace the busted droid, another coat of paint—but some things had stayed the same. The drinks were still overpriced but poured fair and strong. Curtis still worked the door, as much as the entrance to the cargo bay could be called a door.
And Delia Leighton still worked the bar with her Scattermaster close at hand.
“You fire that thing, you’ll hit him, too,” the woman said.
“That’s all right,” Delia said. “He still hasn’t settled his tab, so I’ll call it even.”
“Hey,” Solo said. “I’m good for it.”
The burly one gritted his teeth. “You’re bluffing.”
“Three of us, two of you,” Strater said.
“You want to count again,” Solo said.
“You think we’ve forgotten about the bouncer? He’s not gonna reach you in time.”
Solo shook his head again, felt the distortion from the axe tickling his beard.
“Thing people forget about Wookiees,” Solo said. “They remember that they’re very strong. They remember they’ve got a temper. They remember, maybe, that they’re from Kashyyyk. But they forget one thing.”
The burly one glanced at his companions, just an edge of nervousness now evident. He readjusted his grip on his weapons.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“They can be very, very quiet when it suits them,” Solo said. “Isn’t that right, Chewie?”
The Wookiee, who had been standing behind the burly man’s chair for the past dozen seconds, growled. In one swift motion, Chewie took hold of the man by the shoulders, hoisted him smoothly from his chair, and sent him flying roughly in the direction of Curtis and the door. Solo took that opportunity to grab the shaft of the vibro-axe with his free hand, forcing it away from his neck, and pointed his blaster at the woman’s face with the other. Strater started up, trying to rise, but Chewbacca simply reached out and planted one big hand on his tattooed head, slamming him back down again.
Solo pulled the vibro-axe free of the woman’s grasp, tossed it aside, then reached out and took the blaster from her shoulder holster and sent it sailing in the same direction. Chewie had already disarmed Strater. Solo slid his chair back and got to his feet.
“You tell Ducain, you tell the Irving Boys, you tell all of them this: we’re not afraid of them,” Solo said.
The woman glared up at him.
“Yeah,” Solo said. “You’ve got a little Commander Beck to you, you know that?”
Chewie rumbled softly.
Solo half turned to Delia. “Thanks for the drinks, Captain.”
“You still haven’t settled your tab.”
Chewbacca chuckled. Solo looked wounded. “I said I’m good for it.”
“I’ve been hearing that a long time.”
The smuggler holstered his blaster and looked around the bar. The burly one was out cold, Curtis already hauling him through the doors. Strater and the woman were glowering at him, but they weren’t going to move, not now.
“Next time, Delia. I promise.”
“Holding you to that.”
“C’mon, Chewie.”
They started for the exit, side by side, the Wookiee towering over the Corellian. They came down the ramp as Curtis was dusting his paws, the burly man propped against the near wall of the docking bay, disarmed and still unconscious.
“Hey,” Curtis said. “Whatever happened with Beck?”
Chewbacca chuffed and barked.
“Tell you next time,” Solo said.
GREG RUCKA is an award-winning New York Times best-selling writer of several hundred comic books and over two dozen novels. He lives in Portland, Oregon, with his wife, author Jennifer Van Meter, and their two children, Elliot and Dashiell. He first visited a galaxy far, far away when he was seven years old. He has yet to return.
PHIL NOTO began his career at Walt Disney Feature Animation where he worked on such films as The Lion King, Pocahontas, The Hunchback of Notre Dame, Mulan, and Lilo & Stitch. In 2001, Phil started his comic career as the cover artist for DC Comics’ Birds of Prey. Since then he has worked on numerous projects such as Danger Girl, Jonah Hex, Avengers, Uncanny X-Force, X-23, The Infinite Horizon, and most recently, Marvel’s Black Widow.
