by Troy Denning
“That’s money well spent?”
“It is when you realize he didn’t touch my credit case,” Leia said. “Or the credit chips you left on the dresser.”
“He’s a spy,” Han said.
Leia nodded. “Not a very good one, but I think so. Probably working for the same people who sent Roxi Barl.”
The hatch behind Leia began to hiss. Han glanced over her shoulder, then asked in a low voice, “What about the others?”
“Only the one,” Leia whispered. She was fairly certain of what she said; the agent had been working as hard to hide his thefts from his officer as from them.
The hatch stopped hissing, and two CorSec security men emerged with the mystery woman and her portable bacta tank. The guards were the spy and the same officer who had been in Leia’s room when she was awakened. She let her chin drop, less feigning exhaustion than allowing it to show. Despite the stim-shots and painkillers Dr. Nimbi had pressed on her, the effort of sitting upright was taking its toll.
The hatch closed, and the officer said, “Go on, Solo. The rest of the detail will stay behind to hold the media back.”
“Thank you,” Leia said, and she meant it. Without a wall of CorSec agents to keep the holocrews at bay, she felt fairly certain the journalists would have followed them aboard the Falcon. “I thought we were going to have stowaways.”
“No need to worry about that,” the spy said. “We’ll do a search.”
Han muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “over your dead body,” then led the way around the perimeter of the floor—no experienced spacer ever cut across a public docking bay—toward a shadowy disk resting between the blockier forms of two ancient transports. Though Leia had never been a fan of the Falcon’s new matte-black finish, she had to admit that it did as much to reduce the famous ship’s public profile as it did to hide the hull blemishes acquired over so many decades of rough use. Now, even when someone did happen to notice the vessel sitting in the murk, it would hardly draw a second glance.
She wondered if that was what Han had intended when he chose the new color, or if it had just been a way of expressing his grief over Chewbacca’s loss. She might never know; they were no longer close enough that she could guess, and she was not comfortable asking. How sad was that, after defeating the Empire and having three children together?
As they approached the Falcon, an anvil-headed silhouette with glittering yellow eyes emerged from between the landing struts, thin arms held casually out to the sides to show that his three-fingered hands were empty.
“Captain Solo,” he rasped. “Glad to make your acquaintance.”
“Not so fast, Twinkle-eyes,” Han said. “Just step away from the ship and go. We’re not giving interviews.”
“Interviews?”
The figure laughed coarsely and stepped into the light, revealing the salt-addicted Arcona who had exchanged glances with Leia in the hospital. He had a flat reptilian face with skin the color of durasteel and a cockeyed mouth that made him look half salted; over his threadbare tunic, he now wore a shabby flight tabard lined with dozens of fastclose cargo pockets.
“I’m no holojournalist,” the Arcona said. “All I’m looking for is a ride off this mudball.”
Leaving the portable bacta tank hovering on its repulsor gurney, the CorSec agents drew their blasters and moved up. “Do as Solo says,” the officer ordered. “And give me your identichip.”
The Arcona reached for a pocket as though to obey, then fluttered his fingers in the agents’ direction. “I’m not Corellian,” he said. “I don’t need an identichip.”
“He’s not Corellian,” the subordinate said.
“He doesn’t need an identichip,” the officer added.
Leia’s jaw was already hanging open, but Han was not so easily impressed.
“Cute trick. Now move along—and take your buddies.” He jerked his thumb at the two CorSec agents. “We’re not taking riders.”
The Arcona showed a row of crooked fangs in what was probably a smile. “I’m willing to earn my keep, Captain.” He glanced in Leia’s direction, then his tabard fluttered open to show her the lightsaber hanging on his belt, and she felt something warm slither over her in the Force. “I’m a first-class YT-1300 copilot. Have one of my own, if I can ever get back to the blasted thing.”
“Han.” Leia grabbed her husband’s arm. “I think—”
Han pulled away. “In a minute.” He continued to glare at the Arcona. “I don’t care if you fly Star Destroyers, you’re not getting on my ship.”
“Han!” Leia snapped. “Yes, he is.”
Han started to argue, then seemed to see something in Leia’s eyes that made him think better of it. “He is?”
Thankful she could still reach him, Leia nodded. “I think you should give him a chance,” she said. “I’m certainly not going to be much of a copilot.”
The fact of the matter was that C-3PO, still hiding aboard the Falcon, could help with most of the copilot’s chores, but Han seemed to realize Leia was trying to tell him something else. He turned to the Arcona and studied him from top to bottom, contemplating his ashen complexion, threadbare clothes, and listing features.
“Well, you look like a pilot,” Han said. “What’s the sequence for an emergency ion drive engagement?”
“Warm circuits, actuate, power up,” the Arcona answered.
Han raised his brow. “Emergency shutdown?”
“Power down, then disengage.”
“And where’s the vortex stabilizer found?”
The Arcona’s flat head folded slightly inward at the center, then he raised his three-fingered hand and said, “You already know where the vortex stabilizer—”
Han slapped the hand down. “Don’t try that stuff with me. Who do you think you’re dealing with?”
The Arcona shrugged, then complained, “How should I know where the vortex stabilizer is? That’s not a crew-serviceable part.”
Han actually smiled, then slapped the Arcona on the shoulder. “You’ll do.”
“Thanks, Captain.” The Arcona did not seem all that relieved. He pushed between the CorSec agents toward the portable bacta tank. “I’ll take it from here, fellas.”
The officer stepped aside, but the subordinate stood fast. “Our orders are to load the patient ourselves.”
“That was before we had help,” Leia said. “And your orders were to see us off. No one said anything about snooping around on the Falcon.”
She cast a pointed glare at the pocket containing her datapad. The subordinate’s face turned bright red, and he stepped aside so quickly he nearly fell.
“Hmmm.” The Arcona smiled and, out of the corner of his tilted mouth, whispered, “Interesting technique.”
He retrieved the repulsor gurney, then the agents returned Han’s blaster, and the group boarded together. C-3PO was waiting for them atop the ramp.
“Oh, thank the maker you’re back!” he said, arms pumping madly. “I can’t tell you how many times I was forced to lower the retractable blaster—”
“Not now, Threepio,” Han said, brushing past and starting for the cockpit. “Secure yourself for launch.”
“But Captain Solo, you and Princess Leia have been all over the newsvids. They’re saying you killed three people, and quite a few of the commentators seem to think there should be some sort of legal inquiry—”
“See-Threepio, we know,” Leia said, guiding her chair into the access ring. “This is . . .”
She turned to the Arcona.
“A friend of your doctor’s.” He plucked an eavesdropping device off the portable bacta tank and crushed it under his boot, then added, “There are more.”
Leia nodded and turned back to C-3PO. “Help our guest secure the gurney for launch.”
Seeing that her chair would prevent the bulky bacta tank from entering the access ring, Leia moved ahead. She was feeling terribly tired and weak, and her first instinct was to turn toward the main deck and st
ay out of the way. But she had been alone too much over the last year, and the thought of sitting by herself while Han and his new copilot solved their problems was more than she could bear. She needed to be with her husband—even if she was no longer quite sure he wanted her.
The repulsor chair was fairly compact, and once she had lowered the telescoping pole on which the IV bags hung, there was no trouble guiding it up the outrigger corridor. But the cockpit itself already had four seats, so she had to settle for magnoclamping her chair in place just outside the door. To his credit, Han did not ask what she was doing there. He was so busy toggling switches and checking dials that Leia was not even sure he knew.
The Arcona squeezed past and, taking the copilot’s seat, slipped into the start-up routine so smoothly that it was obvious he had been telling the truth about flying his own YT-1300. There were a few glitches as he encountered some of the Falcon’s modifications, but Leia could tell by Han’s patience how impressed he was. She tried not to be jealous.
They were within thirty seconds of launch when the inevitable glitch finally came.
“The ramp light’s still on.” Han pointed at a panel on the Arcona’s side of the cockpit. “That should have been checked off a minute ago.”
“I thought I had.”
The Arcona hit the reset. The light blinked off, then instantly relit.
Han cursed, then activated the intercom. “Threepio, I think the ramp’s stuck again. Give it a check.”
No acknowledgment came.
“Threepio?”
Han cursed. Leia began to unclamp her chair.
“No, I’ll go.” The Arcona unbuckled his harness and rose. “You shouldn’t be back there alone. This could be trouble.”
“Thanks.” Han unbuckled his crash webbing and loosened his blaster, then turned to Leia and said, “I’m glad you’re up here.”
Leia smiled. “Me, too.”
They waited in silence for nearly a minute before the ramp light finally went out and the Arcona returned.
“It was just stuck,” he said. “I banged the control panel, and it came up the rest of the way.”
“Always works for me,” Han said, starting the repulsor drives.
“What about Threepio?” Leia asked. She had an uneasy feeling—not danger sense, but of something that was not quite right. “Why didn’t he answer?”
“I think he crossed some feeds connecting the bacta tank to the medical bank.” The Arcona slipped smoothly back into his seat. “His circuit breaker was tripped. I reset it.”
“That’s a new one.” Han shook his head, then opened a channel to the spaceport traffic center. “Control, this is Shadow Bird requesting launch clearance.”
Shadow Bird was the name under which they had berthed the Falcon.
“Negative, Shadow Bird,” came the reply. “Stand by.”
Han closed the channel. “What now?”
He activated the external security monitors, and they all waited in tense silence, expecting to see a CorSec boarding party or mob of bounty hunters come rushing out of the access locks.
A few moments later, Control’s voice crackled over the speaker. “Corellian Security informs us there is no such vessel as Shadow Bird.” The message came over an open channel. “However, the Millennium Falcon is cleared for immediate departure.”
“Acknowledged.” Han wasted no time engaging the repulsor drives and leaving the docking bay; someone had just made certain that every ship within a hundred thousand kilometers would know which vessel they were. “And check that CorSec agent’s pockets. I saw him stealing a datapad. Falcon out.”
Chapter 4
The park-checkered city of Coronet had barely receded beneath the Falcon’s tail when Han swung south over the sea and slammed the ion throttles full forward, beginning a long arcing climb that would carry them over the pole to the opposite side of the planet. The comm speaker quickly erupted into vitriolic curses as Corellian Control protested both the unlawful trajectory and the over-city shock wave, but Han ignored the impoundment threats and disengaged the nacelle melt-safeties. After the send-off CorSec had given them, flying a standard launch pattern would be about as safe as jumping into a Sarlacc’s pit.
The Arcona’s golden eyes remained fixed on the temperature readouts. “I thought you had experience at this sort of thing.” Because of the difficulty his compound eyes had making out distinct shapes, he was wearing a small optical scanner that read the display data and fed it into an earpiece in auditory form. “Every rookie smuggler in the galaxy knows you can’t outrun a ship in orbit. They’ll cut you off every time.”
“You don’t say?” Han tried to look surprised. “Because of the gravity drag?”
“And air friction and accumulated velocity and things like that.” The Arcona glanced over his shoulder at Leia. “This is Han Solo, isn’t it? The Han Solo?”
Han glanced over his shoulder and saw Leia shrug.
“You know, I’ve been wondering myself.” Her eyes drooped and Han thought she might be falling asleep, then she added, “But when I checked, that’s what his identichip read.”
“One of them, anyway,” Han said, glad to hear an echo—no matter how faint—of Leia’s sharp wit.
They reached the other side of the planet. Han pulled back on the yoke, nosing the Falcon straight up. The nacelle temperatures shot off the gauges as the ion drives struggled to maintain velocity, and the Arcona’s slanted mouth fell open.
“Y-you’re at a hundred and t-t-twenty percent spec,” he stammered.
“You don’t say,” Han replied. “Bring up the tactical display and let’s see how things look.”
The Arcona kept his scanner fixed on the temperature gauges. “One twenty-seven.”
“Military alloys,” Leia explained. “We can go to one forty, or so Han tells me.”
“Maybe more, if I wanted to push,” Han bragged.
“Don’t,” the Arcona said. “I’m impressed enough.”
The Arcona brought up the tactical display, revealing a drop-shaped swarm of blips streaming around the planet in pursuit. He plotted intercept vectors. A web of flashing lines appeared on- screen, all intersecting well behind the dotted outline showing the Falcon’s projected position.
“I guess rookie smugglers don’t know everything,” Han said with a smirk. “Plot a course for Commenor.”
He waited a few seconds to be certain none of the Falcon’s pursuers had any tricks up its own drive nacelles, then diverted power for the rear shields and kept an eye out for surprises. Though he had plenty of questions for his new copilot, he stayed quiet and watched him work. Han had certainly seen more gifted navigators, but the Arcona’s approach was sound, and he used redundant routines to avoid mistakes.
After a few moments, he transferred the coordinates to Han’s display. “Want to double-check?”
“No need,” Han said. “I trust you.”
“Yeah?” The high corner of the Arcona’s mouth rose a little more. “Same here.”
The Arcona validated the coordinates, and Han initiated the hyperdrive. There was the usual inexplicable hesitation—Han had been trying for the last year to run down the cause—and his alarmed copilot looked over. Han raised a finger to signal patience, then the stars stretched into lines.
They spent a few moments checking systems before settling in for the ride to Commenor, then Han had time to consider his temporary copilot. He had not missed the lightsaber hanging inside the Arcona’s ragged flight tabard, nor the significance of the mind game he had played on CorSec agents. Still, while there were now enough Jedi in the galaxy that Han no longer knew them all by name, he would have heard about an Arcona Jedi—especially a salt-addicted Arcona.
“So,” Han asked. “Who are you?”
“Izal Waz.” The Arcona turned and, smiling crookedly, extended his three-fingered hand. “Thanks for taking me aboard.”
“Waz? Izal Waz?” Han shook the hand. “Your name sounds familiar.”
&n
bsp; Izal’s gaze flickered downward, and he released Han’s hand. “Anything’s possible, but we haven’t met.”
“But I do know the name,” Han said. “What about you, Leia?”
He turned to look and found her chin slumped against her chest. Though her eyes were closed, her brow was creased and her hands were twitching, and it made Han’s heart ache to see her suffer so even in her sleep.
“Looks like I better put our patient to bed.” Han unbuckled his crash webbing. “We’ll talk more in a few minutes.”
“Good,” Izal Waz said. “I’ve always been curious about your years in the Corporate Sector.”
That was hardly the discussion Han had in mind, but he left the pilot’s chair and took Leia back to the first-aid bay. She did not stir, even when he lifted her into the bunk and connected her to the medical data banks. He knew she needed her rest, but he wished she would open her eyes just for a minute and give him a smile, some indication that she would recover—that they would. He had needed to mourn Chewbacca’s death, he knew that, and maybe he had even needed to crisscross the galaxy helping Droma search for his clan. But only now was Han beginning to see how he had surrendered to his grief, or to understand that there had been a cost.
“Get well, Princess.” He kissed Leia on the brow. “Don’t give up on me yet.”
The monitors showed no indication that she heard.
Han buckled the last safety strap across her chest and magnoclamped the repulsor chair to the deck beside her bunk, then went aft to check on the other patient aboard the Falcon. Her gurney was clamped to the floor of the crew quarters, a pair of data umbilicals connecting the portable bacta tank to an auxiliary medical socket. C-3PO stood in a corner, his photoreceptors darkened and his metallic head canted slightly forward in his shutdown posture. The covers on the three bunks were rumpled.
Han did a quick check to make certain the bacta tank was still functioning, then reached behind C-3PO’s head and reset his primary circuit breaker.
The droid’s head rose. “. . . can’t leave her in the middle of . . .” The sentence trailed off as his photoreceptors blinked to life. “Captain Solo! What happened?”
