Star Wars - The Han Solo Adventures - Han Solo at Stars End

by Brian Daley

  With an impatient hoot, Chewbacca, whod put away both bartenders, picked Han up by the shoulders and set him aside. The Weekice stood over the console, his long fingers moving with nimble precision, peering frequently from his work to the door. In moments the bodies of the two or three patrons lying along his cor-ridor of lighter gravity stirred weakly. Everyone else, the Espos and Ploovos underworld contingent in-cluded, remained pasted to the floor.

  Chewbacca eased himself carefully back over the bar and into the normal-gee passageway. He clamored smugly to Hah.

  Well, I was the one who thought of it, wasnt I, the pilot groused, trailing after his friend. Outside the Free-Flight, he discreetly closed the doors behind him and straightened his clothes, while Chewie gave himself a fastidious brushing.

  Hey, Chewie, you were slow with your left just now, werent you? Han queried. Is your speed go. ing, old-timer? Chewbacca belched savagely; age was a standing joke between them.

  Hah stopped a group of laughing revelers whod been about to enter the Free-Flight. This establish-ment is officially closed, he proclaimed with weighty importance. Its quarantined. Fronks Fever.

  The merrymakers, intimidated by the sinister sound of that imaginary malady, didnt even think to question.

  They left at once. The two weary partners grabbed the

  first robe-hack they saw, and sped off toward their ship.

  Things are getting tough for the independent busi-nessman, Hah Solo lamented.

  SEVERAL minutes later, the robo-hack deposited Han and Chewbacca around the comer from their docking bay, Number 45. Theyd decided it would be wise to scout the landscape to determine whether the forces of law, order, and corporate dividends had got-ten there first. Peering cautiously around the comer, they saw a lone portmasters deputy dutifully locking an impoundment-fastener on their bays blast doom. Han pulled his first mate back into concealment for a conference. No time to wait until the coast is clear, Chewie; theyll be sorting things out back at the Free-Flight any time now. Besides, that geck is about to lock up the bay, and Espo patrols would get kind of curious if they saw us burning our way through the blast doors.

  He peeked out again. The deputy had nearly fin-ished making connections between alarms and the blast-door solenoids. No doubt the bays other door was fastened as well. Hah looked around and noticed an Authority liquor and drugs outlet to his rear. He took his par tners elbow. Heres the plan...

  A minute later, the portmasters deputy had wrestled the massive lock halves into place and finished securing the impoundment-fastener. The blast doors slid shut with a shrinking of diamond-shaped opening that dis-appeared with a dang. The deputy pulled a molecu-larly coded key from its slot in the fastener, and the device was activated. Now if it were disturbed or dam-aged, it would instantly inform Espo monitors.

  The deputy tucked the key into his belt pouch and ,prepared to report his errand completed. Just then a Wooldee, a big, leering brute, came wandering past in a drunken stagger, with a sloshing ten-liter crock of some vile-smelling brew cradled in his thick, hairy arm. Just as the Wooldee drew even with the deputy, a man coming from the other direction failed to avoid the shambling creatures dipsomaniacal lurches. There was a rapid, complicated three-way collision, result-ing in the Wookiees stumbling into, and spilling his liquor all over, the luckless deputy.

  The instant pandemonium included accusation and counteraccusation, all in raised voices. The Wooldee gobbled horribly at both men, shaking knotted fists and gesturing to the spilled crock. The portmasters deputy was brushing uselessly at his soaked tunic. The other participant in the accident did his best to be of help. Oh, say, thats really a shame, Hah tsked with a sad, solicitous tone. Hey, that stuffs really in there, huh, he said as he tried to wring some of the brew out of the tunic fabric. The deputy and the Wooldee were swapping inprecations and contradictory claims about whose fault the accident had been. The occasional passerby kept fight on moving, not wishing to become involved.

  Fella, you better get that tunic washed fight away, Han advised, or that smell11 never come out.

  The deputy, with a last threat of legal action against the Wookiee, stalked off. His pace quickened as he realized with apprehension that a supervisor might happen by at any time and catch sight-or even worse, a whiff-of him. He hurried on, leaving the other two to argue liabilities and culpabilities.

  The argument stopped as soon as the deputy was gone. Han held up the key hed lifted from the depu-tys belt pouch during the confusion. He handed it to Chewbacca. Go warm up the ship, but dont call for clearance. The portmasters most likely got us posted for grounding. If theres a patrol ship, itd be on our necks in no time. He estimated that eight minutes had passed since theyd fled the Free-Flight; their luck couldnt hold much longer.

  Chewbacca ran a hasty prefiight while Han dashed off along the row of docking bays. He passed three be-fore he came to the one he wanted. In it was a stock freighter, not unlike what the Millennium Falcon had once been, but this one was clean, freshly painted, and shipshape. Her name and ID symbols were proudly displayed on her bow, and labor droids were busily loading general cargo under the supervision of her crew, who looked nauseatingly honest. Han leaned through the open blast doors, waving a friendly hand. Hi there. You guys still raising ship tomorrow?

  One of them waved back, but looked confused. Not tomorrow, bud; tonight, twenty-one hundred planetary time.

  Hah reigned surprise. Oh? Well, clear skies. The crewman returned the traditional spacers farewell as Han strolled away casually. As soon as he was out of their sight, he took off at a run.

  When he got back to Bay 45, he found Chewbacca finishing locking the impoundment-fastener on the in-ner sides of the blast doors, reconnecting them. Hah nodded approvingly. Bright lad. Are we rewed up?

  The Wookiee yipped an affirmative and slid the blast doors shut. Locking them again, this time from the inside, he threw the molecularly coded key away.

  Han had already reached his seat in the cockpit. Taking his headset, he called port control. Using the name and ID code of the freighter down in Docking Bay 41, he requested that liftoff time be moved up from twenty-one hundred planetary time to immedi-ately, not an unusual request for a tramp freighter, whose schedule might change abruptly. Since there wasnt much traffic and clearance for that ship had al-ready been granted, immediate liftoff was approved at once.

  Chewbacca was still buckling in when Hah raised ship. Her thrusters flared, and the Falcon made, for her, a moderate and restrained departure from Etti IV. When the Espos showed up at Docking Bay 45 and cut their way in, Han reflected, theyd have one interesting time trying to figure out how somebody had sneaked a starship out from under the portmasters nose.

  The starship parted company with Etti IVs gravi-tational field. Chewbacca, elated over what had been a fairly nifty escape, was in high spirits. The Wooldees leathery muzzle was peeled back in a nice-hideous smirk, and he was singing-or what passed among his people as singing-at the top of his capacious lungs. The volume of it, in the confides of the cockpit, was incredible.

  Cmon, Chewie, Hah implored, rapping a gauge with his knuckle, youre making all the instruments mp. With a behemothish sort of yodel, the Wooldee ceased. Besides, Han continued, were not out of the heavy weather yet.

  Chewbacca lost his placid look and lowed an in-terrogative. Han shook his head. Naw, Ploovos got his money; no matter how torqued off he is, his back-ersll never unpocket for a contract on us now. No, what I meant was, the long-range dish we patched together wont last forever. We need another, a top-of-the-line model. Besides, the Espos and, I guess, most other folks who like to arrest people have some kind of new sensor that evades detection on old equip-ment. We need one of those, too, to get back over with the smart money. One more thing-we need one of those Waivers if weve going to operate around here; we have to wrangle ourselves onto that list somehow. Damreit, the Corporate Sector Authoritys wrung out thousands of solar systems; I can almost smell that money! We aint passing up on fat p
icldns just because somebody around here doesnt like our lift/mass ratio.

  He finished plotting his hyperdrive jump and turned to his parmer with a sly grin. Now, since the Author-ity doesnt owe you and me any personal favors, whats that leave?

  The long-pelted first mate growled once. Hah spread a hand on his chest and pretended to be shocked. Outside the law, did you say? Us? He chuckled. Right you are, pal. Well take so much money off the Authority well need a knuckle-boom to haul it all away.

  The hyperdrive began to cut in. But first, its time to meet and greet old friends. After that, everybodyd best hang on to their cash with both hands! Hah fin-ished.

  They had to do it in steps, of course. A hyperspace jump took them to an all-but-deserted, played-out mining world where the Authorin didnt even bother to maintain offices. A lead there, from an old man who had once seen better days, put them in touch with the captain of a long-orbit ore barge. After some fina-gling, during which their bona [ides were checked, with their lives forfeit ff that check had turned up the wrong answers, they were given a rendezvous.

  At that rendezvous they were met, in deep space, by a small ships gig. When an inboard search by armed, wary men revealed that the Falcon carried no one but her pilot and copilot, the two were led to the second planet of a nearby star system. The gig parted company with them, and they came in for a landing, tracked by the upraised snouts of turbo-laser cannons. The site was a huddle of quickly assembled hanger domes and habitation bubbles. Parked here and there was a wide assortment of ships and other equipment, much of it gutted and decaying, cannibaiized for spare parts.

  When Hah stepped down the starships ramp, his face lit with that intense smile that had been known to make men check up and see what their wives were doing. Hello, lessa. Its been too long, doll.

  The woman waiting at the foot of the ramp looked back at him scornfully. She was tall, her hair a mass of heavy blond ringlets, and her shape did extremely pleasant things to the techs coverails she wore. Her upturned nose held a collection of freckles acquired under a variety of suns; Jessa had been on almost as many planets as Han. Just now, her large brown eyes showed him nothing but derision.

  Too long, Solo? No doubt youve been busy with religious retreats? Mercantile conferences? Mild de-liveries for the Interstellar Childrens Aid Fund? Well, its no wonder I havent heard from you. After all, whats a Standard Year, more or less, hey?

  A lifetime, kid, he answered smoothly. I missed you. Coming down to her, he reached for her hand.

  Jessa eluded him, and men with drawn guns came into view. They wore coverails, fusion-welders masks, tool belts, and greasy headbands, but they were plainly comfortable with their weapons.

  Hah shook his head mournfully. less, youve really got me wrong, youll see. But he knew he had just received an explicit warning, and decided hed better turn the conversation to the matter at hand. Wheres Doe?

  The scom left Jessas features, but she ignored his question. Come with me, Solo.

  Leaving Chewbacca to watch the Falcon, Man ac-companied her across the temporary base. The land-ing field was a fiat expanse of fusion-formed soil (al-most any sort of solid material would do for fusion forming, Han knew; minerals, vegetable matter, or any old enemies for whom you had no further use). Male, female, human, and nonhuman techs scrambled over vehicles and machinery of every category, aided by a wild assortment of droids and other automata, engaged in repair, salvage, and modification.

  Han admired the operation as he walked. A tech whod do illegal work could be found almost any-where, but Dec, lessas father, had an operation that was famous among lawbreakers everywhere. If you wanted your ship repaired without questions as to why youd been through a firefight, if you needed a vessels ID profile and appearance changed for reasons best left unmentioned, or if you had a hot piece of major hardware to buy or sell-the person to contact, if you met his rigorous background cheek, was Doe. H some-thing could be done with machinery, he and his outlaw-techs could do it.

  Several of the modifcafious clone on the Millennium Falcon had been performed through the oufiaw-techs good offices; he and Hah had dealt with each other on a number of occasions. Hah admired the shifty old man because hed been sought by Authority and other official forces for years but never apprehended. Doe had kept himself well buffered, and piped into as many crooked bureaucrats and scuttlebutt sources as anyone Han knew. More than one strike unit had moved against the outlaw-techs only to capture a tar-get area empty of everything but abandoned buildings and useless inmk. Dec had joked that he was the only felon in the galaxy whod have to set up an employee pension plan.

  Threading among disassembled hulks and humming repair docks, lessa led Han through the largest hangar on the base. At one end, slabs of Permex had been joined into a stark cube of an office. But when its door slid up at her command, Han could see that Dees taste hadnt coarsened. The office featured carpets of Wrodlan weave, glittering in rich colors, each one rep-resenting generations work. There were shelves of rare books, lavish hangings, and paintings and sculp-ture, some by historys greatest artists and others by unknowns whod simply struck Docs fancy. There was a monolithic, hand-carved scentwood desk with only one item on it, a holecube of Jessa. In it she was wearing a stylish evening gown, smiling, much more like a pretty girl at her first formal reception than a top-flight oufiaw-tech genius.

  Wheres the old man? Han asked, seeing the room was empty. Jessa slid into the conform-lounger behind the desk. She clenched her hands on the loungers thick, luxurious arms until her fingers made deep in-dentations.

  Hes not here, Solo. Dees gone.

  How informative; Id never have guessed it just

  from seeing the rooms empty. Look, Jess, I have no

  time for games, no matter how much youd like to

  play. I want-

  I know what you want! Her face was bitter; it took him by surprise. No one comes to us unless we know what they want from us. But my fathers not here. Hes disappeared, and nothing Ive tried has turned up a hint. Believe me, Solo, Ive tried it all.

  Han eased down into a seat across the desk from her. Jessa explained, Doc went off on one of his buy-ing trips-you know, shopping for stuff that would fit the market, or for some customers special order. He made three stops and never arrived at the fourth. Just like that. He, three crewmen, and a star yacht just dropped out of sight.

  Han thought for a moment about the old man with work-hardened hands, a quick, crusty grin, and a halo of frizzy white hair. Han had liked him but if Doc was gone, that was that. Few people who vanished under circumstances like that ever showed up again. Luck of the draw. Han had always traveled light, with emotional baggage the first thing he jettisoued, and grief was far too heavy to lug around among the stars.

  So that only left thinking, Goodbye, Doc, and deal-ing with Jessa, the old mans only surviving kin. But when his brief distraction broke, he saw that shed studied the entire play of his thoughts on his face. You got through that eulogy pretty fast, didnt you, Solo? she asked softly. Nobody gets too far under that precious skin of yours, isnt that so?

  That pricked him. If it was me whod checked out, would Doc have gone on a crying jag, ess? Would you? Im sorry, but life goes on, and if you lose sight of that, sweetheart, youre asking to be dealt out.

  Her mouth opened to reply, but she thought better of it and changed tack. Her voice became as sharp as a vibroblade. Very well. Lets do business. I know what youre looking for, the sensor suite, the dish, the Waiver. I can take care of all of it. We got our hands on a sensor suite, powerful, compact, a military pack-age built for long-range scoutships. It found its way to us from a supply depot; got misrouted by a happy co-incidence I arranged. I can handle the Waiver, too. That only leaves-she gazed at him coldly-the question of price.

  Han wasnt crazy about the way shed said it. The

  moneys got to be right, Jess. Ive only got-

  She cut him off again. Who said money? I know ]ust how much you have, high roller, and where you g
ot it, and how much you gave Ploovo. Dont you think we hear everything sooner or later? Would I assume an imbecile whos been gunrunning would be flush? She leaned back, interlacing her fingers.

  He was confused. Hed planned to arrange long terms with Doc, but doubted if he could with Jessa. If she knew he couldnt meet a decent price, why was she talking to him? Are you going to explain, Jess, or am I supposed to do my famous mind-reading act?

  Give your jaws a rest, Solo, and pay attention. Im offering you a deal, a handwash.

  He was suspicious, knowing thered be no generos-ity from her. But what were his alternatives? He needed his ship repaired, and the rest of it, or he might as well go somewhere out on the galactic rim and bid on a contract to haul garbage. With exagger-ated sweetness, he answered, Im hanging on your every word. By what, I wont mention.

  Its a pickup, Solo, an extraction. There are details, but thats basically it; you make contact with some people and take them where they want to go, within reason. They wont be expecting you to drop them anywhere risky. Even your stunted attention span ought to suffice for that. Wheres the pickup?

  Orron III. Thats mostly an agricultural world, ex-cept that the Authority has a data center there. Thats where your passengers are.

  An Authority Data Center? Han exploded. And how do I get into a place like that? Itll look like the Espos Annual Picnic and Grand Reunion. Listen, toots, I want that stuff from you, but I want to live to a ripe old age, too; I plan to sit in a rocker at the Old Spacemens Home, and what youre suggesting will definitely exclude that option.

  Its not so terrible, she replied levelly. Internal securitys not especially bad, because only two types of vessels are cleared to land on Orron III---drone barges for the crops and Authority fleet ships.

  Yeah, but in case you havent noticed, the Falcons neither.

  Not yet, Solo, but Ill change that. We have a barge shell, hijacked it in transit. That wasnt much of a trick; theyre robot hulks, and theyre pretty dumb. Ill fit the Millennium Falcon with external control cou-plings and set her in where the command/control module usually goes, and partition into the hold space. My people can mock up the hull structure so itll con the Espos, port officials, or anybody else. You land, contact the parties in question, and off you go. Average ground time for a barge is about thirty hours, so youll have plenty of leeway to get things done. Once youre in transit, you ditch the barge shell and youre home free.