by Brian Daley
He thought hard about that one. He didnt like any-one messing with his ship. Why pick me for this thrill-ing honor? And why the Falcon?
Because you need something from me, for one thing, so youll do it. Because, for another, even though youre an amoral mercenary, youre the hottest pilot I know; youve flown everything from a jetpack to a capital ship. As for the Falcon, shes just the right size, and has computer capacity to spare, to run the barge. Its a fair deal.
One thing had him puzzled. Whos the pickup? It sounds like youre going to an awful lot of trouble for them.
No one youd know. Theyre strictly amateurs, and they pay well. What theyre doings no concern of yours, but if they feel like telling you, thats their de-cision.
He gazed up at the ceiling, which was patterned with glow-pearls. Jessa was offering everything he needed to make the Authority ripe for the plucking. He could give up gunrunning, petty-cash trips to back-water worlds, all that low-ante stuff.
Well, coaxed Jessa, do I tell my techs to get busy, or do you and the Woollee plan to teach the galaxy the folly of crime by starving in poverty?
He brought his chair upright. You better let me break the news to Chewie first, or your wrench jockies will be nothing but a mound of spare parts for the or-gan banks.
Docs organization-now Jessas-wa,s nothing if not thorough. They had the factory specs for the Millen-nium Falcon, plus complete design hotos on every piece of augmentative gear in her. With Chewbaccas help and a small horde of outlaw-techs, Hah had the Falcons engine shielding removed and her control systems exposed in a matter of hours.
Service droids trundled back and forth while en-ergy cutters flared, and techs of many races crawled over, under, and into the freighter. It made Han jit-tery to see so many tools, hands, tentacles, servo-grips, and lift-locks near his beloved ship, but he gritted his teeth and simply did his best to be every-where at once-and came close to succeeding. Chew-bacca covered the things his parmer missed, startling any erring tech or droid with a high-decibel snarl. No one doubted for a moment what the Wookiee would do to the being or mechanical who damaged the star-ship.
Han was interrupted by Jessa, who had come up to inspect his progress. With her was an odd-looking droid, built along human lines. The machine was rather stocky, shorter than the woman, covered with dents, scrapes, smudges, and spot-welds. Its chest re-gion was unusually broad, and its arms, hanging nearly to its knees, gave it a somewhat simian aspect. Its fin-ish was a flat brown primer job, peeling in places, and it had a stiff, snapping way of moving. The droids red , unblinking photoreceptors trained on Han. Meet your passenger, Jessa invited. Hans features clouded. You never said anything about taking a droid. He looked at the aged mechan-ical. Whats he run on, peat?
No. And I warned you thered be details. Bollux here is one of them. She turned to the droid. Okay, Bollux, open up the fruit stand.
Yes, maam, Bollux replied in a leisurely drawl. There was a servomotor hum, and the droids chest plastron split down the center, the halves swinging away to either side. Nestled in among the goodies that were the droids innards was a special eraplacement; secured in the eraplacement was another unit, a sep-arate machine entity of some kind that was approxi-mately cubical, with several protrusions and folded appendages. Atop it was a photoreceptor mount, monocular lensed. The unit was painted in deep, pro-tective, multilayered blue. The monocular came on, lighting red.
Say hello to Captain Solo, Max, Jesse instructed it.
The machine-within-a-machine studied Han up and down, photoreceptor angling and swiveling. Why? it demanded. The pitch of its vocal mechanism was like that of a child.
Jessa countered frankly, Because if you dont, Max, the nice man is liable to chuck your teensy iron behind out into deep space,--thats why.
HelloF chirped Max, with what Han suspected to be forced cheer. A great pleasure to make your ac-quaintance, Captain?
The parties youre picking up need to collect and withdraw data from the computer system on Orron III, Jessa explained. Of course, they couldnt just ask the Authority there for probe equipment without raising suspicions, and your walking in with Max un-der your arm might cause a few problems, too. But riobodys going to bother much about an old labor droid. We named him Bollux because we had so many headaches restructuring his gut. We never did get his vocal pattern up to speed.
Anyway, that cutie in Bolluxs chest cavity is Blue Max; Max because we crammed as much computer capacity into him as we could, and blue for reasons that even you, Solo, can see, Im sure. Blue Max was a piece of work, even for us. Hes puny, but he cost plenty, even though hes immobile and we had to leave out a lot of the usual accessories. But hes all theyll need to tap that data system.
Han was studying the two machines, hoping Jessa would admit shed been joking. Hed seen weirder gizmos in his time, but never on a passenger roster. He didnt like droids very much, but decided he could live with these.
He bent down for a better squint at Blue Max.
You stay in there all the time?
I can function autonomously or in linkage, Max squeaked.
Fabulous, Han said dryly. He tapped Bolluxs head. Button up. As the brown segments of plastron swung shut on Max, Han called up to Chewbacca, Yo, partner, find a place and stow this mollusk, will you? Hes with us. He turned back to Jessa. Any-thing else? A marching band, maybe?
She never did get to answer. Just then klaxons went off, sirens began to warble at deafening levels, and the public-address horns started paging her to the bases command post. Everywhere in the hangar, outlaw-techs dropped their tools in a ringing barrage and dashed off frantically for emergency stations. Jessa sprinted away instantly. Han took off after her, yelling back for Chewbacca to stay with their ship.
The two crossed the complex. Humans, nonhumans, and machines charged in every direction, necessitat-ing a good deal of dodging and swerving. The com-mand post was a simple bunker, but at the bottom of the steps leading to it, Jessa and Hah entered a well-equipped, fully manned operations room. A giant holo-tank dominated the room with its phantom light, an analogue of the solar system around them. Sun, planets, and other major astronomical bodies were picked out in keyed colors.
Sensors have painted an unidentified blip, Jessa, said one of the duty officers, pointing out a yellow ing and receiving of frantic messages, she still heard his voice among all the others.
Jess? She stared, confused, at his lopsided smirk. Got a flight helmet for me? He pretended not to see the sudden softening of her expression. Something sporty, in my size, Jess, with a hole in it to match the one in my head.
HAN tagged after Jessa in another quick run across the base. They entered one of the lesser hangar domes where the air was filled with the whine of high-performance engines. Six fighters were parked there, their ground crews attending them, checking out power levels, armaments, deflectors, and control systems.
The fighters were primarily for interceptor service--- or rather, Han corrected himself, had been a genera-tion ago. They were early production snubships; Z-95 Headhunters; compact, twin-engined swing-wing craft. Their fuselages, wings and forked tails were daubed with the drab spots, smears, and spray-splotches of general camouflage coats. Their external hardpoints, where rockets and bomb pylons had once been mounted, were now bare.
Indicating the snubs, Han asked Jessa, Whatd you do, knock over a museum?
Picked them up from a planetary constabulary; they were using them for antismuggling operations, matter of fact. We worked them over for resale, but hung on to them because theyre the only combat craft weve got right now. And dont be so condescending, Solo; youve spent your share of time in snubs.
That he had. Han dashed over to one of the Head-hunters as a ground crewman finished fueling it. He took a high leap and chlnned himself on the lip of the cockpit to eyeball it. Most of its console panels had been removed in the course of years of repair, leaving linkages and wiring exposed. The cockpit was just as cramped as he remembered.
But with t
hat, the Z-95 Headhunter was still a good little ship, legendary for the amount of punishment it could soak up. Its pilots seat-the easy chair, in parlance---was set back at a thirty-degree angle to help offset gee-forces, the control stick built into its arm-rest. He let himself back down.
Several pilots had already gathered there, and an-other, a humanoid, showed up just then. There was little enough worry on their faces that Han concluded they hadnt flown combat before. Jessa came up be-side him and pressed an old, lusterless bowl 6f a flight helmet into his hands.
Whos flown one of these beasts before? he asked as he tried the helmet on. It was a bad fit, too tight. He began pulling at the webbing adjustment tabs in its sweat-stained interior.
Weve all been up, one pilot answered, to prac-tice basic tactics.
Oh, fine, he muttered, trying the helmet on again. Well rip em apart up there. The headgear was still too tight. With an impatient click of her tongue, Jessa took it from him and began working on it herself.
He addressed his temporary command. The Au-thoritys got newer ships; they can afford to buy what-ever they want. That fighter spread coming in at us is probably made up of IRD ships straight off the gov-ernment inventory, maybe prototypes, maybe produc-tion models. And the guys flying those IRDs learned how at an academy. I suppose itd be too much to hope that anybody here has even been to one?
It was. Han went on, raising his voice over the in-creasing engine noise. IRD fighters have an edge in speed, but these old Headhunters can make a tighter turn and take a real beating, which is why theyre still around. IRDs arent very aerodynamic, thats their nature. Their pilots hate to come down and lock horns in a planetary atmosphere; they call it geo. These boys11 have to, though, to hit the base, but we cant wait until they get down here to hit them, or some might get through.
Weve got six ships. Thats three two-ship elements. If youve got anything worth protecting with those flight helmets, youll remember this stay with your wing man. Without him, youre dead. Two ships to-gether are five times as effective as they would be alone, and theyre ten times safer.
The Z-95s were ready now, and the IRDs arrival not far off. Han had a thousand things to tell these green flyers, but how could he give them a training course in minutes? He knew he couldnt.
rll make this simple. Keep your eyes open and make sure its your guns, not your tail, thats pointed at the enemy. Since were protecting a ground instal-lation, well have to ride our kills. That means if youre not sure whether the opposition is hit or faking, you sit on his taft and make sure he goes down and stays down. Dont think just because hes nosediving and leaving a vapor trail that hes out of it. Thats an old trick. If you get an explosion from him, fine. If you get a tamer, let him go; hes finished. But other-wise you ride your kill all the way down to the cellar. Weve got too much to lose here.
He made that last remark thinking of the Falcon, shutting out human factors, telling himself his ship was the reason he was about to hang his hide out in the air. Strictly business.
Jessa had thrust his helmet into his hands. He tried it on again; it was a perfect fit. He turned to say thanks and noticed for the first time that she was carrying a flight helmet, too.
Jess, no. Absolutely not.
She sniffed. Theyre my ships, in the first place. Dec taught me everything; Ive been flying since I was five. And who dyou think taught these others the basics? Besides, theres no one else even nearly qualified.
Training exercises are differentl Of all things, he
didnt want to have to worry about her up there. Ill
get Chewie; hes done some,--
Oh, brilliant, Solo! We can just build a dormer onto the canopy bubble and that hyperthyroid dust-mop of yours can fly the ship with his kneecaps?
Han resigned himself to the fact that she was the logical one to fly. She turned to her other pilots. Solos right; this onell be a toughie. We dont want to engage them out in space, because all the advan-tage s out there are theirs, but we dont want to let them get too close to the surface, either. Our ground defenses couldnt cope with a fighter spread. So some-where in the middle well have to draw the line, de-pending on how they play it when they come at us. If we can buy time, the ground personnel will have a chance to complete evacuation.
She turned to Hah. Including the Falcon. I gave orders to finish her and close her up as soon as possi-ble. I had to divert men to do it, but a deals a deal. And I sent word to Chewie whats happened.
She pulled her helmet on. Halls flight leader. Ill assign wing men. Lets move.
With high screeches the six Z-95 Headhunters, like so many mottled arrowheads, sped off into the sky. Hah pulled down and adjusted his tinted visor. He checked his weapons again, three blaster cannons in each wing. Satisfied, he maneuvered so that his wing man was above and behind him, relative to the plane of ascent. Seated in his sloped-back easy chair, situ-ated high in the canopy bubble, he had something near 360-degrees visibility, one of the things he liked most about these old Z-95s.
His wing man was a lanky, soft-spoken young man. Han hoped the guy wouldnt forget to stick close when The Show started.
He thought, The Show-fighter-pilot jargon. Hed never thought hed be using it again, with his blood up and a million things to keep track of, including allies, enemies, and his own ship. And anything that went wrong could bow him out of The Show for good.
Besides, The Show was the province of youth. A fighter could hold only so much gee-compensation equipment, enough to lessen simple linear stress and get to a target or scrap in a hurry, but not enough to offset the punishment of tight maneuvering and sud-den acceleration. Dogfighting remained the testing ground of young reflexes, resilience, and coordination.
Once, Hah had lived, eaten, and slept high-speed flying. Hed trained under men who thought of little else. Even off-duty life had revolved around hand-eye skills, control, balance. Drunk. hed stood on his head and played ring-toss, and been flung aloft from a blan-ket with a handful of darts to twist in midair and throw bulls-eyes time and again. Hed flown ships like this one, and ships a good deal faster, through every conceivable maneuver.
Once. Hah was by no means old, but he hadnt been in this particular type of contest for a long time. The flight of Headhunters was pulling itself into two-ship elements, and he found his hands had steadied.
They drew their ships wings back to minimize drag, wing camber adjusting automatically, and rose at high boost. They would meet their opposition at the edge of space.
Headhunter leader, he announced over the corntoo net, to Headhunter flight. Corntoo check.
Headhunter two to leader, in. That was Halls wing man.
Headhunter three, check, sang Jessas clear alto. Headhunter four, all correct. That had been Jessas wing man, the gray-skinned humanoid from Lafra who, Han had noticed, had vestiges of soaring membranes, suggesting that he had superior flying in-stincts and a fine grasp of spacial relationships. The Lafrarian, it had turned out, had over four minutes actual combat time, which was a good sign. A good many fighter pllots were weeded out in the first minute or so of combat.
Headhunters five and six chimed in, two of Jessas grease slingers who were brothers to boot. It had been inevitable that theyd be wing men; theyd tend to stick together, and if paired with anyone else, would have been distracted anyway.
Ground control came up. Headhunter flight, you should have a visual on your opposition within two minutes.
Hah had his flight tighten up their ragged forma-tion. Stay in pairs. If the bandits offer a head-on pass, take them up on it; you can pitch just as hard as they can. He thought it better not to mention that the other side had a longer reach, however.
He had Five and Six, the brothers, drop far back to field any enemies that might break through. The two remaining elements spread out as much as they could without risking separation. Their sensors and those of the approaching ships identified one another, and com-plex countermeasures and distortion systems switched on. Hah knew this engagement would be condu
cted on visual ranging; all the complicated sensor-warfare apparatus tended to cancel out, no longer to be trusted.
Short-range screens painted four blips. Go to Heads-Up Displays, Han ordered, and they all cut in their holographics. Transparent projections of their in-strumentation hung before them in the canopy bub-bles, freeing them of the need to divert their eyes and attention from the task of flying in order to take a reading.
Here they cornel someone shouted. At one-zero-
alash-two-fivel
The enemy ships were IRD models all right, with bulbous fuselages and the distinctive engine package that characterized that latest military design. They were IRD prototypes. As Han watched, the raiders broke formation into two elements of two ships each in perfect precision.
Elements breakV he called. Take emI He led his wing man off to starboard to face that brace of IRDs as Jessa and her humanoid wing man banked to port.
The net came alive with cries of warning. The Espo flyers had disdained evasionary tactics, coming head-on, meaning they were out to put some blood on the walls. Their orders, Han thought, mustve been to hit the outlaw-techs as hard as they could.
The IRDs began firing from extreme range with yellow-green flashes of the energy cannon in their chin pods. Deflector shields were up. Hah ground his teeth, his hand tight on the stick, disciplining himself not to fire until it could do some good. He fought the urge to rubberneck and see how his other element was doing; each two-ship pair was on its own for the moment. He could only hope everybody would hold together, be-cause the pilot who became a straggler in a row like this seldom came out of it.
