Star Wars: The New Rebellion

by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  Chewie roared.

  “I mean it, Chewie.”

  Chewie shook his furry head and moaned.

  “Yeah, I know. A life debt,” Han said. “So why doesn’t that mean you’ll listen to me?” He grabbed his blaster. “Protect the Falcon, Chewie. I’d rather rely on my own wits than be trapped on Skip 5 forever. Got that?”

  Chewie mumbled under his breath, but he turned back to the control panel. Seluss grabbed Han’s shirt and chittered.

  “Yeah, I know you know what you’re looking for, mouse brain,” Han said. “That doesn’t mean I’m looking for the same thing.”

  He shook Seluss’s hand free and left the cockpit. Chewie already had the ramp down, and Han disembarked.

  The heat was so intense it felt as if he had hit a wall. Sweat broke out all over him, plastering his clothes to his body. He wished he had brought water rations, but he didn’t want to return to the ship for them.

  He wouldn’t be gone that long. He could last.

  Besides, he’d been in this kind of heat before, weaker and with no protection. The worst time had been on Tatooine when he had hibernation sickness. Blind, in the blazing sun, a battle going on around him. He’d been amazed he had survived that.

  Still was, if truth be told.

  The deep breath he took stalled in his lungs. He tried again, and then hurried down the ramp.

  Smugglers watched him from their cargo bays. Blasters followed him. Two binary load lifters stopped as he went by. Near the droids and the running spacecraft, the heat intensified. And this was a relatively open space. Inside it would be worse.

  He slipped through the door and into a narrow corridor. The sunstone walls here were sealed with a coolant cover and the temperature dropped several degrees. Han took the moment to wipe the sweat from his face and to breathe deeply. He also checked his blaster, uncertain how well it would work in the heat.

  It checked out fine.

  “Plan to use that?”

  Han looked up. A slender human with golden curls falling past his shoulder sat on a desk built into the wall. He wore mesh pants and no shirt. His chest was covered with tattoos. His hand rested on the desktop. Han couldn’t see the man’s fingers. They probably covered a blaster.

  “Just making sure it worked in case I needed it,” Han said.

  “That your ship outside?”

  “Yeah.” Han kept his tone neutral. He wasn’t sure if the man was friend or foe yet.

  “Awful small for a cargo ship.”

  “She’s a great freighter,” Han said.

  “Sure,” the man said, his tone full of disbelief.

  Han made himself take a breath. “You have a problem with my ship?”

  “No,” the man said. “It’s just this bay is usually used for larger ships. Ancient equipment goes to the other side of Five.”

  “Well, no one explained the rules to me until now,” Han said. “Next time I’ll go to the other side.”

  The man lifted his blaster and rested it sideways on his knee. “There won’t be a next time, pal, until you tell me your business.”

  “A friend sent me here to inspect the cargo. He hired my ship to take his stuff off the Run.”

  “Your friend got a name?”

  Han lowered his blaster into position as well. “Seluss. He’s a Sullustan whose partner disappeared on him, with their ship.”

  “Heard about that,” the man said. He still hadn’t moved his blaster. But he hadn’t moved his finger near the trigger, either. “Been happening a lot lately.”

  “Smugglers disappearing?”

  “Not coming back.” The man shrugged. “Guess they make their killing and get out of the business.”

  “I thought there was no out of this business,” Han said.

  The man tossed his hair over his shoulder. “Ah, people get out. They retire, they leave. It’s normal. Smugglers just like to be romantic. And they hate to think about getting old. It’s just not as much fun as it was when they were young. And now that there’s some money flowing, well, who can blame them.”

  “You don’t look that old,” Han said.

  “I’m not retiring, either.”

  “Then what are you doing here? I’ve never seen guards on Skip 5 before.” Of course, he’d never been on Skip 5 before, but the man didn’t have to know that.

  “Never said I was a guard.” The man slid off the desk. “Just thought maybe your ship was too close to mine. Wanted to see what you were about before I loaded up.”

  “Which ship is yours?” Han asked.

  “The one you parked beneath.”

  Han glanced over his shoulder. He had parked beside the only bulk freighter on the landing pad. The freighter dwarfed the other ships, with its square armored build. The Falcon had slipped right under the freighter’s rear hold. “How’d you get that thing into the Run?”

  “I didn’t,” the man said. His tone didn’t invite any more questions. Han didn’t need to ask any. Jarril was right; the Run was a different place these days. In the past, no smuggler would have stolen another’s vessel. Now, it seemed, that was something to brag about.

  Han was happier than ever that he had left Chewie on the Falcon.

  “So,” he said. “You going to let me through here or not?”

  The man shrugged. “I never tried to stop you.”

  “You did a good imitation of it,” Han growled, and slipped into the corridor. He was getting rusty. He was so used to Coruscant that he had never once questioned the man’s role as guard. Smugglers didn’t use guards, unless they were their own. He had to clear his mind, get back into the old habits, the old ways. The new ways might get him killed on the Run.

  The corridor wound down in near darkness. The coolant cover also blocked the radiant light of the sunstone. Even so, the air was dry here, unpleasantly so. He missed the sound of dripping water, and he almost missed the stench of Skip 1.

  Almost.

  His boots scraped along the cover. His hand slipped on his blaster, the sweat on his palms making it difficult to hold anything. Gradually his eyes adjusted. Various-sized footprints messed the sand on the sloping corridor.

  Below, he heard the sound of large equipment, and the titter of voices, speaking a language he hadn’t heard in a long time. Then the stench drifted up to him, grease, oils, cleaning solvent, and something foul, like a gondar pit.

  Jawas.

  But it couldn’t be. Jawas remained on Tatooine. The only time he knew of Jawas leaving were the ones Luke had encountered on the Eye of Palpatine, and those hadn’t left by choice.

  Maybe these hadn’t either.

  Han kept his back to the corridor wall, and moved slowly down the slope. Bright light illuminated the far wall, and heat rose, making the stench worse.

  Down here, the covers were off the sunstone.

  He swallowed, licking his lips to keep them moist. He promised himself one quick look, and then he would return to the Falcon. His grip tightened on his blaster. Jawas were not his favorite creatures, even in the best of times.

  The sunstone blinded him as he rounded the corner. The heat enveloped him like a lover. He remained in one place until his eyes had a chance to react to the light. Then he crept forward, careful to remain as quiet as he could.

  The corridor opened into a large cavern. Its ceiling was several stories high—high enough for the sunstone to mimic the sun—and all the walls from the second story down were coolant-covered. The effect somehow made this cavern, in the center of Skip 5, look like Tatooine.

  Parked in the middle of the cavern was a sand crawler. Its wedge-shaped doors were open, and Jawas moved in and out. Their eyes glowed red from beneath their hoods. Their robes were tattered on the bottom, and they kept a continual conversation going as they loaded pieces of stormtrooper uniforms onto the sand crawler. Jawas inside were cleaning the uniforms, and others were repairing droids, making them usable. Buried in the sand were more pieces of stormtrooper uniforms, some blasters, and parts to a
n Imperial shuttle.

  Han forgot his discomfort. He leaned as far forward as he could. He saw shadows of other caverns through the openings, and sand-crawler tracks leading away. After a few moments, a Jawa raised a small hand, gave an order, and the Jawas carried the remaining uniforms on board. They apparently hadn’t seen the shuttle pieces. The crawler moved forward on its giant treads, leaving even more tracks. As it rumbled past Han’s hiding place, he leaned against the wall so that no one would see him.

  As if anyone were looking.

  After the Jawas were gone, he crept forward and crouched. The sand was hot, as he had expected it to be. He grabbed a handful, then let it filter through his fingers. He watched the tiny rocks slip away until he saw a bolt in the pile. He shook the sand off the bolt and examined it. Imperial issue, about twenty-five years old. Usually used on cargo ships.

  He tossed the bolt aside and dug through the sand, uncovering more and more pieces of equipment, until below, he found more coolant covers.

  The sand had been placed here on purpose.

  And so, apparently, had the Imperial equipment.

  It made no sense.

  He remained hunched for a moment, thinking. There was a clue here, and he had had one earlier. An important clue.

  The heat was intense on his back. The rumble of another sand crawler made him look up. In the cavern beyond, a different sand crawler was closing its doors.

  If Skip 5 was as big as Skip 1, the Jawas could drive through the caverns for days without seeing one another.

  They could almost imagine they were on a small, isolated section of Tatooine. And as long as they had equipment to find and repair, they would be happy.

  As long as they had a place to trade it.

  Or some way of getting paid.

  Jawas loved to barter, but they never took many credits. Credits meant little to them. It was the act of scavenging and reselling that made their lives worthwhile. What a great, easy way to get equipment cleaned and repaired at almost no cost. Whoever was behind the setup of this part of the operation was brilliant.

  A fishy stench swept over him, and he pulled his hand out of the sand. Between the Jawas and the ooze, his experience on the Run had been one of awful smells. Who could guess what was in this sand? He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

  He wiped his hands on his pants, and turned. Chewbacca was standing behind him, back to Han, bowcaster aimed up the corridor.

  “I thought I told you to stay at the Falcon.”

  Chewie waved a paw for silence. Han gripped his blaster tighter. Seluss was nowhere to be seen. If Chewie had left that little mouse on the Falcon, he would never live it down. Ever.

  Finally Chewie put his paw down. He spoke softly in Wookiee, in a series of growls and low moans, his paws moving eloquently as he did. All the while, he kept his gaze on the corridor, as if he expected someone to come through it.

  Han listened, his frown growing deeper. Chewie had watched Han disappear, then had seen three men follow him down the corridor. When Chewie had come in, Han was alone.

  And that wasn’t all. Most of the ships on the loading bay weren’t loading. They were unloading.

  No one unloaded on the Run. It was an unwritten rule. It was also unwise.

  “I’m missing something here, Chewie,” Han said. “Where’s Seluss?”

  Chewie nodded toward the corridor.

  “He’s up there? You gave him a blaster?”

  Chewie shrugged, then growled softly.

  “You have a point. I would have been very unhappy if you’d left him alone on the Falcon,” Han said.

  Chewie moaned and wiped a paw over his nose.

  “You’re going to have to stop complaining about the stench, fuzzball,” Han said. “Between the heat and the Jawas—”

  “Between the heat and the Jawas what, General Solo?” The voice came from behind him.

  Han whirled, blaster out. Six Glottalphibs stood behind him, their big feet buried in the sand. They all stood taller than Chewie. Five of them held swamp stunners on him, the stub-nosed weapons covered with mud and dried algae. Han had been hit with a swamp stunner once, and the pain had been so intense, he never wanted it to happen again.

  “You should lower your blaster, General Solo,” said the unarmed Glottalphib. Smoke curled out of his snout as he spoke. He was as tall as the others, but his scales were a motley gray-black color instead of the normal yellow-green. His tiny green hands were clasped over his elongated chest. “Else someone might think you were threatening us. You wouldn’t threaten us, now, would you, General Solo?”

  Han didn’t glance over his shoulder, but he knew from experience that Chewie had his bowcaster down and was facing them. Han had never fought six Glottalphibs before. Even with a Wookiee on his side, the odds were poor.

  “You have me at a disadvantage,” he said. “You seem to know who I am, and I have no idea who you are.”

  “Nonsense, General Solo. How many Glottalphibs have you encountered in your career?”

  “Enough to know that you all look different, pal. And I’ve never met you.” He was stalling; they both knew it. The only Glottalphib of any repute was Nandreeson, who had a stranglehold on Skip 6.

  “I rarely make such a serious oversight, General Solo.” The Glottalphib smiled, and as it did, a tiny lick of flame emerged from its nostril. “My name is Iisner. I work for Nandreeson. He’s heard that the concubine of the great Princess Leia is on the Run, and he would like to meet you.”

  Han’s finger edged toward the trigger. The comment was supposed to make him angry. He knew that. And he was even angrier that it had. “I’m no one’s concubine,” he said, unable to stop himself.

  Chewie growled a warning.

  “I’m her husband.”

  “Ah, yes,” the Glottalphib said. “Human customs are so perverse. I have never understood the proprietary needs of your people. Better for the gene pool to leave eggs where any wandering male can fertilize them.”

  “You didn’t pull swamp stunners on me to discuss mating habits.” Out of the corner of his eye, Han glanced at the cavern beyond. The sand crawler’s door had closed. It would be coming toward him at any moment.

  “No, I came to invite you to Skip 6.”

  “An invitation made with five swamp stunners isn’t an invitation,” Han said. “It’s an order.”

  The Glottalphib’s smile grew. Another lick of flame, longer this time, extended from its right nostril. “I suppose you would see it that way. Our customs differ so much. But we do ask out of kindness and polite interest. We get so little news of the New Republic. It would be nice to hear some directly from the husband of one of the great leaders.”

  Chewie’s growled warning grew louder. This time, Han bit back the angry response. Leia was a great leader.

  “Put down the swamp stunners, call off your goons, and maybe I’ll come with you.”

  “Ah, General Solo, I can’t make such drastic changes on the strength of a maybe.” Flame arced out of the Glottalphib’s left nostril. Each fire blast added to the heat in the cavern.

  The sand crawler was nearly to the cavern door. The floor was shaking. The Glottalphibs didn’t seem to notice.

  “Okay,” Han said. “Put down the swamp stunners, call off your goons, and Chewie and I will follow you to Skip 6.”

  “We have no landing pads for conventional ships, General Solo.”

  “Then maybe Nandreeson should come to me. I have rooms in Skip 1.” Han backed up slowly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have business to finish.”

  “Not so quickly, General Solo,” the Glottalphib said. “No business is as important as ours.”

  The sand crawler entered the cavern. The Glottalphib turned toward it, as if it surprised him.

  Han pushed against Chewie. “Run!” he said.

  They both started up the slope. Blue light from the swamp stunners hit the sunstone walls and radiated heat. Chewie roared. Han pushed Chewie’s furry back. Suddenly they w
ere in darkness. Then flames burned the sunstone where they had been standing a moment before.

  Han fired back. The blasterfire went wildly, through the opening to the corridor, but hitting wide. Chewie’s padded feet were slipping on the sand covering. Han had to keep pushing. The Glottalphibs were getting way too close. Another roar of flame seared the wall next to him, burning off the coolant covers. The air was searing hot.

  “This way!”

  Han glanced up. One of the coolant covers had been pulled back. The long-haired blond man from the entry was peering out of it.

  “Hurry up!” the man said. “We only have a moment.”

  Chewie roared in protest.

  More flames hit the wall beside them. The coolant covers stayed on this time, but radiated red with the intense heat. They would never make it up the corridor, not quickly enough to stay ahead of the flames and the swamp stunners. Han didn’t know who this guy was, but anything was better than being Glottalphib fricassee.

  “Go, Chewie, go!”

  Chewie protested again, and Han shoved him into the open coolant cover. The man pulled Chewie in, and Han crawled in after him, landing in a pile of fragrant Wookiee fur. They were in a narrow crevice, lined with sunstone and extremely bright. The man reached around Han and pulled on the coolant cover.

  “Let’s get out of here before we get fried alive,” the man said.

  “You’ll get no argument from us, pal,” Han said. Together they helped Chewie up. He couldn’t stand upright in the crevice. The man hurried through a nearby opening, and Han followed. Chewie crouched and slid in.

  Then roared.

  He was stuck.

  The coolant cover suddenly glowed red. A blast of flame must have hit it. The heat magnified. Han’s throat was raw, and his shirt was soaking. He should have gone back for that water.

  At least the coolant cover didn’t come off.

  He put a hand out and pulled on Chewie’s furry arm.

  “Let him go,” the man said. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

  “All three of us go or none of us goes,” Han said, although he wasn’t sure how to make good on the threat. “Crouch lower, Chewie.”

  Chewie roared again.

  “Then tell him to shut up.”