by Brian Daley
But the IRD pilot held off, not wanting to waste the opportunity, waiting for the Headhunter to present a spread-eagled silhouette in his gunsight. Han thought, Sure, he wants this one to be the perfect kill.
He yanked into a turn as the IRD aligned itself trailing him into it and edging for a lead. Han cheated the turn tighter, and tighter yet. But the IRD pilot clung doggedly, to end the frustrating chase and prove who was the hotter pilot.
And then Han had the turn tighter than ninety degrees, the thing he’d been working toward all along. The Espo hadn’t paid enough attention to his altimeter, and now the thicker air was working against the IRD, cutting down on its performance. It couldn’t hold a turn this tight.
And just as the IRD broke off its run, Han, with the instincts that had given him a reputation for telepathy, threw his Headhunter into a vertical reversement. The IRD was close enough now. Han fired a sustained burst and the IRD became a cloud of light, throwing out glowing motes and bits of wreckage in every direction.
And as the Headhunter zipped past the showering remains of its opponent, Han crowed, “Happy graduation day, sucker!”
The fourth IRD had already made three strafing runs on the outlaw-tech base. The base’s defensive guns couldn’t keep up with it; they’d been set up for actions against large ships and mass assault, not agile, low-angle fighter attacks.
The raider had concentrated on flak suppression for his first runs. Now most of the gun emplacements were silent. Outlaws dead and dying lay in a base where several buildings were already holed or ablaze.
Then Jessa showed up. Maintaining the velocity she’d picked up in her dive, ignoring the fact that the wings might be ripped off her stubborn little Headhunter at any moment, she threw herself after the IRD just as it came out of its pass. Those people down there were hers, were suffering and perishing because they worked for her. She was absolutely adamant that no more runs would be made at them.
But as she was lining up on the IRD a volley of cannon fire sizzled down from above, nipping at the leading edge of her starboard wing. Another IRD flashed by with speed it had picked up in its own dive, the ship she had thought to be disabled. Its shots had penetrated her shields and come close to cleaving her wing.
But she held position, determined to get at least one of the raiders before they got her.
Then the second IRD itself became a target. Han had it in his sights for an instant in a side-on, high deflection shot. He jinxed the nose of his ship, laying out sleeper rounds ahead of the Espo, investing in the future. It paid off; the IRD vanished in an outlashing of force and shrapnel.
“You’re on the last one, Jess!” he informed her in a crackle of static. “Swat him!”
She was lined on the IRD again. She fired, but only her portside cannon worked; the damage to her starboard wing had knocked out its guns. Her target being slightly off to starboard, she missed.
The IRD began surging ahead, capitalizing on its raw ion power, slipping away to starboard. In another split second it would get away. Jessa snap-rolled, sliding to starboard belly-up, and fired again. Her remaining guns reached out with red fingers of destruction and hit. The IRD flared and flamed, breaking apart.
“Nice shooting, doll,” Han called over the net. Jessa’s Headhunter continued along, canopy lowermost, not far from the ground. He cut in full power and went after her, saying, “Jess, in aerospace circles, what we call what you are is upside down.”
“I can’t get back over!” There was desperation in her tone. “That damage I took must’ve started a burn-out creep-age. My controls are dead!”
He was about to instruct her to punch out but stopped himself. She was too close to the surface; her ejection seat would never have time to right itself. Her ship was losing altitude rapidly. Only seconds were left.
He swept in and matched speeds with her. “Jess, get ready to go when I give you the word.”
She was mystified. What could he mean? She was dead, crashing or ejecting. But she prepared to do as he said. Han eased the wing of his Headhunter under her overturned one. She saw his plan and her breath caught in her throat.
“On three,” he told her. “One!” On that count he brought his wing tip up under hers. “Two!” They both felt the jar of hazardous contact, knowing the most minuscule mistake would strew them both all over the flat landscape.
Han rolled left, and the ground that had been streaking by beneath Jessa’s dangling head seemed to rotate away as Han’s Headhunter imparted spin to hers. He finished his roll with additional force.
“Three! Punch out, Jess!” He himself was fighting to keep his jostled ship from going out of control.
But before he’d even said half of it, she’d gone, her canopy bubble propelled up and back by separator charges, her ejection seat—the easy chair—flung high and clear of her descending ship. The Headhunter plowed into the planet’s surface, making a long strip of fiery ruin along the ground, becoming the day’s final casualty.
Jessa watched from her ejection seat while its replusor units steadied and eased her down toward the ground on gusts of power. Off in the distance, she could see her Lafrarian wing man nursing his damaged craft in for a landing.
Han maneuvered his Headhunter through a long turn, coaxing with his retrothrusters until he was at a near stall. He brought his ship down nearby just as Jessa touched down.
The bubble popped up. He removed his helmet and jumped out of the aged fighter just as she slid free of her harness and threw her own helmet aside, feeling around and finding herself generally whole.
Han sauntered over, stripping off his flying gloves. “There’s room for two in my ship if we squeeze,” he leered.
“As I live and breathe,” she scoffed. “Have we finally seen Han Solo do something unselfish? Are you going soft? Who knows, you may even pick up a little morality one day, if you ever wake up and get wise to yourself.”
He stopped, his leer gone. He glared at her for a moment, then said, “I already know all about morality, Jess. A friend of mine made a decision once, thought he was doing the moral thing. Hell, he was. But he’d been conned. He lost his career, his girl, everything. This friend of mine, he ended up standing there while they ripped the rank and insignia off his tunic. The people who didn’t want him put up against a wall and shot were laughing at him. A whole planet. He shipped out of there and never went back.”
She watched his face become ugly. “Wouldn’t anyone testify for—your friend?” she asked softly.
He sniggered. “His commanding officer committed perjury against him. There was only one witness in his defense, and who’s going to believe a Wookiee?”
He fended off her next remark by glancing at the base. “Looks like they never touched the main hangar. You can have the Falcon finished in no time and still evacuate before the Espos show up. Then I’ll be on my way. We’ve both got things to do.”
She closed one eye, looking at him sidelong. “It’s lucky I know you’re a mercenary, Solo. It’s lucky I know you only flew that Headhunter to protect the Falcon, not to protect lives. And that you saved me so I could hold up my end of our bargain. It’s lucky you’ll probably never do a single selfless, decent thing in your life, and that everything that happened today fits in, in some crazy way, with that greedy, retarded behavioral pattern of yours.”
He stared at her quizzically. “Lucky?”
She started for his fighter, walking tiredly. “Lucky for me.” Jessa said over her shoulder.
V
“WHAT’D you say, Bollux? Quit whispering!”
Han, seated across the gameboard from Chewbacca, glared at a crate on the other side of the Millennium Falcon’s forward compartment, where the old ’droid sat. The compartment’s other clutter included shipping containers, pressure kegs, insulated canisters, and spare parts.
The Wookiee, seated on the acceleration couch, chin resting on one enormous paw, studied the holographic game pieces. His eyes were narrowed in concentration and his black
snout twitched from time to time. He’d spotted Han two pieces, and was now on the verge of wiping out that advantage. The pilot had been playing poorly, his concentration wandering, fretting and preoccupied with the complications of the voyage. The new sensor package and dish were working perfectly, and the starship’s systems had been fine-tuned by the outlaw-techs. Nevertheless, Han’s mind couldn’t rest easy as long as his cherished Falcon was hooked up to the huge barge like a bug on a bladderbird. Furthermore, the trip was taking far longer than the Falcon alone would have required; the barge wasn’t built for speed.
Han could hear the barge’s engines now, their muffled blast vibrating through the freighter’s deck and his boots, into the soles of his feet. He hated that barge, wished he could just dump it and zoom off; but a bargain was, after all, a bargain. And, as Jessa had explained, the Waiver for the Falcon was being arranged by the people he was to pick up on Orron III, so it behooved him to hold up his end of the agreement.
“I didn’t say anything, sir,” Bollux replied politely. “That was Max.”
“Then what did he say?” Han snapped. The two-in-one machines sometimes communicated between themselves by high-speed informational pulses, but seemed to prefer vocal-mode conversations. It always made Han nervous when Bollux’s chest was closed up, with the diminutive computer’s voice rising spectrally from an unseen source.
“He informed me, Captain,” Bollux replied in his slow fashion, “that he would like me to open my plastron. May I?”
Han, who’d turned back to the gameboard, saw that Chewbacca had sprung a clever trap. While his finger hovered indecisively over the programming keys controlling his pieces, Han muttered, “Sure, sure, go on, you can fan the air for all I care, Bollux.” He scowled at the Wookiee, seeing there was no way out of the trap. Chewbacca threw his head back with a toss of red-brown hair and woofed with laughter, showing jutting fangs.
With a soft hiss of escaping air—his plastron was airtight, insulated, and shockproof—Bollux’s chest swung open as the labor ’droid moved his long arms back out of the way. Blue Max’s monocular came alive and tracked over to the gameboard just as Han punched up his next move. His gamepiece, a miniature, three-dimensional monster, jumped into battle with one of Chewie’s. But Han had misjudged the two pieces’ subtle win-lose parameters. The Wookiee’s simulacrum-beastie won the brief fight. Han’s gamepiece evaporated back into the nothingness of computer modeling from which it had come.
“You should have used the Second Ilthmar Defense,” Blue Max volunteered brightly. Han swung around with murder in his eye; even the precocious Max recognized the look, hastily adding, “Only trying to be of assistance, sir.”
“Blue Max is quite new, quite young, Captain,” Bollux supplied, by way of mollifying Han. “I’ve taught him a bit about the board game, but he doesn’t know much yet about human sensitivities.”
“Is that so?” Han asked, as if fascinated. “So who’s teaching him, Mr. Pick and Shovel, you?”
“Sure,” Max bubbled. “Bollux’s been everywhere. We sit and talk all the time, and he tells me about the places he’s seen.”
Han swiped at the gameboard’s master key, clearing it of his defeated holo-beasties and Chewbacca’s victorious ones. “Do tell? Well, now, that must be some kind of education: Slit Trenches I Have Dug—a Trans-Galactic Diary.”
“The great starship yards of Fondor was where I was activated,” Bollux responded, in his slow way. “Then, for a time, I worked for a planetary survey Alpha-Team, and after that, for a construction gang on weather-control systems. I had a job as general roustabout for Gan Jan Rue’s Traveling Menagerie, and as maintenance helper in the Trigdale Foun-daries. And more. But one by one, the jobs have been taken over by newer models. I volunteered for all the modifications and reprogramming I could, but eventually I simply couldn’t compete with the newer, more capable ’droids.”
Interested now despite himself, Han asked, “How’d Jessa pick you for this ride?”
“She didn’t sir; I requested it. There was word that a ’droid would be selected from the general labor pool for some unstated modification. I was there, having been purchased at open auction. I went to her and asked if I might be of use.”
Han chortled. “And for that they yanked out part of you, rearranged the rest, and stuck that coin bank inside you. You call that a deal?”
“It has its disadvantages, sir. But it’s kept me functioning at a relatively high level of activity. There would probably have been some lesser vacancy for me elsewhere, Captain, even if it were only shoveling biological byproducts on a nontechnological world, but at least I have avoided obsolescence for the time being.”
Han gaped at the ’droid, wondering if he were circuitcrazy. “So what, Bollux? What’s the point? You’re not your own master. You don’t even have a say in your own name; you have to reprogram to whatever your new owner decides to call you, and ‘Bollux’ is a joke. Eventually you’ll be of no further use, and then it’s Scrap City.”
Chewbacca was listening intently now. He was far older than any human, and his perspectives were different from a man’s … or a ’droid’s. Bollux’s leisurely speech made him sound serene as he replied, “Obsolescence for a ’droid, sirs, is much like death for a human, or a Wookiee. It is the end of function, which means the end of significance. So it is to be avoided at all costs, in my opinion, Captain. After all, what value is there to existence without purpose?”
Han jumped to his feet, mad without knowing exactly why, except that he felt dumb for arguing with a junk-heap ’droid. He decided to tell Bollux just what a deluded, misfit chump the old labor ’droid really was.
“Bollux, do you know what you are?”
“Yessir, a smuggler, sir,” Bollux responded promptly.
Han, confused, looked at the ’droid for a moment, his mouth hanging open, taken off balance by the reply. Even a labor ’droid ought to recognize a rhetorical question, he thought. “What did you say?”
“I said, ‘Yessir, a smuggler, sir,’ ” Bollux drawled, “like yourself. One who engages in the illegal import or export of “—his metal forefinger pointed down at Blue Max, nestled in his thorax—“concealed goods.”
Chewbacca, paws clasped to his stomach, was rolling around on the acceleration couch, laughing in hysterical grunts, kicking his feet in the air.
Han’s temper blew. “Shut up!” he shouted at the ’droid. Bollux, again with that strange literalness, obediently swung his chest panels closed. Chewbacca’s laughter had him close to suffocation, as tears appeared around his tight-shut eyes. Han began looking around for a wrench or a hammer, or another instrument of technological mayhem, not intending to have any ’droid one-up him and survive to tell the tale. But at that moment the navicomputer bleeped an alert. Han and Chewbacca instantly charged for the cockpit, the Wookiee still clasping his midsection, to prepare for reversion to normal space.
The tedious trip to Orron III had gnawed at their nerves; both pilot and copilot were grateful for the reappearance of stars that marked emergence from hyperspace, though it was accompanied by a wallowing of the gigantic barge shell. The barge’s ovoid hull bulged beneath them, a metal can of a ship with a minimum of engine power. Jessa’s techs had executed their hull mock-up so that the Falcon’s cockpit retained most of its field of vision.
Han and Chewbacca kept their hands off the ship’s controls, letting the computer do the work, maintaining the role of an automated barge. The automatics accepted their landing instructions, and the composite ship began its ungainly descent through the atmosphere.
Orron III was a planet generous to man, its axial tilt negligible, its seasons stable and, throughout most of its latitudes, conducive to good crop production, and its soil rich and fertile. The Authority had recognized the planet’s potential as a bread basket and wasted no time in taking advantage of its year-round growing season. Since the planet had more than adequate resources, room, and a strategic location, they had opted to build a data
center there as well, thus simplifying logistics and security for both operations.
Orron III was undeniably beautiful, wreathed with strings and strands of white cloud systems, and showing the soft greens and blues of abundant plant life and broad oceans. As they made their approach, Han and Chewbacca ran sensor readings, taking the layout of the Authority installations.
“What was that?” Han asked, leaning forward for a closer look at his instruments. The Wookiee wooffed uncertainly. “I thought I caught something for a second, big blip in a slow transpolar orbit, but either it went around the planet’s horizon or we’ve dropped too low to pick it up. Or both.” He worried about it for a moment, then firmly instructed himself not to borrow trouble; whether or not there was a picket ship should make no difference.
Ground features began to resolve into gently rolling country divided precisely into the huge parcels of individual fields. The various shades of those fields reflected a wide range of crops at various states of maturity. Planting, growing, and harvesting must be done on a rolling basis on a large agri-world, for optimal utilization of equipment and manpower.
Eventually they could discern the spaceport, a kilometers-wide stretch of landing area built to the immense proportions of the great robo-barges. The main part of the port, which supported the Authority fleet ships, occupied only a small corner of the installation, even taking into consideration its communications and housing complexes. The majority of the place was simply mooring space for the barges, abysslike berths where maintenance gantries could reach them for repair work and the lumbering mobile silos, aided by gravity, could load them. A constant flow of bulk transports, ground-effect surface freighters, came by special access routes to the port, unloaded their cargoes of foodstuff into the silos, and turned back again, bound for whatever harvest was presently going on.
The bogus barge carrying the Falcon settled to its appointed berth among hundreds of others on the field. They touched down, and the computers stopped their chatter. Han Solo and Chewbacca locked down the console and left the cockpit. As they entered the forward compartment, Bollux looked up. “Do we disembark now, sirs?”
