by Brian Daley
He had to stand up, poking his head above the windscreen as he drove, in a mostly unsuccessful attempt to see where he was going. The skimmer sliced through thick rows of hybrid grain, sending a spray of mangled plants and chaff back over and around it. Han slitted his eyes and tried to peer through the hurricane of vegetable matter as best he could, which wasn’t very well. In moments, all of the skimmer’s grillework and trim was decked with stalks of grain that had gotten lodged there, and the craft looked like a strange agricultural float.
Chewbacca, standing and exhorting, reached forward over his partner’s shoulder and pointed. Han, asking no questions, changed course. He had to steer hard to slide past the hazard, a mountain of yellow metal, one of the enormous automated farm machines slowly and patently working this part of Orron Ill’s limitless fields.
Han broke out onto bare ground, reaped clean by the harvester. He conned the skimmer around in a wide arc, got his bearings on the spaceport and the ranked colossi of the berthed barges, and hotted off that way.
At that moment the Espo hovervan broke through, too, but farther down the field, away from the spaceport. Han couldn’t take time to watch it; instead he tried to throw enough twists and dodges into his course to keep them out of the Espo gunner’s sights. Heavy blaster salvos scored around the skimmer, starting small fires smoldering among the stubble of shorn stalks.
Han took the skimmer through a hairpin turn, trying to jump out of the line of fire, but the hovervan’s twin-mounted guns scored closer and closer to starboard, making the shaven field erupt. He jammed the control stem back to port. But the Espo gunner, trying for a bracketing salvo, had outguessed him. The ground blew apart just beyond the skimmer’s undercarriage.
The skimmer jarred violently, its nose plowing at the rich soil, crumpling, as the engine cowling was smashed and compressed. Smoke rolled from its engine compartment, and the little craft grounded, carving long scars in the crop-stubble.
Han, fighting to keep control, lost his grip on the control stem at the last moment, clipped his head on the windscreen, and was flung clear of the cab as it stopped short, ending up on his back. He watched the sky of Orron III, which appeared to be spinning, and wondered if his entire skeleton had actually been turned into confetti. That was just how he felt.
“Everybody off,” he announced woozily; “baggage claim to your left.”
The others tumbled off the wrecked skimmer. Han found himself being lifted as easily as a child; Rekkon’s dark fists were hoisting him by his vest. He was pleased to find himself more or less whole. “Run for the spaceport fence!” Rekkon ordered the others. The whine of the Espo hovervan grew in the distance.
Han shook off the fall. The hovervan was closing quickly. Rekkon pulled him down into the shelter of the skimmer’s nose and began working at the adjustments of his oversized disrupter pistol. Han drew his blaster. “Chewie, get ’em moving,” he called.
The vociferous Wookiee, still lugging Blue Max in one arm, shoved or shouted the others into motion. Atuarre and Pakka sped away, the Trianii female half dragging her cub, half carrying him, with Torm not far behind. Even Bollux moved at top speed in long, jarring bounds made possible by his heavy-duty suspension system, disregarding the damage he might do his gyros and shock absorbers. Chewbacca came last, casting frequent glances over his shoulder. Before them rose another stand of grain, being reaped by another of the giant machines, and past that was the spaceport security fence.
Han felt a warm liquidity on his forehead, swiped at it, and saw blood on his fingers, courtesy of the skimmer’s windscreen. Rekkon, having finished adjusting his disrupter, was waiting for the hovervan to come into range, which it was doing with frightening speed.
The hovervan driver, watching the figures running for the fence, failed to notice the two men hiding behind the disabled vehicle. When the Espo was close enough, Rekkon, forearms braced across the skimmer’s nose, fired. He’d set his disrupter on overload, and now the powerful handgun emptied itself in a brief flood of ruinous energy. Han had to shield his face from it, thinking what a chance Rekkon was taking; the disrupter could just as easily have blown up in his hands, killing both men.
But the jet of disrupter fire splashed across the hovervan’s cowling and windshield. The Espo craft slid side-on, spun once, and planed into the ground, plowing up a mound of soil before it.
Han, lowering his hands, saw that the barrel of Rekkon’s pistol was white-hot, and the scholar’s face was sweating and seared. Rekkon tossed aside the useless pistol. “You must’ve taught in some tough damn schools,” was Han’s only comment as he struggled to his feet, preparing to run again.
Rekkon, watching the overturned hovervan, didn’t hear. Body-armored Espos were already stumbling from it, to continue the pursuit on foot. The twin-gun mount, twisted underneath the vehicle, was useless. Rekkon, backing away a step or two, said, “The moment has come for our departure, Captain Solo!”
Han pegged a couple of shots at the Espos. The range was long, but they still hit the dirt. Then he put his head down and pounded off behind Rekkon, wondering if the Espos could get into range before the fugitives made the fence and somehow got over, under, or through it. All things considered, the smart money appeared to be with the Espos, he conceded.
For long moments all he did was race after Rekkon’s flying sandals and wait for a blaster bolt to fry his shoulder blades. Then he raised his head, gulping breath. The monstrous harvester was working its way back down the rows of grain, its gaping maw cutting down a swatch twenty meters wide, pouring the grain into a tandem load-carrier. Han and Rekkon cut wide around it, and Han scanned the terrain in front of him. He spotted figures thrashing through the stalks, but could make none of them out.
A shot kicked up dirt and flame off to the left, proof that the Espos were gaining. Han and Rekkon dodged right to put the enormous agrirobot between themselves and their pursuers. Then they were shoving, running, tearing through a world of golden-red stalks, occasionally spying one of their companions in the distance.
Han dug his heels in, sliding to a stop. Rekkon, who’d come abreast of him, caught the movement and halted, too. Both of them panted hard, as Han demanded, “Where’s Chewie?”
“Ahead of us, to the side; who can tell in this field?”
“He’s not. He’s the only one who’d be easy to spot, even here.” Han straightened, his side aching. “That means he’s back there!” He shagged back the way he’d come, ignoring Rekkon’s cries.
When he broke into the open again, he saw at once what had happened. Chewbacca had realized the Espos stood a good chance of overtaking his companions before they could make it to the spaceport and get past the fence. Some major distraction had been needed to save all their lives, and so the Wookiee had paused to set one up.
As Han cried out for him to come back, Chewbacca, his bowcaster slung over his shoulder and Blue Max under his long arm, pulled himself up the side of the giant harvester as the machine went on its pre-programmed way. The harvester had already borne the Wookiee most of the way back toward the Espos. He finished climbing the last few feet, reaching the top of the agrirobot, where its control center was situated.
Chewbacca began tugging and heaving at the protective cover over the controls. It was a durable industrial design and resisted him. Han and Rekkon watched as Chewbacca seated himself for better leverage, then applied all his strength in a tremendous effort. The cover popped loose, and the Wookiee threw it aside. He began working furiously, uncoupling hookups and moving components around in order to make room for Blue Max. There was no way he could hear Han’s hoarse shouts over the noise of the harvester, and the distance, and no way could the Wookiee see, from his position, the three Espos who had managed to catch hold of one of the maintenance ladders and clamber after him.
Han was too far away to shoot. The Espos swarmed quickly upward. The huge harvester gave a lurch, then went through a series of disturbed tremors as Blue Max usurped control of it and tried h
is touch. Just as the Espos, having worked their way to the top of the ladder, leveled their weapons at Chewbacca’s spine, the harvester gave the most violent shudder of all.
One Espo nearly fell, and must have yelled, because the Wookiee’s head snapped around just as the three crouched to keep from being dislodged. Chewbacca’s bowcaster shot exploded against one man’s chest, flinging him backward to roll off the harvester’s side. But in turning and firing, Chewbacca had lost his own balance. The harvester went into a sharp turn, and the Wookiee had to make a desperate lunge to catch hold of a stanchion. He managed to do it but lost hold of his bowcaster.
“Chewie!” Han bawled, starting back, but Rekkon’s big hand closed around his shoulder, holding him resolutely.
“You can’t get to him now,” the scholar shouted, and that seemed certain. More Espos were closing in around the slow-moving harvester.
Chewbacca, unarmed, got his feet back under him and threw himself at the two remaining Espos before they could recover. He gathered one in a lethal hug, kicking the second, before either man could raise his weapon. But the second man somehow managed to cling to the Wookiee’s leg, and held on for his life.
Blue Max now had the harvester under control, that much was clear. He pivoted the machine, attempting to swallow an entire square of Espos. But, using the harvester’s primitive guidance system, Max was unaware of the Wookiee’s predicament. The pivot dislodged Chewbacca and the two Espos. They fell, limbs gyrating, and the Wookiee somehow managed to land on top. But it was still a long drop, and before the stunned humanoid could rise, he was buried under a pile of rifle-swinging Espos.
Han, struggling to get loose of Rekkon’s grip, felt himself shaken until his teeth rattled. Rekkon implored, “There are dozens of them! You have no hope. Better to live, and stay free, to help the Wookiee later!”
Han spun, pulling his blaster. “Hands off. I mean it.”
Rekkon saw by his eyes that he did indeed; Han would kill anyone who stood between himself and Chewbacca. The broad black hands fell away. Gun in hand, Han went off toward the mass of Espos.
He couldn’t tell just how Rekkon hit him then. Han’s whole spinal column seemed to light up, and a blinding paralysis descended on him. Perhaps it was a nerve-punch, or a blow to a spot selected for its hydrostatic shock value. In any case, Han dropped like a unstrung puppet.
The harvester, moving much more quickly now, circled back at the Espos. They fired on it, but the giant machine, an uncomplicated device, was difficult to stop with small-arms fire. Unimportant pieces of plating and cutter blade were shot away, but the harvester ground on. Several Espos, failing to move quickly enough in the thick grain, vanished into its cavernous mouth.
Max had finally seen Chewbacca’s predicament and moved in to give the Wookiee an opportunity to jump back aboard. But Chewbacca, his arms and legs dangling limply, was now being rushed away by a squad of Espos. Max couldn’t go after them for fear of injuring Chewbacca with the clumsy harvester. Moreover, the Espos’ fire was becoming more concentrated. Blue Max wished desperately that Bollux were there to tell him what to do; the computer didn’t feel that he’d been operative long enough to make decisions like this one. But with no other apparent option, Max recognized that he must go join the others. He headed the ponderous harvester around, cut out its speed governor, and gunned it for all it was worth.
Han only dimly felt Rekkon hoist him up on one shoulder; he could hardly focus his eyes. But as Max came past, Rekkon took a pair of wide steps, propelled himself into the air, and caught a foothold at the harvester’s side. He pulled himself up a short ladder and deposited Han on a narrow catwalk. Somehow, Han managed to lift his head. He could make out, through the machine’s rough ride and the distance, the knot of Espos bearing his friend away, a prisoner.
Han clawed at the metal under him, to throw himself off the machine, to go back. Rekkon was on him instantly, pinning his arms with a strength and an intensity that were frightening. “He’s my friend!” Han grimaced, writhing.
Rekkon shook him once more, with more emphasis than violence. “Then help your friend!” urged the rich basso voice. “Face hard fact: you must save yourself to save him, and not throw both lives away!”
The giant, imprisoning strength retreated and Han was left enervated, knowing Rekkon was right. Holding the catwalk railing, he stopped staring at the indistinguishable specks of Chewbacca and the Espos.
“Ahh.” He lowered his eyes disconsolately. “Chewie …”
VII
AS he overtook each of the escapees in turn, Max slowed the harvester just enough for them to board. First was Bollux, who had fallen behind the others despite his best efforts; he made a last bound with a deep sproing from his suspension, found a servo-grip hold, and drew himself aboard. Then came Torm, who, pacing the harvester, made an athletically skillful mount. Lastly, Atuarre and Pakka came aboard, the cub clinging to his mother’s tail. Blue Max accelerated for the spaceport perimeter.
Rekkon still held Han to the catwalk, but now it was to make sure he wouldn’t fall. “Captain, you must accept that there’s no more you can do here. Your chances of getting to Chewbacca here on Orron III are vanishing small. And, more to the point, it’s doubtful he’ll be here for long. Surely he’ll be taken for interrogation, just like the others. Our mission is yours now; it’s nearly certain the Wookiee will be put in with the rest of the Authority’s special enemies.”
Han wiped blood from his forehead, pulled himself upright, and began climbing a maintenance ladder.
“Where are you going?” Rekkon demanded.
“Someone has to tell Max where he’s going,” Han answered.
The spaceport was guarded by a security fence of fine mesh, ten meters high, carrying a lethal charge maintained by transmitting posts along its length. An unprotected man, or even an armored one, would stand no chance of making it through, but the harvester offered, a special form of protection.
“Everybody get to a catwalk,” Rekkon called. “Stand on the insulated strips!” His various companions, Han included, rushed for positions, bracing their feet on the thick runners of insulation on the mechanic’s catwalks.
The harvester hit the field area as Max threw his cutter blades into motion again. Defensive energy spat and spattered all around the agrirobot, discharging across its bow in skittering strands. Then the fence was torn apart by the harvester’s blades, a twenty-meter length of it ripped loose and engulfed. The defensive field faded along that part of the fence, its continuity broken. Whereupon the giant machine churned out onto the flat, press-bonded landing area.
Han hauled himself up and looked down at Max, nestled in the control niche. “Can you program this crate so it’ll run without you?”
The computer probe’s photoreceptor swiveled around, coming up to bear on him. “That’s what it’s built to do, but it’ll remember only simple things, Captain. For a machine it’s pretty dumb.”
Han weighed his suspicions, presumptions, and a knowledge of security procedures. “They’ll be rushing their men to the passenger-ship end of the port; they won’t think the barges are any good to us. But they’ll certainly be looking for this tub, Max. Set it up so it’ll give us a few seconds to get clear, then head itself down toward the main port area.” To the others, he called, “Checkout time! Everybody pound ground!”
From Blue Max came low buzzes, beeps, and wonks of his labors. Then he announced, “Done, Captain, but we better get off right now.”
Han reached down as Max disengaged himself from the harvester’s controls, pulled free the connector jacks Chewbacca had inserted, and lifted the computer out of the niche. There was a carrying strap in a recessed groove on Max’s top. Han pulled it out and slung Max over his shoulder.
When he reached the ground, Rekkon and the others were already there. They all stepped back as the harvester ground into motion again, wheeled promptly, and tore off between rows of barges. From the harvester, Han had already spotted, not far away,
the barge shell concealing the Millennium Falcon. He handed Blue Max back to Bollux and started for his ship at a dead run, with the rest keeping up as best they could.
The outer hatch, the makeshift one, wasn’t dogged, of course. He pushed it aside, palmed the ramp and inner hatch open. Then he dashed to the cockpit and began swiping at controls, bringing his ship back to life, yelling: “Rekkon, say the word the second everybody’s onboard, and hang onto your heirlooms!” He pulled on his headset and deserted all caution, thinking, Hell with preflight. He brought the barge’s engines up to full power all at once, and simply hoped they wouldn’t blow or dummy out on liftoff.
His best hope lay in the nature of bureaucracy. Somewhere back in the fields, the Espo detachment commander was trying to explain to his superior what had happened. That man, in turn, would have to contact port security and give them the rundown. Given a creaky enough chain of command, the Falcon still stood a chance.
Han pulled on his flight gloves and ran through his preparations with a sharp feeling of incompleteness; he was used to dividing the tasks with Chewbacca, and each detail of the liftoff drove home the fact that his friend wasn’t there.
He checked the barge’s readouts—and swore several of his choicer curses. Bollux, stumping into the cockpit to relay Rekkon’s word that all was secure, added, “What’s wrong, Captain?”
“The motherless barge is what’s wrong! Some over-eager Authority expediter filled it up already!” The instruments proved it; several hundred thousand metric tons of grain were stowed in the barge’s vast shell. There went Han’s plan for rapid ascent.
“But, sir,” Bollux asked in his unhurried speech pattern, “Can’t you release the barge shell?”
“If the explosive-releases worked, and if I didn’t damage the Falcon, I’d still have to get above the port’s close-proximity defenses, and maybe a picket ship.” He turned and yelled back down the passageway, “Rekkon! Get somebody in those gun turrets; we may have to stand tall!” Han could operate the ship’s top and belly turrets by means of servos from the cockpit, but remote control was a poor substitute for sentient gunners. “And screw your navels in; we go in twenty seconds!” He fumed over the fact that the barge’s engines took so much longer to heat up than the Falcon’s.
