by Brian Daley
“I patched these readouts into the ship’s computers,” Han explained. “Each of them’s keyed to one kind of information. I’ll pull navigational, Atuarre’s got planetological; Pakka can retrieve the Authority’s unclassified stuff, and Torm’s got operational files from the outlaw-techs. Okay, punch up Stars’ End and let’s get at it.”
Each of the other three complied. Torm’s screen, except for the retrieval request, remained blank. Atuarre’s too. She looked up, as they all did, to see Han scan his own readout.
“Your portables aren’t hooked up to anything,” he told them, “only mine. Atuarre, show Torm your screen.”
Dubious, she still did as he asked, turning her readout so that the redhead could see it. On her screen was the simple retrieval request, MYTUS VIII. “Yours too, Pakka,” Han bade the cub. That readout showed MYTUS V.
“Catch his face,” Han told the others, meaning Torm, who had become pallid. “You know what you’ve done, don’t you, Torm? Show everybody your readout. It says MYTUS VII, but I told you that Stars’ End was on MYTUS VI, just as I told the others the wrong planet. But you already knew the right one, because you read it over Rekkon’s shoulder before you killed him, right?” His voice lost its false lightness. “I said right, traitor?”
Torm jumped to his feet with impressive speed, gun drawn. Atuarre pulled hers out too, and pointed it at him. But neither Torm’s shot at Han nor Atuarre’s at him worked.
“Two malfunctions?” Han inquired innocently, unlimbering the blaster at his side. “I betcha mine works, Torm.”
Torm heaved his pistol wildly. Han reacted with a star pilot’s reflexes, slapping the gun out of midair with his left hand. But Torm had already whirled and seized the surprised Atuarre in a savage infighting hold, prepared to break her neck with a slight twist. When she started to resist, he forced her neck to the brink of fracture, making her subside.
“Put down the blaster, Solo,” he grated, “and get your hands on the gameboard, or I’ll—”
He was interrupted as Pakka, in a spectacular leap, landed on Torm’s shoulders, sinking fangs into his neck, clawing at his eyes, wrapping a supple tail around the traitor’s throat. Torm was forced to release his hold to keep from being blinded. Atuarre sought to turn and fight, and even Bollux had risen in the moment of crisis, unsure of just what to do.
Torm gave Atuarre a vicious kick. His superior weight and strength sent her sprawling, blocking Han, who had been moving for a clear shot. As Han skirted Atuarre, Torm tore Pakka from his shoulders and threw the cub aside just as Bollux blundered into the pilot’s path. Pakka bounced off one of the pads of safety cushioning lining the compartment hatch, as Torm dashed into the passageway.
Dodging, moving as quickly as he could, Torm raced past the cockpit, main ladderwell, and ramp hatch; none of them held any promise of even temporary safety. He heard Han’s bootsteps close behind and ducked into the first compartment he came to, damning himself for not having taken time to learn the ship’s layout. He hit the hatch-close button as he came through. The compartment was empty, offering no tools, nothing he might use as a weapon. He’d been hoping this was the escape-pod chamber, but fortune had passed him by. At least, he thought, he had a moment’s respite. He might be able to buy time, perhaps even wrest Solo’s blaster from him. His thoughts were moving so quickly that he didn’t realize, for a moment, where he was. But when he did, he threw himself back at the hatch through which he’d come, tearing at the controls, screaming obscenities.
“Don’t waste your time,” came Han’s voice over the intercom. “Nice of you to choose the emergency lock, Torm. It’s where you would’ve ended up anyway.”
Han stood looking through the viewport set in the lock’s inner hatch. He’d overridden the lock’s controls to make sure Torm couldn’t get back in. All the Falcon’s access systems had inboard overrides, to make life complicated for anyone interested in forced entry, a wise smuggler’s option.
Torm tried to wet his lips with a very dry tongue. “Solo, stop and think a minute.”
“Save your breath, Torm. You’re gonna need it all; you’re going swimming.” There were, of course, no spacesuits stored in the lock. Torm’s eyes opened wide with fear.
“Solo, no! I never had anything against you; I never would have come, except that bastard Rekkon and the Trianii never took their eyes off me. If I’d cut, they would have shot me. You can understand that, can’t you? I had to look out for number one, Solo!”
“So you shot Rekkon,” Han told him in a soft voice, no questioning to it.
“I had to! If he’d passed on word about Stars’ End, it would’ve been my neck! You don’t know these Authority people, Solo; they don’t accept failure. It was Rekkon or me.”
Atuarre came up behind Han, and Pakka and Bollux after her. The cub climbed up the ’droid’s shoulders for a better view. “But, Torm,” Atuarre said, “Rekkon found you, recruited you. Your father and brother really have disappeared.”
Without facing away from the viewport, Han added, “I’m sure they did. Your father and older brother, right, Torm? Let’s see, now, that wouldn’t by any chance make you heir to the Kail Ranges, would it?”
The traitor’s face was waxen. “Yes, if I did as the Authority asked. Solo, don’t play righteous with me! You said you’re a businessman, didn’t you? I can get all the money you want! You want your friend back? The Wookiee is on his way to Stars’ End by now; the only way you’ll ever see him again is by bargaining with me. The Authority’s got no grudge against you; you can name your price!”
Torm reasserted control over himself, going on more calmly. “These people keep their word, Solo. They don’t even know your names yet, any of you; I was operating under deep cover, saving the information I developed so I could up the price. Strike a deal. The Authority’s just good business people, like you and me. You can have the Wookiee back and go free with enough money to buy a new ship.”
He got no answer. Han’s gaze had gone to his own reflection in the metal of the emergency lock’s control panel. Torm pounded his fists on the inner hatch, a dull thudding.
“Solo, tell me what you want; I’ll get it for you, I swear! You’re a guy who looks out for number one, aren’t you? Isn’t that what you are, Solo?”
Han stared at his own lean reflection. In another man, he’d have said those eyes were too used to concealing everything but cynicism. His thoughts echoed Torm: Is that what I am? He looked back to Torm’s face, straining against the viewport.
“Ask Rekkon,” Han answered, and hit the lock release.
The outer latch snapped open. With an explosion of air into vacuum, Torm was hurled out into the chaotic pseudo-reality of hyperspace. Once outside the Millennium Falcon’s mantle of energy, the units of matter and patterns of form that had been Torm ceased to have any coherent meaning.
VIII
“SOLO-CAPTAIN,” Atuarre interrupted his thoughts, leaning into the cockpit, “isn’t it time we spoke? We’ve been here for nearly ten Standard Time-Parts, and our course of action is no clearer than when we arrived. We must reach some decision, don’t you agree?”
Han broke off gazing out the canopy at the distant speck, barely visible, of Mytus VII. All around the Millennium Falcon rose the peaks and hills of the tiny asteroid on which she was concealed. “Atuarre, I don’t know how Trianii feel about waiting, but me, I hate it worse than anything. But there’s nothing else we can do; we have to sit tight and play out our hand.”
She wouldn’t accept that. “There are other courses of action, Captain. We could attempt to contact Jessa again.” Her slit-irises dwelled on him.
Han shifted around in the pilot seat to face her directly, so quickly that she drew back reflexively. Seeing this, he reined in his temper, “We could waste all kinds of time looking for Jessa. When her operation ran, after we got hit by the IRDs, she probably dug a hole and pulled it in after her. The Falcon can cook along at point-five factors over Big L, but we still might waste a m
onth looking for the outlaw-techs and not find them. Maybe word will find its way to Jessa, or one of the prearranged blind transmissions, but we can’t bank on her. I don’t count on anybody but me; if I have to bust Chewie out of there alone, I’ll do it.”
Some of the tension left her. “You aren’t alone, Solo-Captain. My mate is there at Stars’ End, too. Your fight is Atuarre’s.” She extended a slim, sharp-clawed hand. “But come, now, take some food. Staring at Mytus VII cannot help and may be distracting us from solutions.”
He pushed himself up out of the seat, taking one more look at the distant planet. Mytus VII was a worthless rock, as worlds went, revolving around a small, unexceptional sun at the end of the wisp of stars that was the Corporate Sector. Stars’ End, indeed. There’d be scant danger of anyone’s happening on the Authority’s secret prison facility here, unless he came looking for it specifically.
Since Mytus VII had been listed in the charts as being at the outermost edge of its solar system, Han had broken into normal space nearly ten Standard Time-Parts before, deep in interstellar space, far out of sensor range. He’d come in from the opposite side of the system, entering a thick asteroid belt halfway between Mytus VII and its sun, and hunted up what he’d wanted, this jagged hunk of stone. Using his star-ship’s engines and tractors, he’d brought the asteroid onto a new course, one that would allow him to take a long-range peek at Stars’ End, sure that no one there would notice the slightly unusual behavior of one tiny mote in the uncharted asteroid belt.
He’d spent most of his time monitoring the planet’s communications, studying it by sensors, and watching the occasional ship come and go. Monitored commo traffic had told him nothing; most of it had been encrypted in codes that had resisted his computers’ analyses. Plaintext messages had been either mundane or meaningless, and Han suspected that at least some of them had been sent strictly for appearances’ sake, to make Stars’ End look like an ordinary, if remote, Authority installation.
Now he trailed Atuarre into the forward compartment, Bollux was seated near the gameboard, his plastron open. Pakka was stalking a jetting remote back and forth. The remote, a small globe powered by magnetic fields and repulsor power, turned, dove, climbed, and dodged unpredictably. The cub hunted it with tail twitching and quivering, obviously enjoying the game. The remote eluded him time and again, demonstrating more than its usual maneuverability.
As Han watched, Pakka nearly caught the globe, but it evaded his pounce at the last second. Han looked to the ’droid. “Bollux, are you directing that remote?”
The red photoreceptors trained on him. “No, Captain. Max is sending information pulses to it. He’s much better at anticipation and dictating random factors than I, sir. Random factors are extremely difficult concepts.”
Han watched the cub make a final, long spring and catch the remote in midair, pulling it to the deck and rolling over and over with it in sheer delight. Then the pilot sat at the gameboard, which often doubled as a table, and accepted a mug of concentrate broth from Atuarre. They had used up fresh supplies several Time-Parts before and were now sustaining themselves on the Falcon’s ample, if bland, emergency rations.
“There have been no new developments, Captain?” Bollux asked. Han presumed the ’droid already knew the answer and had asked only out of a sort of programmed conversational courtesy. Bollux had turned out to be an entertaining shipmate who could spin hours of tales and accounts of his long years’ work and the many worlds he’d seen. He also had a repertoire of jokes programmed into him by a former owner, and an absolutely deadpan delivery.
“Zero, Bollux. Absolutely zilch.”
“May I suggest, sir, that you assemble all available information in sum, recapping it? Among sentient life forms, new ideas sometimes emerge that way, I have noticed.”
“I bet. After all, aren’t most decrepit labor ’droids armchair philosophers?” Han put his mug down, rubbing his jaw thoughtfully. “Anyway, there isn’t much to tote up. We’re on our own—”
“Are you sure there’s no other resource?” Max chirped.
“Don’t start that again, lowpockets,” Han warned. “Where was I? We’ve found the place we want, Mytus VII, and—”
“How high is the order of probability?” Max wanted to know.
“Up an afterburner with the order of probability,” Han snapped. “If Rekkon said it’s here, it’s here. The installation has a pretty big power plant, almost fortress class. And quit interrupting, or I’ll take a drill to you.
“Let’s see. We can’t hang around forever, either; supplies are running low. What else?” He scratched his forehead where the synth-flesh patch had flaked away, leaving new, unscarred skin.
“This is a strictly off-limits solar system,” Atuarre contributed.
“Oh, yeah, and if we get nailed here without a mighty good alibi, they’ll stick us in jail, or whatever.” He smiled at Bollux and Blue Max. “Except you boys. You, they’d probably recycle into lint filters and spittoons.”
He dragged the toe of his boot back and forth on the deck. “Not much more to it; only that I’m not leaving this stretch of space without Chewie.” Of all the things he’d mentioned, he was surest of that. He’d spent many long watches in the Falcon’s cockpit, haunted by what his Wookiee partner might be undergoing. A hundred times since taking up this vigil, he’d almost cut in the ship’s engines to shoot his way into Stars’ End and get his friend out or get flamed in the attempt. Each time, his hand had been stayed by the memory of Rekkon’s words, but it was a constant struggle for Han to restrain his impulses.
Atuarre had plainly been thinking along the same lines. “When the Espos came to evict us from our colony world,” she said slowly, “some Trianii tried armed resistance. The Espos were brutal in their interrogation of prisoners, seeking the ringleaders. It was the first time I had seen anyone use The Burning. You know what I refer to, Solo-Captain?”
Han did. The Burning was a torture involving the use of a blaster set at low power, to scorch and sear the flesh off a prisoner, leaving only blood-smeared bone. Usually, a leg would be first, immobilizing the victim; then the rest of the skeleton was exposed, inch by inch. Any other prisoners could be made to watch, to break their will. The Burning seldom failed to obtain answers, if answers were to be had; but in Han’s opinion, no being who employed such methods deserved to live.
“I will not leave my mate in the hands of the kind of people who would do that,” Atuarre was saying. “We are Trianii; death, if it comes to that, is not something we fear.”
“Not a very linear analysis,” Blue Max piped up.
“Well, who said you’d understand it, birdhouse?” Han scoffed.
“Oh, I comprehend it, Captain,” Max said with what Han could’ve sworn was a note of pride. “I just said it wasn’t very—”
He was interrupted by a beep from the commo monitoring suite. Han was out of his chair and halfway to the cockpit by the second beep. Just as he slid into the pilot’s seat, a last, sustained beep signaled the end of the transmission.
“The recorder bagged it,” Han said, hitting the playback. “I don’t think it was encrypted.”
It was a cleartext message, sent economically, in burst. He had to slow down the playback by a five-to-one factor before it ungarbled.
“To: Corporate Vice-President Hirken, Authority facility at Stars’ End,” the audio-reconstruction began. “From: the Imperial Entertainers’ Guild. We beg the Viceprex’s indulgence and forgiveness, but the troupe scheduled to stop at your location has been forced to cancel its itinerary because of transportational mishap. This office will schedule a replacement immediately, when a troupe with a ’droid of the requisite type becomes available. I am, distinguished Viceprex, your abject servant, Hokkor Long, Secretary in charge of scheduling, Imperial Entertainers’ Guild.”
Han’s fist hit the console on the last syllable. “That’s it!”
Atuarre’s expression mixed befuddlement with doubt of Han’s soundness
of mind. “Solo-Captain, that’s what?”
“No, no, I mean that’s us. We’re in! We just got dealt a wild card!”
He whooped, slammed his fist in his palm, and nearly ruffled Atuarre’s thick mane from glee. She retreated a step. “Solo-Captain, has the oxygen pressure dropped too low for you? That message was about entertainers.”
He snorted. “Where’ve you been all your life? He said replacement entertainers. Don’t you know what that means? Haven’t you ever seen the broken-down acts the Guild’ll throw in to fill a play date, just so they can hang on to their agent’s fee? Haven’t you ever gone to some bash where they promised a class act, then at the last second they pull a switch and stick in some …”
It dawned on him that they were all staring at him now, photoreceptors and Trianii eyes. He half sobered. “What else can we do? The only other thing I’ve thought of is to fly into Mytus VII backward so they’d think we were leaving. But this is even wilder. We can do it. Oh, they’ll think we stink like banta droppings maybe, but they’ll buy the lie.”
He saw Atuarre was far from convinced, and turned to Pakka. “They want entertainers. How’d you like to be an acrobat?”
The cub made a little bounce, a kind of strain to speak, then, frustrated, sprang into a backflip to swing upside down from an overhead control conduit by his knees and tail.
Han nodded approval. “What about it, Atuarre, for your mate’s sake? Can you sing? Do magic tricks?”
She was nonplused, resenting his appeal to Pakka and his invocation of her mate. But she saw, too, that he was right. How many chances like this would come their way?
The cub began clapping his paws for Han’s attention. When he got it, Pakka shook his head energetically in answer to Han’s last question; then, still hanging upside down, he put paws on hips and made wriggling motions.
