Star Wars - Han Solo at Star's End

by Brian Daley

  Doc was shouting from below. “Solo, get down here!”

  “Sit on things here; don’t charge and don’t fall back unless you have to,” Han told Chewbacca. He pressed through his troops and raced down the stairs, trailing the fleet Pakka. Inside the emergency door leading to the tier blocks, he slid to a halt. “Atuarre!”

  She was surrounded by Doc and the other prisoners. “Solo-Captain!” She seized his hands, her words tumbling out on top of one another. She’d brought in the Millennium Falcon and clamped onto the cargo lock here at the tier-block level, on the opposite side of the tower from the Espo assault ship.

  “I don’t think they noticed me; energy fluxes in Stars’ End are distorting sensors completely. I had to link up purely by visual tracking.”

  Han drew Doc and Atuarre aside. “We could never, never fit all these people into the Falcon, not if we use every cubic centimeter of space. How do we tell them?”

  The Trianii broke in. “Solo-Captain, shut up! Please. And listen: I have a tunnel-tube junction station secured to the Falcon. I drove it right up against the ship and made it fast with a tractor beam.”

  “We can certainly fit inmates in the tunnel-tubes if we extend them,” Doc began.

  Hans’s excited voice overbore him. “We’ll do better than that. Atuarre, you’re a genius! But will the tunnel-tube reach?”

  “It should.”

  Doc was looking from one to the other. “What are you two—Oh! I see!” He rubbed his hands together, eyes bright. “This will be novel, for a fact.”

  One of the defenders from the upper landing poked his head through the emergency door. “Solo, the Viceprex is calling for you again.”

  “If I don’t answer, he’ll know something’s doing. I’ll send Chewie down to help you. Work fast!”

  “Solo-Captain, we have only minutes remaining!”

  He bounded up the stairs, though it left him huffing and heaving, and threatened to black him out. Air’s going, he thought. In hushed tones he explained everything quickly and dispatched the Wookiee and most of the others down to join Atuarre and Doc.

  Then he answered Hirken. The Viceprex shouted, “Time’s short, Solo. Will you yield?”

  “Yield?” Han sputtered, unbelieving. “What d’you have in mind, defloration?” He pegged a shot around the corner, beginning a steady harassing fire, and hoped that those below could hold the Espo assault team for the required time.

  Ninety seconds later a cycling light came on over one of the unused stern air locks of the Authority assault craft. No one was there to notice, because, except for a skeleton watch, the entire ship’s complement had been turned out to rescue the Viceprex, at his order.

  The lock opened. Through it stepped a very incensed Wookiee, hefting a captured wide-bore blaster. He was pleased, however, that he hadn’t been compelled to waste time and power burning through the lock doors. He’d secured the outer hatch open. Behind him, floating in the weightlessness of the extended tunnel-tube, were more prisoners, waiting with weapons and with claws and stingers and pincers and bare, eager hands. Even farther back, at the junction station, other prisoners were being crowded aboard the Falcon, while more waited to leave the tower. Since the freighter could never hold them all, this ship had to be captured.

  Chewbacca gave a hand motion and set off. The others drew themselves in after, touching down as they entered the assault craft’s artificial gravity.

  The lock’s opening had been noted on the bridge. An Espo crewman, coming to check out what he thought would be a malfunction in the air-lock apparatus, rounded a corner and almost fetched up against the Wookiee’s enormous, furry-haired torso. A stroke of the blaster’s butt sent the Espo flying back through the air. He landed in a brown-clad heap, his helmet skittering along the deck.

  Another Espo, down a side passageway, heard the noise and came running, tugging at his holstered pistol. Chewbacca stepped out of concealment and swung the blaster’s stovepipe barrel, downing him. As prisoners rushed to pick up the felled men’s weapons, Chewbacca led the rest on, past engineering and crew’s quarters, as small parties split off from the main group to take and hold those areas. More and more prisoners poured from the aft lock, making way quickly for the many who were to follow.

  The Wookiee came to the hatch of the ship’s bridge. He hit its release and, as the hatch slid up, stepped through. A junior officer did a foolish double take and fumbled for his pistol, saying, “How in—”

  Chewbacca struck the officer down with a giant forearm, then threw his head back and roared. Those behind him surged into the bridge. Little of the fighting done in the next twelve seconds was with artificial weapons. None of the bridge watch ever reached an alarm button.

  Setting the wide-bore aside, Chewbacca prepared to cast off from Stars’ End.

  Atuarre watched anxiously as she and a few chosen helpers in the big tier-level cargo lock almost threw milling prisoners into the tunnel-tube, where they thrashed like swimmers, moving and helping one another toward the junction station. Doc had already gone ahead to take the Falcon’s controls. As soon as Chewbacca had control of the assault craft, he was to free it gently from the tower so that it couldn’t be retaken, and the Espos’ withdrawal route would be cut off.

  So many! Atuarre thought, hoping there’d be room enough for all of them. Then she saw a familiar face in the crowd and abandoned her place, keening with joy.

  Pakka came, too, and clung to his father’s back, holding on to both his parents for the first time in months, his wide eyes tearing.

  Just then, Stars’ End’s general power conduits, weakened by erratic flow management, began to explode.

  Up on the landing, Han heard it, the beginning of Stars’ End’s death throes. He was holding with three others, all of them armed. Hirken’s people had been quiet for the last few minutes; the Viceprex was probably hoping that relief wasn’t far off. And he could be right, since Espo assault troops were working their way up through the tower quickly, mowing down the prisoners’ opposition.

  But the exploding conduits constituted a new factor. Han ordered everybody back. “We’ll hold at the tier-block level; pass the word below to come running.” They could pull back to the air lock, which lay beyond the fifth tier block, if they had to.

  He fired a few more shots up the stairwell as his runner took off. He tried to figure out how long it had been since the tower had been blown free. Twenty minutes? More? They were asking a great deal of their luck.

  As Han and his men fell back, the clatter of the lower-level defenders was heard. Both groups met at the emergency door leading to the tier blocks and crowded through. Han, among the last, turned to give the man behind him a hand, only to see him die with an odd, disappointed look on his face.

  Han pulled the falling body out of the way as the final prisoner leaped through. Several others helped him shoulder the ponderous door shut as blaster and disrupter fire lashed against it, and made it fast with scraps of metal jammed in the latch. But it wouldn’t hold long, especially if the heavy crew-served blaster were brought up. Han surveyed the prisoners with him. “How many left to load?”

  “Almost done, fella,” someone called. “Just a few left, not more than a hundred or so.”

  “Then anybody who’s not armed, hat up! The rest spread out and take up a firing position. We’re almost home.”

  They were still moving down the corridor when the emergency door crumpled inward, burned from its frame in a rain of glowing slag. The snout of the crew-served blaster stood in the gap, pointing straight into the abandoned first-tier block. Han didn’t bother firing at its shielded barrel.

  The heavy blaster erupted into the empty tier block, and an armored Espo came worming around it to enter the corridor. One of the prisoners stopped long enough to shoot him. At the curve in the corridor, the defenders paused to take up firing again. The gunners were having trouble getting their piece through the emergency door without exposing themselves to counterfire.

&nb
sp; Han and three others were the only ones left; a few prisoners had gone on to set up a new line of defense. Smoke from ruptured power conduits was getting thicker, the air thinner. Han’s senses strayed for a moment. He was opposite the door to the second tier block and crossed to it, bent over double, for a better field of fire.

  But he spied something propped up against one of the stasis booths, halfway down the tier’s aisle. “Bollux, what the hell are you doing there?” Evidently the ’droid either had been dragged or had managed to drag himself this far toward the air lock, then had been shunted aside, and pausing in the shelter of the tier block for a moment, was unable to rise again. Han realized that no prisoner in fear of his life would have taken time to worry about an antiquated labor ’droid.

  He ran to his side and dropped to one knee. “Up and at em, Annihilator. We’re beatin’ feet.”

  It took all his strength to get the ’droid up. “Thank you, Captain Solo,” Bollux drawled. “Even with Max in direct linkage, I couldn’t—Captain!”

  Simultaneously with the ’droid’s warning, Han felt Bollux throw all his mechanical weight against him, sending the two of them spinning around. In the same stopped frame, as it seemed, a disrupter beam meant for Han sliced into the ’droid’s head.

  As they spun, Han’s draw was automatic: In that frozen instant, he saw Uul-Rha-Shan standing in the door frame at the head of the aisle, the bodies of the other defenders on the corridor floor behind him.

  The reptilian gunman had his weapon held at arm’s length, knowing that his first shot had missed. The disrupter pistol was realigning. Han, with no time to aim, fired from the hip. Everything seemed to him to take forever, and yet to happen instantly.

  The blaster bolt flowered high against Uul-Rha-Shan’s green-scaled chest, lifting him and hurling him backward, while his own disrupter shot lanced upward and splashed off the ceiling.

  Han and Bollux were sprawled together on the floor. There was no light in the ’droid’s photoreceptors, no evidence of function. Han rose shakily, locked the fingers of his left hand around Bollux’s shoulder pauldron, holding on to his blaster with his right, and began hauling, heaving for breath.

  He never saw the Espos who, following in Uul-Rha-Shan’s wake, were ready to cut him down. Nor did he see them fall, downed by the fire from the prisoners’ counterattack. Han’s lightheadedness had narrowed his vision down to a dark tunnel; through the tunnel he would drag Bollux back to the Falcon, nothing less.

  Suddenly another figure was at his side, a furred and sinuous Trianii Ranger, bearing a smoking blaster. “Solo-Captain?” It was a male’s voice. “Come, I will aid you. We have but seconds.”

  Han let the other do so, both of them tugging the ’droid’s hulk along much more quickly. Dull curiosity made Han ask, “Why?”

  “Because my mate, Atuarre, said not to bother coming back without you, and because my cub, Pakka, would have come if I had not.” The Trianii called out, “Here, I’ve found him!”

  Others arrived, to give supporting fire, throwing the Espos into a brief confusion. The assaulting troops, not having gotten their heavy blaster into the corridor yet, fell back. More willing hands dragged at Bollux.

  Then, somehow, they were all standing at the air lock, and the Espos seemed to have broken off their attack. The ’droid was floated into the tunnel-tube, along with the other defenders and Atuarre’s mate. Only then did Han enter the air lock, leaving behind a strangely silent chamber. The fresher, thicker air of the tube hit him like a drug. He waved the rest on. The Millennium Falcon was still his ship, and he would be the one to cast off.

  “Solo, wait!” A man stumbled out of the smoke. Viceprex Hirken, looking a century older. He spoke with hysterical speed.

  “Solo, I know they’ve moved the assault ship away from the lower lock. I told no one, not even my wife. I ordered the Espos back and came in by myself.”

  He shuffled closer, hands imploring. Han stared at the Vice-President for Corporate Security as if he were a specimen under a scope.

  “Please take me, Solo! Do anything-anything-anything to me, but don’t leave me here to—”

  Hirken’s handsome face jumped, as if he’d forgotten what he was about to say, then he fell, squirming and reaching uselessly for the wound in his back. His obese wife came waddling up behind him with Espos at her back and a smoking pistol in her hands.

  Han had already hit the inner air-lock hatch closure. He dived through the outer, into the tunnel-tube, hitting that switch, too. As the outer air-lock hatch closed, he irised the tunnel-tube shut, released its seal with an outgushing of air, and unclamped the tube. He floated there, watching through a viewport as Hirken’s wife and the Espos beat at the air lock’s outer-hatch viewport, unavailingly. Stars’ End’s descent speed had already drawn it away, and it plunged deeper into the planet’s gravity well.

  Around him he could see and hear the wobble of the tunnel-tube as packed prisoners were gradually absorbed into the assault craft and the Millennium Falcon.

  Everyone in the two ships and the tunnel-tubes was so busy crowding elbow to pseudopod, or helping the injured or the dying, that only one survivor thought to watch the tower’s fall.

  As his mother and Doc labored over the Falcon’s controls, conning the freighter under its extreme burden and maintaining tractor-grip on the junction station, Pakka hung from an overhead conduit in the cockpit, the only one with both an unoccupied mind and a vantage point.

  The cub stared down at Stars’ End’s descent, the flawless trajectory of an airless world. And even the sudden, brilliant flash of its impact didn’t distract the others, who had lives to worry about. But Pakka, unblinking, unspeaking, saw the symbol of Authority flare and die with the brevity of a meteor.

  The wind pulled hard across the landing field on Urdur, a no-nonsense wind, chilling, biting, but fresh and free. The former inmates of Stars’ End, those who had lived to reach this latest outlaw-tech base, breathed it without complaint as they were herded off to temporary quarters.

  But Han still pulled his borrowed greatcoat tighter around him. “I’m not arguing,” he argued. “I just don’t understand, is all.” He was addressing Doc, but Jessa was listening, as were Pakka, Atuarre, and her mate, Keeheen.

  Nearby rested the Falcon, the tunnel-tube junction still clamped to her side, and the Espo assault craft. Doc had guided both stuffy, overcrowded ships into quick contact with Jessa, and they’d been directed to this latest hide-out world.

  Chewbacca was still onboard the Falcon, surveying the damage done to her since the last time he’d seen her. A new yaup of inconsolable sadness echoed from the ship each time he found another item of damage.

  Doc, rather than reiterate his explanation, said, “Youngster, check the ’droid out for yourself. There.” Outlaw-techs were just offloading Bollux’s mutilated, beam-scorched form from the ship. An entire segment of his cranium had been shot away by Uul-Rha-Shan. At Doc’s order, his men brought over the repulsor-lift handtruck with the ’droid strapped to it. With force bars and pinch-jacks, they prized open the plastron.

  And there sat Blue Max, unscathed, running off his own power pack. Han leaned over him. “Uh, Maxie?”

  The computer’s voice still sounded like a child’s. “Captain Solo! Long time no see. In fact, long time no see anything.”

  “Gotcha. Sorry; things were really jumping this trip. Is Bollux in there with you for a fact?”

  In response, he heard the unhurried drawl of the labor ’droid coming from Max’s grille, sounding strangely high-pitched through the vocoder. “Right enough, Skipper. Blue Max was in direct link with me when the disrupter hit me. He pulled all my essential information and basic matrices down here, safe and sound with him, in microseconds. Imagine that? Naturally, I’ve lost a lot of specifics, but I guess I can always relearn camp sanitation procedures if I have to.” The voice became dejected. “I suppose my body’s unsalvageable, though.”

  “We’ll get you a new one, Bollux,�
� Doc promised. “One for both of you, a custom puff; you have my word. But now you have to go; my boys will make sure all that circuitry in there remains stable.”

  “Bollux,” Han said, and found himself with nothing to say. He hit that problem from time to time. “Take it slow.”

  “I always do,” the vocoder drawled.

  “G’bye, Captain Solo!” Blue Max added.

  Jessa, shading her eyes, pointed to the assault craft. “There’s a problem we won’t solve in the shop.”

  A dark-skinned figure sat by the ship’s ramp, head bent to his chest. “He took his uncle’s death pretty hard,” Jessa continued. “Rekkon was quite a man; losing him would be hard on anybody.” She looked to Han. Han was studiously looking elsewhere. He saw the boy’s head come up from his private grief; he bore a startling resemblance to Rekkon.

  “What do we do with him?” Jessa went on. “Most of the prisoners will find a new life somehow, even Torm’s father and brother. The majority of them will leave the Corporate Sector; a few hotheads plan to take it to the courts, as if they had a prayer. But the boy’s by far the youngest you rescued, and he’s got no one now.”

  She was watching her father expectantly. Doc’s eyebrows shot up. “Don’t goggle at me, girlie. I’m a certified businessman and criminal. I don’t collect strays.”

  She giggled. “But you never turn them away, either. And you always say there’s always room for one more at the table, we’ll just—”

  “—scramble the eggs,” he anticipated her, “and water the soup. I know. Well, I suppose I could at least talk to the lad. He might have some usable aptitude, hmm, yes. Atuarre, you worked with his uncle quite closely; would you mind coming with me?”

  Doc went off with all three Trianii at his side. Pakka turned and flipped Han a parting wave, his other pawhand caught up in his father’s.

  Jessa looked at Han. “Well, Solo, thanks. See you around.” She turned to go.