Because of me, Han thought as he located the water dispenser nippleinside his helmet and took a cautious sip. Then he tongued up a coupleof food pellets and washed them down with another swallow. It wasn'tthe same as food, but they'd keep him going for the day... She stayedbecause of me.
She wanted to protect me from Shrike . . .
He sighed, knowing it to be true. Wookiees were among the moststeadfast and loyal companions in the galaxy, or so he'd heard.
Wookiee
loyalty and friendship was not lightly given, but once bestowed, itnever wavered.
He leaned back in his alcove, checking the air pak. Three quartersleft.
Han wondered how far the Dream had traveled while he'd slept. In alittle while he'd go to the control room, see if he could decipher theinstrumentation on the autopilot.
Han's mind drifted back in time, remembering Dewlanna sadly, then as herelaxed, his mind wandered to even earlier days. His earliest "real"memory---everything else was just meaningless fragments, snatches ofimages too old and distorted to have any meaning--was of the day GarrisShrike had brought him "home" to Trader's Luck . . .
The child huddled in the mouth of the dank; filthy alley, trying not tocry. He was too big to cry, wasn't he? Even if he was cold and hungryand alone. For a moment the child wondered why he was alone, but itwas as if a huge metal door slammed down on that thought, shuttingeverything behind it. Behind the door lay danger, behind that door lay. . . bad things.
Pain, and ... and...
The boy shook his head, and his lank; filthy hair fell straggling intohis face. He pushed it back with a hand that was so grimed with dirtthat his natural skin color barely showed. He wore only a pair ofragged pants and a torn, sleeveless tunic that was too small. HIS feetwere bare. Had he ever had shoes?
The child thought that perhaps he remembered shoes. Good shoes, niceones, shoes that someone had put on his feet and helped him fasten.
Someone who was gentle, who smiled instead of scowled, someone who wasclean and smelled good, who wore pretty clothes-SLAM!!
The door came down again, and little Han (he knew that was his name,but knew of no other that went with it winced from the pain in hismind. He knew better than to let those thoughts fill his mind.
Thoughts and memories like that were bad, they hurt.., better not tothink them.
He sniffled again and wiped futilely at his runny nose. He realized hewas standing in a puddle of foulness, and that his feet were so cold hecould barely feel them. It was night now, and it promised to be a coldone.
Hunger twisted in Han's stomach like a living thing, a creature thatbit painfully. He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten. Had itbeen this morning when he'd found that kavasa fruit in a garbage dump,the ripe, juicy one that was only half-eaten? Or had that been lastnight?
He couldn't keep standing here, the little boy decided. He had tomove.
Han stepped out of the alley, onto. the pathwalk. He knew how tobeg...
who was it that had taught him?
SLAM!
Never mind who'd taught him, they had taught him well. Adjusting hisfeatures to their most pitiful, Han shuffled toward the nearestpasserby.
"Please . . . lady . . ." he whimpered. "Hungry, I'm so hungry . .
." He held out his hand, palm up. The woman he addressed slowedfractionally, then suddenly looked down at his dirty palm and recoiled,holding her skirts back so they wouldn't brush against him.
"Lady . . ." Han breathed, turning with more than professionalinterest to watch her walk away. She had on a nice dress, soft andshiny, sort of...
glowing . . . in the harsh streetlights of the Corellian harbortown.
She reminded him of someone, with her big, dark eyes, her smooth skin,her hair-SLAM!
He began to sob, hopelessly, his small body shaking from cold, hunger,grief, and loneliness.
"Hey, there! Han!" the sharp but not unfriendly voice broke throughhis wall of misery. Sniffling and gulping, Han looked up to see a tallform bending over him. Black hair, pale blue eyes. He smelled ofAlderaanian ale, and the smoke from half a dozen proscribed drugs, buthe was steady on his feet, unlike many of the other passersby.
Seeing that Han was looking up at him, the man squatted down onto hisheels, which brought him to only a little above Han's eye level.
"You're too big to cry in the street, you know that, don't you?"
Han nodded, still sniffling, but trying to control himself. "Yeth . .
.
yes." At first he lisped a little, the way he had when he'd firstlearned to talk. That was a long, long time ago, Han thought. He'dbeen talking since the cold season, and it was soon going to be coldseason again. He'd been talking since . . .
SLAM!
The child shuddered again as his mind resolutely shut away all hismemories of that beforetime. Something else surfaced, something he'doverlooked at first in his misery. Han's eyes widened. This man hadcalled him by name!
How does he know my name?
"Whou . . . who are you?" Han whispered. "How do you know myname?"
The man grinned, showing many teeth. It was meant t o be a friendlyexpression, Han could tell, but there was something about it that madehim shudder. It reminded him of the packs of canoids that hunted preyin the alleys. "I know lots of things, kid," the man replied. "Callme Captain Shrike. Can you say that?"
"Y-yes. Captain Shrike," Han parroted uncertainly. He hiccuped ashis sobbing died away. "But... but how did you know my name? Please?"
The man put out a hand as if to ruffle his hair, then seemed to take inthe dirt and scritchies inhabiting his young scalp and think better ofit. "You'd be surprised, Han. I know almost everything that goes onhere on Corellia.
I know who's lost and who's found, who's for sale and who's sold, andwhere all the bodies are buried. Matter of fact, I've had my eye onyou.
You seem like a smart lad. Are you smart?"
Han drew himself up, eyed the man levelly. "Yes, Captain," he said,forcing his voice to be steady. "I'm smart." He knew he was, too.
Anyone who wasn't didn't last for months on the streets, the way hehad.
"Good, that's the lad! Well, I could use a smart lad to work for me.
Why don't you come with me? I'll give you a square meal and a warmplace to sleep." He grinned again. "And I just bet you'd like to seemy ship." He pointed up at the darkening sky.
Han nodded eagerly. Food? A bed? And especially . . . "Aspaceship?
Yes, Captain! I want to be a pilot when I grow up!"
The man laughed and held out his hand. "Well come on, then!"
Han let the big hand engulf his, and the two of them walked awaytogether, toward the spaceport...
Han stirred and shook his head. I should never have gone with him thatday, he thought. If I hadn't gone with him, Dewlanna would still bealive . . .
But if he hadn't gone with Shrike, he'd probably have awakened somenight in the alley to find that vrelts had chewed his ears and noseoff, the way they had one of the other "alley urchins" that GarrisShrike had "rescued."
Han smiled grimly. Captain Shrike didn't have an altruistic bone inhis body. He collected children and used them to turn a profit.
Almost every planet the Luck visited, Shrike loaded up a group of his"rescuees" and took them down to the streets in the shuttle. There heleft them under the supervision of a droid he'd programmed himself,F8GN. Eight-Gee-Enn assigned them to their "territories" and kepttrack of their proceeds as the children roamed the streets, begging andpickpocketing.
They used the littlest ones, the skinniest ones, the deformed ones forbegging. The vrelt-gnawed girl, Danalis, had always done well. Shrikekept her working hard for years by promising her that when she'd earnedenough for him, he'd get her face fixed for her, so she'd look humanagain.
But he never had. When she was about fourteen, Danalis evidentlyrealized that Shrike was never going to make good on his promises.
One
night" she went into the
Luck's airlock and cycled it--without firstputting on a suit.
Han had been on the cleanup crew. He shuddered at the memory. PoorDanalis. He could still picture her in his mind, handing over a day'sbegging receipts to Eight-Gee-Enn. The droid was tall and spindly,made from coppery-reddish metal. It had been repaired so many timesthat it had patches everywhere, as though the droid were wearing a muchmended garment. Copper patches, gold-colored patches, steel coloredpatches--and one round, silvery one on the top of its head.
Han could still hear the droid's voice in his mind. Eight-Gee-Enn hadhad something wrong with its speakers, and its "voice" had alternatedbetween sounding deep and unctuous, to shrill, mechanicalsqueakiness.
But no matter how the droid sounded, they'd all paid attention to whatEight-Gee-Enn said . . .
"Now, dear children, have you all got your territory assignments?" Thecopper-colored droid swiveled its head a little rustily on itspipe-stem neck, regarding the eight children from Trader's Luck as theystood ranged before it.
All of the children, including five-year-old Han, affirmed that theydid, indeed, have their territories. "Very well, then, dear children,"the droid continued in its deep, then squeaky tones, "let me now giveyou your job assignments. Padra" the droid looked down at a small boyonly a year or so older than Han--"today we're going to give you yourfirst chance to show us how helpful you can be to these poor citizenswho are burdened with credit vouchers, jewelry, and expensive privatecomlinks." The droid's eyes glittered eerily. They were differentcolors---one had burned out long ago, and Shrike had replaced it with alens scavenged from a junked droid, giving F8GN one red "eye" and onegreen.
"Are you willing to help out these poor, benighted citizens, Padra?"
Eight-Gee-Enn asked, cocking its metal head inquiringly, its voicedripping artificial camaraderie.
"Sure am!" the boy cried. He gave Han and the other small children atriumphant glance. "No more baby begging for me!" he whisperedexcitedly.
Han, who was barely beginning to learn the skills necessary to pickpockets swiftly and undetectably, felt a stir of envy. Picking pocketswas easy, once you learned how to do it well. It was far easier tomeet Eight-Gee-Enn's quota for a day's "work" picking pockets than itwas by begging. Begging required accosting at least three marks,roughly, in order to gain one donation.
But pickpocketing . . . now, that was the best way to earn bigmoney!
If you chose the right mark; you could gain enough in one grab to giveEightGee-Enn your quota before noon, and then you were free to play.
Han wondered whether Eight-Gee-Enn would give him some practice time ifhe hurried and begged his quota for the day before the othersfinished.
It was fun to practice with the spindly reddish droid, becauseEight-Gee-Enn looked so funny in clothes! The droid would put onstreet clothes typical to the planet they were on, and then eitherstand still or stroll past his student. Han had learned to relieve thedroid of the concealed chrono, credit vouchers, and even some kinds ofjewelry without Eight-Gee-Enn detecting his fingers in the process.
But he couldn't do it one hundred percent of the time. Han scowled alittle as he trudged away. Eight-Gee-Enn demanded perfection from itslittle band, especially from the pickpockets. The droid wouldn't lethim start picking pockets until it was sure that Han could do soperfectly, every time.
Absently, he picked up a handful of dirt and rubbed it into his hands,then smeared his already sweating face. What planet was this,anyway?
He couldn't recall hearing its name. The native people were greenishskinned, with small, swively ears and huge dark purple eyes. Han hadonly learned a few words in their language, but he was a quick study,and he knew that by the time Trader's Luck moved on, he'd be able tounderstand it well, and speak it--at least the gutterargot--passably.
Wherever this was, it was hot. Hot and humid. Han glanced up at thepale, greenish-blue sky, in which blazed a pale orange sun. Theprospect of spending several hours on his appointed street, whining,begging, and cajoling passersby for alms wasn't an attractive one. Ihate begging, Han thought sourly. When I get a little older, I'm goingto make them let me steal, instead of beg. I'm sure I'll be a goodthief, and I'm not that good a beggar.
He knew his appearance was all right--he'd gotten taller in the pastcouple of years, but he was still underweight enough to be calledskinny.
And he knew how to make his voice servile, his manner cringing andcowering, as though only desperation were driving him to plead foralms.
Maybe it was his eyes, Han thought. Maybe the secret resentment andshame he felt at having to beg showed in them and potential marks couldsee it.
Nobody respected a beggar, and Han, more than almost anything; had anundeclared desire to be respected.
Not just respected, he wanted to be respectable. He couldn't recallmuch about his life before Garris Shrike had found him begging onCorellia, but Han somehow knew that once upon a time, things had beendifferent.
Long ago, he'd been taught to believe that begging was shameful. Andthat stealing.., stealing was worse. Han bit his lip angrily. He knewthat
someone, perhaps the parents he couldn't remember, had taught himthese things. Once, long ago, he'd been taught different ways . . .
different values.
But now--what could he do? Aboard Trader's Luck, there was onecardinal rule. If you didn't work you begged or stole. If you refusedto work beg, or steal, you didn't eat. Han had no other skills tooffer. He was too little to pilot, not strong enough to load smuggledcargo.
But I won't always be! he reminded himself "I'm growing every day!
Soon I'm going to be big, in just five more years I'll be ten, andthen, maybe, I'll be big enough to pilot!"
Han had discovered that when he made up his mind to accomplishsomething, he could do it. He was sure that piloting would be noexception.
And when I can pilot, that'll be my way off Trader's Luck, he thought,his mind slipping automatically into an old dream, one that he nevertold anyone about. Once he'd confided it to one of the other children,and the little vrelt blabbed it to everyone. Shrike and the otherslaughed at Han for weeks, calling him "Captain Han of the ImperialNavy, "until Han wanted to crawl away, hands over his ears. It tookall his control to just shrug and pretend not to care...
Yeah, and when I'm the best pilot around, and I've made lots ofcredits, I'll apply to the Imperial Academy. I'll become a Navalofficer. Then I'll come back and get Shrike, arrest him, and he'll getsent to the spice mines on Kessel. He'll die there . . . The thoughtmade Han's mouth curl up in a predatory smile.
At the far end of his fantasy, Han pictured himself, successful,respected, the best pilot in the galaxy, with a ship of his own, lotsof loyal friends, and plenty of credits. And . . . a family. Yeah, afamily of his own. A beautiful wife who adored him, who'd shareadventures with him, and kids, maybe. He'd be a good father. Hewouldn't abandon his children, the way he'd been abandoned . . .
At least, Han supposed that he'd been abandoned, though he couldn'tremember a thing about it. He didn't even know his last name, so hecouldn't try to trace his family. Or maybe . . . maybe his parentshadn't abandoned him...
Maybe they'd been killed, or he'd been kidnapped away from them. Handecided that he preferred that scenario. If he thought of his parentsas dead, he wasn't so mad at them, because people couldn't help it ifthey died, right?
Han decided that from now on, he'd think of his mother and father asdead It was easier that way...
He knew he'd probably never know the real truth. The only person whoknew anything about Han's background was Garris Shrike. The captainkept telling Han that if he was good, if he worked and begged hard, ifhe earned
enough credits, someday Shrike would tell him the secrets behind howhe'd come to be wandering the streets of Corellia that day.
Han's mouth tightened. Sure, Captain, he thought. Just like you weregoing to get Danalis's face fixed . . .
The child glanced up at the street signs. He couldn't read the ones int
he native language, but there was a Basic translation beneath each.
Yeah, this was his territory, all right.
Han took a deep breath, then rearranged his features. A green skinnedfemale clad in a short robe was coming toward him. "Lady . . ." hewhined, cringing his way toward her, little hand held out in appeal,please, beautiful gracious lady, I beg your help . . . alms, just onelittle credit, I'm so hungreeeeee . . ."
The little cupped green ears swiveled toward him, then she averted herhead and swept past.
Under his breath, Han muttered an uncomplimentary term in smuggler'sargot, and then turned to wait for the next mark . . .
Han shook his head and forced himself out of his reverie. Time to goand check on the Ylesian Dream's progress.
Star Wars - Han Solo Trilogy - The Paradise Snare Page 3
