Star Wars: The Han Solo Trilogy I: The Paradise Snare

by A. C. Crispin

  When Han awoke from exhausted sleep, he was completely disoriented at first. Where am I? he wondered groggily. Memory came rushing back in swift, violent images: his own hand holding a blaster … Shrike’s face twisted with hatred and rage … Dewlanna, gasping, dying alone …

  He swallowed hard, his throat aching. Dewlanna had been part of his life since he was just a little kid, eight, perhaps, or nine. He remembered the day she’d come aboard with her mate, Isshaddik. Isshaddik had been outlawed from the Wookiee homeworld for some crime that Dewlanna had never referred to. She’d followed her mate into exile, leaving behind all that she’d ever known—her home and their grown cubs.

  A year or so later, Isshaddik had been killed during a smuggling run to Nar Hekka, one of the worlds in the Hutt sector. Shrike had announced to Dewlanna that she could remain aboard Trader’s Luck as cook, since he’d grown to like the foods she prepared. Dewlanna could have gone back to Kashyyyk—after all, she’d committed no crime—but she’d chosen to stay aboard the Luck.

  Because of me, Han thought as he located the water dispenser nipple inside his helmet and took a cautious sip. Then he tongued up a couple of food pellets and washed them down with another swallow. It wasn’t the same as food, but they’d keep him going for the day … She stayed because of me. She wanted to protect me from Shrike …

  He sighed, knowing it to be true. Wookiees were among the most steadfast and loyal companions in the galaxy, or so he’d heard. Wookiee loyalty and friendship was not lightly given, but once bestowed, it never wavered.

  He leaned back in his alcove, checking the air pak. Three-quarters left. Han wondered how far the Dream had traveled while he’d slept. In a little while he’d go to the control room, see if he could decipher the instrumentation on the autopilot.

  Han’s mind drifted back in time, remembering Dewlanna sadly, then as he relaxed, his mind wandered to even earlier days. His earliest “real” memory—everything else was just meaningless fragments, snatches of images too old and distorted to have any meaning—was of the day Garris Shrike had brought him “home” to Trader’s Luck …

  The child huddled in the mouth of the dank, filthy alley, trying not to cry. He was too big to cry, wasn’t he? Even if he was cold and hungry and alone. For a moment the child wondered why he was alone, but it was as if a huge metal door slammed down on that thought, shutting everything 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 into his face. He pushed it back with a hand that was so grimed with dirt that his natural skin color barely showed. He wore only a pair of ragged pants and a torn, sleeveless tunic that was too small. His feet were bare. Had he ever had shoes?

  The child thought that perhaps he remembered shoes. Good shoes, nice ones, shoes that someone had put on his feet and helped him fasten. Someone who was gentle, who smiled instead of scowled, someone who was clean 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 his mind. He knew better than to let those thoughts fill his mind. Thoughts and memories like that were bad, they hurt … better not to think them.

  He sniffled again and wiped futilely at his runny nose. He realized he was standing in a puddle of foulness, and that his feet were so cold he could barely feel them. It was night now, and it promised to be a cold one.

  Hunger twisted in Han’s stomach like a living thing, a creature that bit painfully. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. Had it been 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 last night?

  He couldn’t keep standing here, the little boy decided. He had to move. Han stepped out of the alley, onto the pathwalk. He knew how to beg … who was it that had taught him?

  SLAM!

  Never mind who’d taught him, they had taught him well. Adjusting his features to their most pitiful, Han shuffled toward the nearest passerby. “Please … lady …” he whimpered. “Hungry, I’m so hungry …” He held out his hand, palm up. The woman he addressed slowed fractionally, 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 professional interest to watch her walk away. She had on a nice dress, soft and shiny, sort of … glowing … in the harsh streetlights of the Corellian harbor town.

  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 through his wall of misery. Sniffling and gulping, Han looked up to see a tall form bending over him. Black hair, pale blue eyes. He smelled of Alderaanian ale, and the smoke from half a dozen proscribed drugs, but he was steady on his feet, unlike many of the other passersby.

  Seeing that Han was looking up at him, the man squatted down onto his heels, 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. “Y-yeth … yes.” At first he lisped a little, the way he had when he’d first learned to talk. That was a long, long time ago, Han thought. He’d been talking since the cold season, and it was soon going to be cold season again. He’d been talking since …

  SLAM!

  The child shuddered again as his mind resolutely shut away all his memories of that beforetime. Something else surfaced, something he’d overlooked at first in his misery. Han’s eyes widened. This man had called him by name! How does he know my name?

  “You … who are you?” Han whispered. “How do you know my name?”

  The man grinned, showing many teeth. It was meant to be a friendly expression, Han could tell, but there was something about it that made him shudder. It reminded him of the packs of canoids that hunted prey in the alleys. “I know lots of things, kid,” the man replied. “Call me Captain Shrike. Can you say that?”

  “Y-yes. Cap-tain Shrike,” Han parroted uncertainly. He hiccuped as his 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 in the dirt and scritchies inhabiting his young scalp and think better of it. “You’d be surprised, Han. I know almost everything that goes on here on Corellia. I know who’s lost and who’s found, who’s for sale and who’s sold, and where all the bodies are buried. Matter of fact, I’ve had my eye on you. 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 he had.

  “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 warm place to sleep.” He grinned again. “And I just bet you’d like to see my ship.” He pointed up at the darkening sky.

  Han nodded eagerly. Food? A bed? And especially … “A spaceship? 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 away together, toward the spaceport …

  Han stirred and shook his head. I should never have gone with him that day, he thought. If I hadn’t gone with him, Dewlanna would still be alive …

  But if he hadn’t gone with Shrike, he’d probably have awakened some night in the alley to find that vrelts had chewed his ears and nose off, the way they had one of the other “alley urchins” that Garris Shrike had “rescued.”

  Han s
miled grimly. Captain Shrike didn’t have an altruistic bone in his 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 he left them under the supervision of a droid he’d programmed himself, F8GN. Eight-Gee-Enn assigned them to their “territories” and kept track of their proceeds as the children roamed the streets, begging and pickpocketing.

  They used the littlest ones, the skinniest ones, the deformed ones for begging. The vrelt-gnawed girl, Danalis, had always done well. Shrike kept her working hard for years by promising her that when she’d earned enough for him, he’d get her face fixed for her, so she’d look human again.

  But he never had. When she was about fourteen, Danalis evidently realized that Shrike was never going to make good on his promises. One “night” she went into the Luck’s airlock and cycled it—without first putting on a suit.

  Han had been on the cleanup crew. He shuddered at the memory.

  Poor Danalis. He could still picture her in his mind, handing over a day’s begging receipts to Eight-Gee-Enn. The droid was tall and spindly, made from coppery-reddish metal. It had been repaired so many times that it had patches everywhere, as though the droid were wearing a much-mended garment. Copper patches, gold-colored patches, steel-colored patches—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 had had something wrong with its speakers, and its “voice” had alternated between sounding deep and unctuous, to shrill, mechanical squeakiness. But no matter how the droid sounded, they’d all paid attention to what Eight-Gee-Enn said …

  “Now, dear children, have you all got your territory assignments?” The copper-colored droid swiveled its head a little rustily on its pipe-stem neck, regarding the eight children from Trader’s Luck as they stood ranged before it.

  All of the children, including five-year-old Han, affirmed that they did, indeed, have their territories. “Very well, then, dear children,” the droid continued in its deep, then squeaky tones, “let me now give you your job assignments. Padra”—the droid looked down at a small boy only a year or so older than Han—“today we’re going to give you your first chance to show us how helpful you can be to these poor citizens who are burdened with credit vouchers, jewelry, and expensive private comlinks.” The droid’s eyes glittered eerily. They were different colors—one had burned out long ago, and Shrike had replaced it with a lens scavenged from a junked droid, giving F8GN one red “eye” and one green.

  “Are you willing to help out these poor, benighted citizens, Padra?” Eight-Gee-Enn asked, cocking its metal head inquiringly, its voice dripping artificial camaraderie.

  “Sure am!” the boy cried. He gave Han and the other small children a triumphant glance. “No more baby begging for me!” he whispered excitedly.

  Han, who was barely beginning to learn the skills necessary to pick pockets swiftly and undetectably, felt a stir of envy. Picking pockets was easy, once you learned how to do it well. It was far easier to meet Eight-Gee-Enn’s quota for a day’s “work” picking pockets than it was 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 big money! If you chose the right mark, you could gain enough in one grab to give Eight-Gee-Enn your quota before noon, and then you were free to play. Han wondered whether Eight-Gee-Enn would give him some practice time if he hurried and begged his quota for the day before the others finished.

  It was fun to practice with the spindly reddish droid, because Eight-Gee-Enn looked so funny in clothes! The droid would put on street clothes typical to the planet they were on, and then either stand still or stroll past his student. Han had learned to relieve the droid of the concealed chrono, credit vouchers, and even some kinds of jewelry without Eight-Gee-Enn detecting his fingers in the process.

  But he couldn’t do it one hundred percent of the time. Han scowled a little as he trudged away. Eight-Gee-Enn demanded perfection from its little band, especially from the pickpockets. The droid wouldn’t let him start picking pockets until it was sure that Han could do so perfectly, 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 greenish-skinned, with small, swively ears and huge dark purple eyes. Han had only 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 to understand it well, and speak it—at least the gutter argot—passably.

  Wherever this was, it was hot. Hot and humid. Han glanced up at the pale, greenish-blue sky, in which blazed a pale orange sun. The prospect of spending several hours on his appointed street, whining, begging, and cajoling passersby for alms wasn’t an attractive one. I hate begging, Han thought sourly. When I get a little older, I’m going to make them let me steal, instead of beg. I’m sure I’ll be a good thief, and I’m not that good a beggar.

  He knew his appearance was all right—he’d gotten taller in the past couple of years, but he was still underweight enough to be called skinny. And he knew how to make his voice servile, his manner cringing and cowering, as though only desperation were driving him to plead for alms.

  Maybe it was his eyes, Han thought. Maybe the secret resentment and shame he felt at having to beg showed in them and potential marks could see it. Nobody respected a beggar, and Han, more than almost anything, had an undeclared desire to be respectd.

  Not just respected, he wanted to be respectable. He couldn’t recall much about his life before Garris Shrike had found him begging on Corellia, but Han somehow knew that once upon a time, things had been different.

  Long ago, he’d been taught to believe that begging was shameful. And that stealing … stealing was worse. Han bit his lip angrily. He knew that someone, perhaps the parents he couldn’t remember, had taught him these things. Once, long ago, he’d been taught different ways … different values.

  But now—what could he do? Aboard Trader’s Luck, there was one cardinal rule. If you didn’t work, you begged or stole. If you refused to work, beg, or steal, you didn’t eat. Han had no other skills to offer. He was too little to pilot, not strong enough to load smuggled cargo.

  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, and then, maybe, I’ll be big enough to pilot!”

  Han had discovered that when he made up his mind to accomplish something, he could do it. He was sure that piloting would be no exception.

  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 never told anyone about. Once he’d confided it to one of the other children, and the little vrelt blabbed it to everyone. Shrike and the others laughed at Han for weeks, calling him “Captain Han of the Imperial Navy,” until Han wanted to crawl away, hands over his ears. It took all his control to just shrug and pretend not to care …

  Yeah, and when I’m the best pilot around, and I’ve made lots of credits, I’ll apply to the Imperial Academy. I’ll become a Naval officer. Then I’ll come back and get Shrike, arrest him, and he’ll get sent to the spice mines on Kessel. He’ll die there … The thought made 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, lots of loyal friends, and plenty of credits. And … a family. Yeah, a family of his own. A beautiful wife who adored him, who’d share adventures with him, and kids, maybe. He’d be a good father. He wouldn’t abandon his children, the way he’d been abandoned …

  At least, Han supposed that he’d been abandoned, though he couldn’t remember a thing about it. He didn’t even kn
ow his last name, so he couldn’t try to trace his family. Or maybe … maybe his parents hadn’t abandoned him …

  Maybe they’d been killed, or he’d been kidnapped away from them. Han decided that he preferred that scenario. If he thought of his parents as dead, he wasn’t so mad at them, because people couldn’t help it if they died, right?

  Han decided that from now on, he’d think of his mother and father as dead. It was easier that way …

  He knew he’d probably never know the real truth. The only person who knew anything about Han’s background was Garris Shrike. The captain kept telling Han that if he was good, if he worked and begged hard, if he earned enough credits, someday Shrike would tell him the secrets behind how he’d come to be wandering the streets of Corellia that day.

  Han’s mouth tightend. Sure Captain, he thought just like you were going to get Danalis’s face fixed …

  The child glanced up at the street signs. He couldn’t read the ones in the 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-skinned female clad in a short robe was coming toward him. “Lady …” he whined, cringing his way toward her, little hand held out in appeal, “please, beautiful gracious lady, I beg your help … alms, just one little credit, I’m so hungreeeeee …”

  The little cupped green ears swiveled toward him, then she averted her head and swept past.

  Under his breath, Han muttered an uncomplimentary term in smuggler’s argot, and then turned to wait for the next mark …

  Han shook his head and forced himself out of his reverie. Time to go and check on the Ylesian Dream’s progress.

  Hauling himself up out of his cubbyhole, the young pilot made his way through the cramped passageways until he reached the bridge. The astromech droid was still there, its lights flashing away as it “thought” its own thoughts. It was a relatively new R2 unit, still shiny-bright silver and green, with a clear dome atop its head. Inside the dome Han could see lights blinking as it worked. It was hooked into the ship’s robot controls by means of a cable.