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

by A. C. Crispin

  The R2 droid must have been equipped with a motion sensor, because it swiveled its domed “head” toward Han as he clumped boldly onto the bridge in his spacesuit.

  The lights flashed frantically as it “talked,” but of course the sound waves didn’t travel in vacuum. Han turned on his suit’s communications unit, and suddenly his helmet was filled with distressed bleeps, blurps, and wheeps.

  “Whee … bleewheeeep … wheep-whirr-wheep!” the R2 astromech announced in evident surprise. Han looked around for its counterpart droid and didn’t see one. He sighed. His suit’s communicator would transmit what he said to the droid, but how was he supposed to actually talk to the consarned R2 without an interpreter? How did whoever had programmed the droid talk to it?

  He activated his suit communicator. “Hey, you!”

  “Blurpp … wheeep, bleep-whirrr!” the unit replied helpfully.

  Han scowled and cursed at the unit in Rodian, trader argot, and, finally, Basic. “What am I going to do now?” he snarled. “If only you had a Basic-speech module.”

  “But I do, sir,” announced the droid in a matter-of-fact voice. Its words were flat, mechanical, but perfectly understandable.

  Han gaped at the machine for a moment, then grinned. “Hey! This is a first! How come you can talk?”

  “Because there was not room aboard this vessel for both an astromech unit and a counterpart unit, my masters programmed me with a Basic-speech transmissions module so I could communicate more easily,” the droid replied.

  “All right!” Han cried, feeling a surge of relief. He didn’t like droids much, but at least he’d have someone to talk to, and it might actually prove necessary for the two of them to communicate. Space travel was usually routine, and safe … but there were exceptions.

  “I regret, sir,” the R2 added, “that you are guilty of unauthorized entry, sir. You are not supposed to be here.”

  “I know that,” Han said. “I hitched a ride on this ship.”

  “I-beg-your-pardon, this unit does not understand the term used, sir.”

  Han called the R2 unit an uncomplimentary name.

  “I-beg-your-pardon, this unit does not understand—”

  “Shut up!” Han bellowed.

  The R2 unit was silent.

  Han took a very deep breath. “Okay, R2,” he said. “I am a stowaway. Is that word in your memory banks?”

  “Yes it is, sir.”

  “Good. I stowed away aboard this ship because I needed a ride to Ylesia. I’m going to take a job piloting for the Ylesian priests, understand?”

  “Yes, sir. However, I must inform you that in my capacity as a watch-droid assigned to safeguard this vessel and its contents, I must seal all the exits when we reach Ylesia, then inform my masters that you are aboard, thus expediting your capture by their security staff.”

  “Hey, little pal,” Han said generously, “when we reach Ylesia, you just go right ahead and do that. When the priests see that I fit all their requirements, they won’t give a vrelt’s ass how I arrived there.”

  “I-beg-your-pardon, sir, but this unit does not—”

  “Shut up.”

  Han glanced down at his air pak readout, then said, “Okay, R2, I’d like to check on our flight path, speed, and ETA to Ylesia. Please display that information.”

  “I regret, sir, that I am not authorized to give you that information.”

  Han was coming to a slow boil; he barely restrained himself from kicking the recalcitrant droid with his heavy space boot. “I need to check our flight path, speed, and ETA because I’ve got to compute how my air is holding out, R2,” he explained with exaggerated patience.

  “I-beg-your-pardon, sir, but this unit—”

  “SHUT UP!”

  Han was starting to sweat now, and the suit’s refrigeration unit revved up a little faster. He struggled to keep his tones calm. “Listen carefully, R2,” he said. “Don’t you have some kind of operating systems program that orders you to attempt to preserve the lives of intelligent beings whenever you can?”

  “Yes, sir, that programming is included with all astromech droids. For a droid to deliberately harm or fail to prevent harm to a sentient being, its operating system module must be altered.”

  “Good,” Han said. That fit in with what he knew about astromech programming. “Listen to me, R2. If you don’t show me our flight path, speed, and ETA, you may be responsible for my death, from lack of air. Do you understand me now?”

  “Please elaborate, sir.”

  Han explained, with exaggerated patience, his situation. When he finished, the droid was silent for a moment, evidently cogitating. Finally, it whirred once, then said, “I will comply with your request, sir, and will display the information requested on the diagnostic interface screen.”

  Han breathed a long sigh of relief. Since the ship was basically a giant robot drone, it had no controls visible on its control boards, just assorted blinking lights. But, in order to service the ship, there was a screen built into the control board. Han stepped carefully around the R2 unit and stared down at the screen.

  Information scrolled across it, so rapidly no human could have read it. Han turned to the R2 unit. “Put that data back up, and this time, leave it there until I can read it! Get it?”

  “Yes, sir.” The droid’s artificial voice sounded almost meek.

  Han studied the figures and diagram that appeared on the screen for several minutes, feeling his uneasiness grow into real fear. He had nothing to write with, and no way to access the navicomputer, but he had a bad feeling about what he was seeing. Biting his lip, he forced himself to concentrate as he ran the figures in his head, over and over.

  Ylesian Dream’s flight path had been set to take it in a circuitous route to the planet, in order to avoid the worst of the pirate-infested areas of Hutt space. And the little freighter’s speed was set far lower than the ship was capable of, slower than even Trader’s Luck normally traveled through hyperspace.

  Not good. Not good at all. If their speed and course weren’t altered, Han realized, he’d run out of air about five hours before the Dream set down on Ylesian soil. The ship would land with a corpse aboard … his.

  He turned back to the R2 unit. “Listen, R2, you’ve got to help me. If I don’t alter our course and speed, I won’t have sufficient air to make the trip. I’ll die, and it will be your fault.”

  The R2 unit’s lights flashed as the machine contemplated this revelation. Finally, it said: “But I did not know you were on board, sir. I cannot be held responsible for your death.”

  “Oh, no.” Han shook his head inside his helmet. “It doesn’t work that way, R2. If you know about this situation and do nothing, then you will be causing the death of a sentient being. Is that what you want?”

  “No,” the droid said. Even its artificial tones sounded faintly strained, and its lights flickered rapidly and erratically.

  “Then it follows,” Han continued inexorably, “that you must do whatever you can to prevent my death. Right?”

  “I … I …” The droid was quivering now in agitation. “Sir, I am constrained from assisting you. My programming is in conflict with my hardware.”

  “What do you mean?” Han was worried now. If the little droid overloaded and went dead, he’d never be able to access the manual “diagnostic” controls that he knew had to be in these panels somewhere. They’d be tiny, something for the techs to use to test the robot drone’s autopilot.

  “My programming is constraining me from informing you …”

  Han took one huge stride over to the little droid and knelt in front of it. “Blast you!” He pounded his fist on top of the droid’s clear dome. “I’ll die! Tell me!”

  The droid rocked agitatedly, and Han wondered if it would simply fall apart with the strain. But then it said, “I have been fitted with a restraining bolt, sir! It prevents me from complying with your request!”

  A restraining bolt! Han seized on this bit of information with al
acrity. Let’s see, where is it?

  After a moment he spotted it, low down on the droid’s metal carapace. He reached down, grasped it, and tugged.

  Nothing. The bolt didn’t move.

  Han gripped harder, tried twisting. He grunted with effort, really sweating now, imagining he could feel those molecules of oxygen running out in a steady stream. He’d heard that hypoxia wasn’t an especially bad way to die—compared to explosive decompression or being shot, for example—but he had no desire to find out firsthand.

  The bolt didn’t move. Han tried harder, jerking at it, swearing in half a dozen alien tongues, but the stubborn thing didn’t budge.

  Got to find something I can hit it with, Han thought, glancing wildly around the control cabin. But there was nothing—not a hydrospanner, a wrench—nothing!

  Suddenly he remembered the blaster. He’d left it on the floor in his little cubicle. “Wait right here,” Han instructed the R2 unit, and then he was squeezing back through the narrow corridors.

  Shooting a blaster inside a spaceship—even an unpressurized spaceship—wasn’t a good idea, but he was desperate.

  Han returned with the weapon, and examined the settings. Lowest setting, he thought. Narrowest beam. Clumsy in his spacesuit gloves, he had trouble adjusting the power setting and beam width.

  The R2’s lights had been flashing frenetically ever since he’d returned, and now it wheeped plaintively. “Sir? Sir, may I ask what you’re doing?”

  “I’m getting rid of that restraining bolt,” Han told it grimly. Aiming and narrowing his eyes, he squeezed delicately.

  A flash of energy erupted, and the little droid WHEEEEPPPPED! so shrilly it sounded like a scream. The restraining bolt fell to the deck, leaving behind a black burn scar on the otherwise shining metal of the R2 unit.

  “Gotcha,” Han said with satisfaction. “Now, R2, be good enough to point me toward the manual interfaces and controls in your ship here.”

  The droid obediently extruded a mobile wheeled “leg” and rolled over to the control banks, its interface cable trailing behind it. Han went over and crouched before the instrument panel, awkward in his suit. Following the droid’s instructions, he wrenched off the top of one featureless control panel and studied the tiny bank of controls. Cursing at the awkwardness of trying to manipulate the controls while wearing spacesuit gloves, Han began using the manual interface mode to disengage the hyperdrive. Altering course and speed could only be done in realspace.

  Once they were back in realspace, Han painstakingly computed a new course, using the R2 unit to perform the more esoteric calculations for the jump that would send them back into hyperspace.

  It took the young Corellian a while to lay in their new course and speed, but finally Han triggered the HYPERDRIVE ENGAGE switch again. A second later he felt the lurch as the drive kicked in. Han clung grimly to the instrument panel as the ship hurtled into hyperspace on its new course, at a greatly increased rate of speed.

  As the ship steadied around him, Han drew a long, long breath and let it out very slowly. He slumped to the deck and sat there, his legs stuck out before him. Whew!

  “You realize, sir,” said the R2 unit, “that you will now have to land this craft manually. Altering our course and speed has invalidated the existing landing protocols programmed into the ship.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Han said, leaning wearily back against the console. He took another sip of water and then ate two tablets. “But there’s no other way. I just hope I can work the controls fast enough to land us.” He glanced around him at the nearly featureless control room. “I wish this bucket of bolts came with a viewscreen.”

  “An autopilot cannot see, sir, so visual data is useless to it,” the R2 unit pointed out helpfully.

  “No!” Han said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “I thought droids could see just like we can!”

  “No, sir, we cannot,” R2 told him. “We recognize our surroundings by visual relays that translate into electronic data within our—”

  “Shut up,” Han said, too tired even to enjoy baiting the droid.

  Leaning back against the console, he closed his eyes. He’d done all that he could to save his life, by bringing the ship to Ylesia on a much more direct route, at a faster speed.

  Han drifted into sleep and dreamed of Dewlanna, as she had been long ago, when they’d first known each other …

  Han was halfway through the window when he heard the shout behind him. “We’ve been robbed!”

  Clutching his small sack of loot, he kicked, wriggling, trying to squeeze through the narrow enclosure. In the dark outside lay safety. A feminine cry of dismay: “My jewelry!”

  Han grunted with effort, realizing he was stuck. He fought back panic. He had to get away! This was a rich house, and when someone summoned the authorities, they were certain to come immediately.

  Silently he cursed the new vogue in Corellian architecture that had caused this luxurious home to be built with floor-to-ceiling narrow windows. The windows were advertised as being able to thwart burglars. Well, there might be some truth to that, he decided grimly. He’d sneaked in earlier through one of the doors that led to the gardens, then hidden out until he’d felt safe in believing that all the inhabitants were asleep. Then he’d ventured out to pick and choose among their treasures. He’d been confident that he could wiggle his skinny, nine-year-old self through those windows and make good his escape.

  Han grunted with effort again, kicking frantically. It was possible he was wrong about that …

  A voice behind him. The woman. “There he is! Get him!”

  Han turned a little more sideways, wriggled violently, and then suddenly he was through the window and falling. He didn’t let go of his sack, though, as he crashed down onto the manicured bed of flowering dorva vines. Breath whooshed out of his lungs, and for a moment he just lay there, gasping, like a drel out of water. His leg hurt, and so did his head.

  “Call the security patrol!” The masculine shout came from inside. Han knew he had only seconds to make good his escape. Forcing his leg to bear his weight, he rolled over and staggered to his feet.

  Trees ahead in the moonslight … big ones. He could lose himself in them, easy.

  Han half limped, half ran to the shelter of the trees. He resolved not to let Eight-Gee-Enn know what had happened. The droid might accuse him of slowing down now that he was going on ten.

  Han grimaced as he ran. He wasn’t slowing down, he just hadn’t been feeling well today. He’d had a dull headache ever since he’d awakened, and had been tempted to turn himself in on sick call.

  Since Han was almost never ill, he’d probably have been believed, but he didn’t like showing weakness in front of other denizens of Trader’s Luck. Especially Captain Shrike. The man never missed an opportunity to ride him.

  He was in the shelter of the trees, now. What next? He could hear the sound of running footsteps, so he didn’t have much time to decide. His muscles made that decision for him. Suddenly the sack was clenched in his teeth, there was bark against his palms, and the soles of his beat-up boots were braced against branches. Han climbed, listened, then climbed again.

  Only when he was high in the tree, above the range of a casual glance by pursuers, did he slow down. Han settled back on a limb, against the tree trunk, panting, his head whirling. He felt dizzy, nauseated, and for a moment he was afraid he’d be sick and give himself away. But he bit his lip and forced himself to stay still, and presently he felt a little better.

  Judging from the star patterns, it was only a few hours until dawn. Han realized that he was going to have trouble making the rendezvous with the Luck’s shuttle. Would Shrike just abandon him, or would he wait?

  Far below him, people were searching the wooded area. Lights strobed the night, and he huddled close to the tree trunk, eyes closed, clinging desperately despite his dizziness. If only his head didn’t throb so …

  Han wondered whether they’d bring in bioscanners, and shivered.
His skin felt hot and tight, even though the night was cool and breezy.

  Dark waned on toward dawn. Han wondered what Dewlanna was doing, whether she’d miss him if the Luck left orbit without him.

  Finally, the lights went out, and the footsteps faded away. Han waited another twenty minutes to make sure his pursuers were truly gone, then, holding the sack gripped in his teeth, he carefully climbed down, moving with exaggerated care because his head hurt so much. Every jar, even walking, made his head swim, and he had to grit his teeth against the pain.

  He walked … and walked. Several times he realized he’d been dozing while he walked, and a couple of times he fell down and was tempted to just stay there. But something kept him moving, as dawn brightened the streets and houses around him. Corellian dawns were beautiful, Han noticed dazedly. He’d never before noticed how pretty the colors were in the sky. If only the light didn’t hurt his eyes so …

  Dawn turned to day. Cool gave way to warmth, then heat. He was sweating, and his vision was blurred. But finally, there it was. The spaceport. By this time Han was moving like an automaton, one foot in front of the other, wishing he could just lie down and sleep in the road.

  Before him, now … the Luck’s shuttle! With a gasp that was nearly a sob, the boy drove himself forward. He was almost to the ramp when a tall figure emerged. Shrike.

  “Where in the blazes have you been?” There was nothing friendly in the captain’s grasp upon his arm. Han held up the sack, and Shrike grabbed it. “Well, at least you didn’t come back empty-handed,” the captain grumbled.

  Quickly he sifted through the contents, nodding his satisfaction. Only when he was finished did Shrike seem to notice that Han was swaying on his feet. “What’s wrong with you?”

  Now beyond coherent speech, Han could only shake his head. Consciousness was fading in and out on him like a jammed transmission.

  Shrike shook him a little, then put a hand on the boy’s forehead. When he felt the heat, he cursed. “Fever … should I leave you here? What if it’s contagious?” He frowned, clearly struggling to decide. Finally he hefted the sack of loot again. “Guess you’ve earned a sick day, kid,” he muttered. “C’mon.”