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

by A. C. Crispin

  Han realized it was now late at night. He’d been wandering the streets for twelve or fifteen hours. Fortunately, in this district, some places never slept. The Corellian realized that he needed both food and sleep—he was so empty and exhausted that his head spun.

  He began walking slowly back the way he’d come, realizing that every step felt as though he were treading on burning sand. His soles were abraded and blistered, and he limped.

  The pain in his feet was a welcome distraction.

  From now on, it’s just me, Han Solo, he thought, stopping and peering up at the night sky, barely visible at the top of an airshaft. One star—or was it a space station?—winked against the blackness. Han’s mental declaration had the conviction of a sworn oath. Nobody else. I don’t care about anybody else. Nobody gets close, from now on. I don’t care how pretty she is, how smart, or how sweet. No friend, no lover … nobody is worth this kind of pain. From now on, it’s just me … Solo. With one part of his mind, he realized the grim irony of his inadvertent play on words, and he chuckled hollowly. From now on, his name was him. His name had come to stand for what he was, what was inside him.

  Solo. From now on. Just me. The galaxy and everyone in it can go to blazes. I’m Solo, now and forever.

  The last of the youthful softness had vanished from Han’s features, and there was a new coldness, a new hardness in his eyes. He walked on into the night, and his boot heels sounded hard against the permacrete—as hard and unrelenting as the shell now sheathing his heart.

  A week later Han Solo walked toward the Hall of Admissions of the Imperial Space Academy. The building was a huge, topmost-level structure, massive and quietly, solidly dignified in design.

  The light from Coruscant’s small white sun made him blink. It had been a long time since he’d seen sunlight, and his eyes were still sensitive, still easily irritated.

  Having one’s retinal patterns altered was possible, as Han had just proved, but it hadn’t been a pleasant experience. He’d had the laser surgery and cell rearrangement, then he’d spent a day in a bacta tank, healing. He’d then worn a bacta visor for three more days, lying in a little back room at Nici’s “clinic.”

  He’d put his forced inaction to good use, though, and had listened to hours of canned history and literature recordings, boning up for the examinations he hoped to begin. Han was under no illusions that the Academy testing would prove easy for him. His education had been spotty, at best.

  Nici the Specialist had been worth every credit of his exorbitant fee. “Han Solo” now existed in the Imperial database, along with his retinal patterns, and other identifying marks. (Most of these scars were brand-new, carefully placed on his body by Nici’s medical droids. Han had had most of his old scars erased.)

  “Han Solo” now had IDs that were indistinguishable from those possessed by every loyal citizen of the Empire. For the first time in more than a decade, he was “clean”—Han Solo wasn’t wanted by anyone for anything. He no longer had to glance guiltily behind him or try to grow eyes in the back of his head. He didn’t have to stay alert for the betraying flash of light of a suddenly revealed blaster muzzle. He still tensed at loud noises, but that was just reflex.

  Han Solo was a regular citizen, not a hunted fugitive.

  He still had Vykk Draygo’s and Jenos Idanian’s IDs, buried deep in a credit case, but he was simply waiting for a good chance to dispose of them. Han’s face had never appeared on a WANTED poster or in a database, only his original retinal patterns. And they were gone, erased.

  As he mounted the stone steps to the Hall of Admissions, Han’s strides were sure and confident. He walked up to the human recruiting officer sitting behind the desk and smiled politely. “Hello,” he said. “My name is Han Solo, and I’d like to apply for admission into the Imperial Academy. I’ve always wanted to be a Naval officer.”

  The clerk did not smile back, but he was civil. “May I see your identification, Mr. Solo?”

  “Certainly,” Han said, and laid it on the desk.

  “This will take a moment. Please take a seat.”

  Han sat, feeling inner tension, but telling himself he had nothing to be afraid of. Renn Tharen’s credits had seen to that …

  Minutes later the clerk handed Han’s IDs back to him and offered a remote smile. “Everything checks out, Solo. You can begin the application and testing process today. Are you aware that over fifty percent of the candidates are not accepted? And that fifty percent of those accepted never complete their course at the Academy?”

  “Yes, sir, I am,” Han said. “But I’m determined to try. I’m a good pilot.”

  “The Emperor needs good pilots,” the man said, his smile actually genuine for a moment. “Very well, let’s get you started …”

  The next week was a calculated nightmare. The first step was a thorough physical, more detailed than any Han had experienced before. The medical droids poked and prodded places that made Han long to give them a swift kick in their circuitry, but he bore it all stoically.

  He was very tense during the eye exam, but Nici’s droid had been an expert. The Imperial medical droid found nothing wrong.

  Han passed the physical with flying colors. His reaction time and reflexes were in the topmost percentile.

  Then came the hard part …

  Day after day, a steadily dwindling group of cadet candidates were ushered into private examination rooms. Each room came equipped with an examination droid, who posed the questions to the candidates, recorded their scores, and kept tabulations of their standing.

  Each night Han went back to his tiny little cubicle in yet another flophouse and fell asleep, exhausted, only to dream all night of taking exams:

  “Cadet Candidate Solo, I am going to show you four types of body armor. Which of these was used by the Mandalorian forces during the last century?”

  And, “Cadet Candidate Solo, in what year did our glorious Emperor become President of the Imperial Senate? What historical event preceded his election?”

  And, “Cadet Candidate Solo, if a Victory-class Star Destroyer leaves Imperial Center at the displayed time, and carries the mass and weight of armament, cargo, and troops, as displayed on this screen, which course and approach vector to the Daedalon system will produce the most fuel efficiency? Which course and approach vector will produce the best speed? Be prepared to show the figures for your answer.”

  And, “Cadet Candidate Solo, which battle of the Noolian Crisis brought about the liberation of the Bothan Sector? On what date was it fought?”

  Worst of all, as far as Han was concerned, were the “cultural” questions. Each cadet was expected to be an officer and a gentleman (or woman), and a certain amount of cultural acumen was required. Han sweated his way through questions such as, “Cadet Candidate Solo, I am going to play music from three different worlds. Please identify the planet of origin of each piece of music.”

  Ironically, Han was much better at answering the art questions than the music ones. His background as a thief and burglar had given him at least a passing acquaintance with Art History and modern Galactic Art.

  When, after three days of relentless examinations, Han found himself still listed among the CADET CANDIDATES on the vid-board in the giant Hall of Admissions, he was both surprised and ecstatic.

  The piloting tests covered the last two days of the week-long testing period. During this portion, Han’s experience stood him in good stead. The candidates were taken off-world in large transports and shipped to nearby Imperial bases. Only one section of the advanced-placement testing was conducted on Coruscant itself.

  Every day, the candidates practiced piloting in a variety of different situations. Han did well, and knew he’d passed each test. Only one off-note was struck—one of Han’s testing officers (human instructors were used during this portion) commented sourly to the other instructors that he felt that Han’s “fastest time for assigned run” score should be stricken because it was highly irregular for a cadet candi
date to fly a shuttle through Emperor Palpatine’s Arch of Triumph on Imperial Center, rather than above it.

  “He frightened several thousand Imperial citizens! We received hundreds of complaints!” the officer sputtered.

  The head testing officer shrugged. “Nobody was injured, right?”

  “Correct, sir.”

  “Then Cadet Candidate Solo’s score stands. Those citizens could use a little excitement from time to time. Good for their circulation,” the head testing officer decided.

  Han was careful not to let on that he’d overheard the exchange.

  The Corellian knew that while he’d done well on the piloting examinations, he’d passed several of the other subjects by the barest skin of his teeth.

  Several times a “minus” sign appeared beside his name, indicating that he would be slated for remedial studies in that area, should he pass and be accepted into the Academy.

  Not surprisingly, “Music” was among those areas, as was “Ancient Pre-Republic History,” “Interspatial Quantum Physics,” and “Nonlinear Hyperspace Geometry.”

  Han studied every night and fell asleep to the sounds of “cram recordings” droning reams of information as he slumbered. Actually, Han didn’t really mind dreaming endlessly about the examinations each night.

  It beat dreaming of Bria.

  Finally, the day came when he stood before the vid-board and looked for his name on the list of DISQUALIFIED CANDIDATES—and failed to find it.

  Heart pounding, scarcely daring to hope, he went over to look at the other list across the Hall, the one labeled CADETS ACCEPTED.

  Han Solo.

  There it was, in glowing letters. Han stared at it, unable to think, hardly daring to believe it.

  But there it was. He hung around the Hall for an hour, and went back three different times, and it was there every time. Finally, after the third time, Han allowed himself to whisper, “Yes!” and pump his fist into the air in triumph.

  He walked down the steps and out into the massive top-level plaza, feeling the cold evening air of Coruscant, like a dash of cold, refreshing water.

  This calls for a celebration, he thought exultantly.

  Han treated himself to dinner at one of the posh upper-level restaurants, not too far from the Hall of Admissions. He ordered nerf medallions in tangy redor sauce, with a side order of fried tubers, and a salad of assorted greens. He also ordered an Alderaanian ale, which he sipped slowly, savoring it.

  Once, during dinner, he glanced around at the beautiful decor, taking in the swanky metal and living ice sculpture, the muted jizz trio, and the human servers. Several highranking Imperial officers were there, escorting attractive women in beautiful evening gowns. Han raised his glass unobtrusively into the air and whispered, “Bria, I made it. I sure wish you were here to share this with me, sweetheart …”

  After paying the exorbitant price for the meal without a single regret, Han walked out of the restaurant and strolled across the broad, elegant plaza. The weather deflector mounted high above the plaza kept off most of the wind, so he was almost warm enough as he walked. He sealed up his old jacket against the chill.

  All around him, and above him, Han could see the topmost spires and roofs of the highest buildings. This plaza was located right below the highest level in this part of Coruscant. Long, corkscrewed ramps led up to the upper level, in addition to the ubiquitous turbolifts.

  Once out of the brightest glare of the lights, Han leaned against a railing and tried to see the stars. He picked out one or two of the brightest, but the horizon completely overshadowed the heavens. Red and green auroras shimmered and flickered, seemingly painted against the blackness by some mad, gargantuan artist. It was a breathtaking view.

  I made it!

  Han smiled …

  And then froze, as something hard and small and round jabbed into the small of his back. The muzzle of a blaster. A voice Han recognized, even though it had been nearly five months since he’d heard it, said jovially, “Hey, Han. Good to see you again, boy. I have to admit, you weren’t easy to find.”

  This can’t be happening, Han thought. Not now! It’s not fair!

  The genial tones held a chuckle, now. “Han, why don’t you turn around real slow and easy, and let’s talk face-to-face.”

  Han turned, very slowly, and as he had known he would, found himself face-to-face with Garris Shrike. The captain of Trader’s Luck had replaced his gaudy uniform with his old bounty hunter’s garb of scarred leather vest, trousers, and snug-fitting Alderaanian nerf-wool tunic, but otherwise he looked exactly the same as he had the night Han had left him sprawled unconscious on the deckplates.

  No … Han thought, there’s something different …

  After a moment he realized that he was looking slightly down at Shrike. It’s me that’s different. I’ve grown a little. I’m taller …

  Shrike scrutinized him. “Well … ain’t you handsome, boy,” he said. “Too bad you can’t come back with me to the Luck and let some of the ladies get a look at you. You’d be a real favorite, I’m sure.”

  Han finally found his voice. “What do you want, Garris?” he demanded coldly.

  “Oh, so it’s ‘Garris’ now, is it? Think you’re my equal, do you?” The man backhanded Han viciously across the face. When Han started to react, the blaster dug threateningly into his midsection. Silently the younger man wiped blood from a split lower lip. “Well, you’re not my equal, and don’t you forget it. All you are to me is a pile of credits from the Hutts for bringing ‘Vykk Draygo’ back to them alive.”

  “The Hutts are looking for me?” Han asked, stalling for time.

  “They’re looking for Vykk Draygo, and Jenos Idanian, and all the rest of your aliases, boy. But you’re ‘Han Solo,’ now, aren’t you? And I’m the only one in the whole galaxy, practically, who knew that Han Solo was also Vykk Draygo and all those others. So when I saw the Hutt advert, I decided to come out of retirement just for you. Too many credits to pass up.”

  “I see,” Han said.

  Shrike rocked his head back with another hard slap. “No, you don’t see, Han. You don’t see that things ain’t been going good for the Luck lately. You don’t see that Larrad’s never been the same since your Wookiee hag dislocated his arm. Those credits from the Hutts are gonna turn things around for all of us.”

  “Really?” Han asked. “I don’t see how just capturing me is going to change your luck. You’d do better to pull some kind of scam on Gamorr. And I’m afraid … Garris … that I can’t go along with this little scheme of yours …” As he spoke, Han had begun lowering his voice, little by little, speaking more and more softly. Unconsciously, Shrike leaned forward slightly to hear—

  —just as Han, with a wild scream, leaped straight at him. One arm swept up in a block, sweeping Shrike’s arm, and almost at the same moment, Han brought his knee up into the man’s groin. As Shrike doubled over with a grunt, Han punched him in the jaw, hard. The captain went down.

  The blaster dropped out of Garris’s hand, and Shrike grabbed for it. Han kicked it away, sending it skittering into the black, sharp-edged shadows. Then he leaped over Shrike’s crouched form and bolted for the ramp leading up to the tallest roof. From there he could hide and catch a horizontal tube or a turbolift.

  Han couldn’t believe he’d actually managed to down Shrike in a fight. While he’d been growing up, he’d lived in terror of the captain’s temper and his hard fists.

  Han reached the ramp and went up the corkscrew with the rush of a ship using full thrusters. He reached the top of the ramp and hesitated, looking around. The rooftop looked otherworldly with its double-edged shadows from Coruscant’s two small moons, edging everything into aching, sparkling white and bands of gray that plunged into impenetrable darkness.

  As Han headed out across the rooftop, still scanning for a turbolift, a blue bolt shot out of the darkness at his right. The shot had come from the doorway of a turbolift. Blaster on stun! Han thought, running again,
zigzagging frantically. Shrike? How could he have got up here so fast?

  Another stun beam.

  Han bolted across the rooftop like a vrelt running before a blaster ray, running as he’d never run before in his life. He passed another turbolift entrance, pulled up, and headed toward it. As he reached it, the door opened, and Shrike stood there, silhouetted in the doorway, blaster in hand.

  Han skidded to a halt on the icy permacrete and reversed direction. Shrike here? Who fired those other shots, then?

  But he was too busy racing across the rooftop to give the question much consideration.

  Shrike’s blaster spat, blue-green in the shadows. The uppermost level was mostly reserved for courting couples and was not well lit. Only the light of Coruscant’s two small moons illumined the area.

  Han’s breath was visible in the darkness as he raced across the permacrete, leaping over curbs and exposed conduits. The uppermost spires of several buildings stuck up from the permacrete like grotesque stone evergreens. Han hurdled one and skidded on hoarfrost as he landed. It was cold up here, away from the protection of the weather deflector. His leather jacket offered little protection.

  “Stop or I’ll fry your ass!” Shrike yelled, and another stun beam split the night.

  Han lengthened his strides, fleeing like a hunted animal, desperate to escape. Daring to look back over his shoulder, he saw Shrike’s dark form light up faintly in the reflected glow from another stun beam.

  Turning forward again, Han ran faster, harder—only to come to a screeching halt and stand teetering on the edge where the permacrete dead-ended!

  Arms windmilling, Han threw himself backward. He had a brief glimpse of the gorgeously lit plaza, ten or more stories below him, including the elegant restaurant where he’d eaten dinner. Through the shimmer of the weather deflectors, he could see the elegant statues, the exotic flowers and greenery …

  Dinner seemed a lifetime ago.