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

by A. C. Crispin

  “Very good, Cadet Solo.” The lieutenant smiled faintly and walked on, to the head of the group.

  Han breathed a long, slow sigh of relief. Made it through that one!

  An amplified voice echoed across the landing fields. A noncommissioned officer was standing beside the lieutenant, giving orders. “Imperial cadets! Assemble in ranks!”

  There was general confusion for a second, then the lines of cadets formed into ranks. “We will board the transport ship in rows. No talking, and pick up your feet.”

  Silence fell. Han was in Row 4. He stood as straight as he could, looking neither left nor right, waiting for his orders to move. From somewhere, the martial theme of the Imperial Navy began playing in the background.

  “Row one! March!”

  “Row two! March!”

  “Row three! March!”

  Excitement coursed through Han, singing in his blood This is it. What I’ve waited for all my life …

  “Row four! March!” bawled the noncom.

  Han right-faced smartly and followed the man ahead of him toward the Imperator. As he marched, he allowed himself a faint smile.

  Today it begins, he thought. My real life begins.

  He imagined Dewlanna’s and Bria’s faces. They were smiling, too.

  His feet were on the ramp. Han took a deep breath, the kind of breath that a newborn might draw in order to give its first cry, its first shout of, I’m here! Listen to me, I’m ALIVE!

  Han Solo felt new, as though he’d just been born. The dark past tumbled off his shoulders, and only the bright future lay ahead.

  He marched forward into it eagerly, and did not look back.

  About the Author

  A.C. Crispin is the author of the bestselling Han Solo Trilogy. Her newest project is a prequel to the Disney Pirates of the Caribbean films. Pirates of the Caribbean: The Price of Freedom, focuses on Jack Sparrow’s early life, and will be released May 17, 2011.

  Ms. Crispin writes in her own universes, including her seven book StarBridge series, and Storms of Destiny, the first novel in a planned trilogy. She’s also created stories in other media universes, including Star Trek, V, and Alien. Crispin is active in Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America, and serves as the Chair of Writer Beware, SFWA’s “scam watchdog” volunteer group. www.writerbeware.com

  Ann Crispin is married to SF writer Michael Capobianco and lives in Maryland. Learn more about her current projects by visiting her website: www.accrispin.com.

  By A.C. Crispin

  Star Wars: The Han Solo Trilogy

  The Paradise Snare

  The Hutt Gambit

  Rebel Dawn

  Fantasy

  Gryphon’s Eyrie (with Andre Norton)

  Songsmith (with Andre Norton)

  Star Trek

  Yesterday’s Son

  Time for Yesterday

  The Eyes of the Beholders

  Sarek

  Science Fiction

  The Starbridge Series – Books 1-7

  The Exiles of Boq’urain:

  Storms of Destiny

  Winds of Vengeance

  Flames of Chaos

  Pirates of the Caribbean: The Price of Freedom

  STAR WARS—The Expanded Universe

  You saw the movies. You watched the cartoon series, or maybe played some of the video games. But did you know …

  In The Empire Strikes Back, Princess Leia Organa said to Han Solo, “I love you.” Han said, “I know.” But did you know that they actually got married? And had three Jedi children: the twins, Jacen and Jaina, and a younger son, Anakin?

  Luke Skywalker was trained as a Jedi by Obi-Wan Kenobi and Yoda. But did you know that, years later, he went on to revive the Jedi Order and its commitment to defending the galaxy from evil and injustice?

  Obi-Wan said to Luke, “For over a thousand generations, the Jedi Knights were the guardians of peace and justice in the Old Republic. Before the dark times. Before the Empire.” Did you know that over those millennia, legendary Jedi and infamous Sith Lords were adding their names to the annals of Republic history?

  Yoda explained that the dreaded Sith tend to come in twos: “Always two, there are. No more, no less. A Master, and an apprentice.” But did you know that the Sith didn’t always exist in pairs? That at one time in the ancient Republic there were as many Sith as Jedi, until a Sith Lord named Darth Bane was the lone survivor of a great Sith war and created the “Rule of Two”?

  All this and much, much more is brought to life in the many novels and comics of the Star Wars expanded universe. You’ve seen the movies and watched the cartoon. Now venture out into the wider worlds of Star Wars!

  Turn the page or jump to the timeline of Star Wars novels to learn more.

  Han Solo, former Imperial officer, sat despondently at a sticky table in a dingy bar on Devaron, sipping an inferior Alderaanian ale and wishing he were alone. Not that he minded the other denizens of the bar—horned Devish males and furry Devish females, plus a smattering of nonhumans from other worlds. Han was used to aliens; he’d grown up with them aboard Trader’s Luck, a large trading ship that wandered the spacelanes of the galaxy. By the time he was ten, Han had been able to speak and understand half a dozen nonhuman languages.

  No, it wasn’t the aliens around him. It was the alien beside him. Han took a swig of his ale, grimaced at the sour taste, then glanced sidelong at the cause of all his troubles. The huge, hairy being gazed back at him with concerned blue eyes. Han sighed heavily. If only he’d go home! But the Wookiee—Chew-something—utterly refused to go home to Kashyyyk, despite Han’s repeated urging. The alien claimed he owed something called a “life debt” to former Imperial Lieutenant Han Solo.

  Life debt … great. Just what I need, Han thought bitterly. A big furry nursemaid trailing after me, giving me advice, fussing over me if I drink too much, telling me he’s gonna take care of me. Great. Just great.

  Han scowled into his ale, and the pale, watery brew reflected his countenance back at him, distorting his features until he appeared nearly as alien as the Wookiee. What was his name? Chew-something. The Wookiee had told him, but Han wasn’t good at pronouncing Wookiee, even though he understood it perfectly.

  Besides, he didn’t want to learn this particular Wookiee’s name. If he learned his name, he’d likely never get rid of his hairy shadow.

  Han rubbed a hand over his face blearily, feeling several days’ stubble. Ever since he’d been kicked out of the service, he kept forgetting to shave. When he’d been a cadet, then a junior lieutenant, then a full lieutenant, he’d been meticulous with his grooming, the way an officer and a gentleman should be … but now … what difference did it make?

  Han raised his glass in a slightly unsteady hand and gulped the sour ale. He put the empty tankard down, and glanced around the bar for the server. Need another drink. One more, and I’ll feel much better. Just one more …

  The Wookiee moaned quietly. Han’s scowl deepened. “Keep your opinions to yourself, hairball,” he snarled. “I’ll know when I’ve had enough. Th’ las’ thing I need is a Wookiee playin’ nursemaid for me.”

  The Wookiee—Chewbacca, that was it—growled softly, his blue eyes shadowed with concern. Han’s lip curled. “I’m perfectly capable of lookin’ after myself, and don’t you forget it. Just ’cause I saved your furry butt from being vaporized doesn’t mean you owe me a thing. I tol’ you before—I owed a Wookiee, long ago. Owed her my life, coupla times over. So I saved you, ’cause I owed her.”

  Chewbacca made a sound halfway between a moan and a snarl. Han shook his head. “No, that means you don’t owe me a thing, don’t you get it? I owed her, but I couldn’t repay her. So I helped you out, which makes us even … square. So will you please take those credits I gave you, and go back to Kashyyyk? You ain’t doin’ me any favors staying here, hairball. I need you like I need a blaster burn on my butt.”

  Affronted, Chewbacca drew himself up to his full Wookiee height. He growled low
in his throat.

  “Yeah, I know I tossed away my career and my livin’ that day on Coruscant when I stopped Commander Nyklas from shootin’ you. I hate slavery, and watchin’ Nyklas use a force whip ain’t a particularly appetizing sight. I know Wookiees, you see. When I was growin’ up, a Wookiee was my best friend. I knew you were gonna turn on Nyklas before you did it—just like I knew Nyklas would go for his blaster. I couldn’t just stand there and watch him blast you. But don’t go tryin’ to make me out as some kinda hero, Chewie. I don’t need a partner, and I don’t want a friend. My name says it all, pal. Solo.”

  Han jerked a thumb at his chest. “Solo. In my language, that means me, alone, by myself. Get it? That’s the way it is, and that’s the way I like it. So … no offense, Chewie, but why don’t you just scram. As in, go away. Permanently.”

  Chewie stared at Han for a long moment, then he snorted disdainfully, turned, and strode out of the bar.

  Han wondered disinterestedly if he’d actually managed to convince the big hairy oaf to leave for good. If he had, that was reason for celebration. For another drink …

  As he glanced around the bar, he saw that over in the corner several patrons were gathering around a table. A sabacc game was forming. Han wondered whether he ought to try to get in on it. Mentally he reviewed the contents of his credit pouch, and decided that might not be a bad idea. He usually had very good luck at sabacc, and every credit counted, these days.

  These days …

  Han sighed. How long had it been since that fateful day when he’d been sent to assist Commander Nyklas with the crew of Wookiee laborers assigned to complete a new wing on the Imperial Hall of Heroes? He counted, grimacing as he realized that he’d lost days on end in there … days probably spent in a dark haze of ale and bitter recrimination. In two days it would be two months.

  Han’s mouth tightened and he ran an unsteady hand through his unruly brown hair. For the past five years he’d kept it cut short in approved military fashion, but now it was growing out, getting almost shaggy. He had a sudden, sharp mental image of himself as he’d been then—immaculately groomed, insignia polished, boots shining—and glanced down at himself.

  What a contrast between then and now. He was wearing a stained, grayish shirt that had once been white, a stained, gray neo-leather jacket he’d purchased secondhand, and dark blue military-style trousers with his Corellian blood-stripe running down the outside seam. Only the boots were the same. They were custom-fitted when each cadet was commissioned, so the Empire hadn’t wanted them back. Han had been commissioned just a little over eight months ago, and no junior lieutenant had ever been prouder of his rank—or of those shining boots.

  The boots were scuffed now, and worn. Han’s lip curled as he regarded them. Scuffed and worn by life, all the spit and polish gone … that about described him these days, too.

  In a moment of painful honesty, Han admitted that he probably wouldn’t have been able to stay in the Imperial Navy even if he hadn’t gotten himself cashiered for rescuing and freeing Chewbacca. He’d started his career with high hopes, but disillusionment had quickly set in. The prejudice against nonhumans had been hard to take for someone raised the way Han had been, but he’d bitten his tongue and remained silent. But the endless, silly bureaucratic regs, the blind stupidity of so many of the officers—Han had already begun to wonder how long he’d be able to take it.

  But he’d never figured on a dishonorable discharge, loss of pension and back pay, and—worst of all—being blacklisted as a pilot. They hadn’t taken his license, but Han had quickly discovered that no legitimate company would hire him. He’d tramped the permacrete of Coruscant for weeks, in between alcoholic binges, looking for work—and found all respectable doors closed to him.

  Then, one night, as he’d tavern-hopped in a section of the planet-wide city near the alien ghetto, a huge, furred shadow had flowed out of the deeper shadows of an alley and confronted Han.

  For long moments Han’s ale-fogged brain hadn’t even recognized the Wookiee as the one he’d saved. It was only when Chewbacca began speaking, thanking Han for saving his life and freeing him from slavery, that Han had realized who he was. Chewie had been quite direct—his people didn’t mince words. He, Chewbacca, had sworn a life debt to Han Solo. Where Han went, from that day forward, he would go, too.

  And he had.

  When Han had finally gotten them passage off Coruscant, piloting a ship with a load of contraband to Tralus (the cargo had been magnetically sealed into the hold—Han hadn’t had the equipment or the energy to break in and find out exactly what it was he was smuggling), Chewbacca had gone with him. On the week-long voyage, Han began teaching the Wookiee the rudiments of piloting. Space travel was boring, and at least that gave him something to do besides brood over lost futures …

  Once on Tralus, he turned over his ship and cargo, then went looking for another assignment. He wound up at Truthful Toryl’s Used Spaceship Lot, asking the Duros for work. Toryl was an old acquaintance, and he knew Han was a reliable and expert pilot.

  The Empire was tightening its grip all the time, taking away the rights of its worlds as well as its citizens. Duro had a shipbuilding industry nearly equal to that of Corellia, but they had recently been prohibited by Imperial directive from placing weapons systems in their ships. Han’s clandestine cargo proved to be a shipment of components useful in outfitting ships with weapons.

  By the time they reached Duro, Chewie was becoming a fair copilot and gunner. Han hoped that teaching the Wookiee these skills would make it easier to get rid of him on some world. If he knew the Wookiee could hire on as a skilled pilot or copilot, he wouldn’t hesitate to dump him in some port and then lift ship—or so Han told himself.

  Once on Duro, Han drank up some of the profits from his mission, while waiting to be contacted for another piloting job. His patience was rewarded one day when a Sullustan approached him and offered him good pay to take a ship from Duro, avoiding any Imperial ports of call, a third of the way across the galaxy to Kothlis, a Bothan colony world.

  Of course the sleek, swift little craft was “hot”—stolen from some wealthy owner’s landing pad. Han had to remind himself that he was no longer in the business of keeping the law—he was in the business of breaking it.

  So he set his jaw and piloted the stolen vessel to her new home on Kothlis. Then he went looking for another assignment, and eventually found one. On the surface, this job seemed legit. Han was to ferry a large nalargon from Kothlis to Devaron.

  Han had never heard of a nalargon before, which wasn’t surprising, as his exposure to music had been limited. A nalargon proved to be a very large instrument that was operated by a keyboard and foot pedals. Pipes and sub-harmonic resonance generators produced sound on many wave bands. The instruments were in demand for the jizz craze that was sweeping the galaxy.

  Accordingly, the huge instrument was brought aboard the ship Han had been assigned, bolted to the deck, then left sealed in the cargo compartment.

  Han investigated the instrument once he and Chewie were safely in hyperspace. He tapped it, poked and nudged it, turned it on, then tried pressing the keys and pedals. No sound, except the sound he made trying to make it work.

  But his tappings proved it wasn’t hollow. Han sat back on his heels, gazing at the huge instrument. The thing was obviously a dummy—a shell, with something inside. What?

  Han knew from his stint in the Imperial Navy that Devaron was a world in turmoil. Not long ago a group of rebels had risen against the Imperial governor, demanding independence from the Empire. Han’s lip curled disdainfully. Stupid fools, thinking they had a chance against the Empire. Seven hundred of the rebels had been captured when the ancient holy city of Montellian Serat had been overrun by Imperial troops a few months ago. They’d been summarily executed without trial, killed without mercy. The remaining rebels were still hiding out in the hills, holding out, attacking commando fashion, but Han knew it was only a matter of time before they,
too, would be ground beneath Palpatine’s heel, their world rigidly controlled by the Empire, as so many other worlds had been.

  Eyeing the nalargon, Han made some mental calculations based on the instrument being hollow. Yeah … a short-bore mobile laser cannon would just about fit inside that shell. The weapon could be mounted on the back of a landskimmer, and was capable of blowing small targets—a building, or a short-range Imperial fighter—into very small pieces.

  It could also be blast rifles, of course. Ten or fifteen would fit inside there, if they were cleverly packed.

  Whatever was inside the nalargon, Han had a bad feeling about the assignment he’d taken on. He resolved to land the ship, then walk away from it and not go back. He had fake landing codes, provided by the Bothans. He’d use them, and then get away as quickly as he could …

  He’d landed yesterday, and for all Han knew, the ship was still sitting on the field with the nalargon in her cargo hold. But he had a hunch that the rebels on Devaron hadn’t wasted any time …

  Han shook his head a little blearily, half wishing he hadn’t had that last ale. The sour taste was still in his mouth, and his head buzzed. Han looked from side to side, testingly, and the room stayed still. Good. He wasn’t too drunk to play sabacc and win. Let’s get on with it, Solo. Every little credit helps …

  The smuggler rose to his feet and strolled quite steadily across the room to the table. “Greetings, gentles,” he said, in Basic. “Got room for another player?”

  The dealer, a Devaronian male, turned his head with its waxed, polished horns to regard Han questioningly. He must have decided that the newcomer looked okay, because he shrugged and gestured at the vacant seat. “Welcome, Pilot. As long as your credits hold out, so does your welcome.” He grinned, showing sharp, feral teeth.

  Han nodded, then slid into the seat.

  He’d first learned to play sabacc when he was about fourteen. Han anted credits into the high-stakes pot, the “sabacc pot,” then picked up the two cards he’d been dealt and scanned them, all the while covertly studying his opponents. When the bet for the “hand pot” came round to him, he tossed the requisite number of credit disks into that pot, too.