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  THE HAN SOLO ADVENTURES

  Han Solo drove his swoop into the weather station’s giant emission cylinder. The pursuing craft hung back a moment, then followed.

  “Stay gripped!” he called to the woman behind him, jockeying the swoop to face his enemies. They scattered, then dropped onto his tail again, ready to trap him at the cylinder’s far end.

  Han speeded up once more. The end of the emission cylinder was swinging, first revealing and then concealing meter-and-a-half-wide openings in the gridwork. The opening Han had selected expanded before him as he drove toward it. There was a terrible moment of doubt … then the gridwork passed him like a shadow, and they were in the open.

  He took a quick look behind. Pieces of wreckage were raining slowly toward the ground; one of his pursuers had tried to emulate him and failed …

  A Del Rey® Book

  Published by The Random House Publishing Group

  HAN SOLO AT STARS’ END copyright © 1979 by The Star

  Wars Corporation

  HAN SOLO’S REVENGE copyright © 1979 by Lucasfilm Ltd.

  (LFL)

  HAN SOLO AND THE LOST LEGACY copyright © 1980 by Lucasfilm Ltd. (LFL)

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Del Rey Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

  Del Rey is a registered trademark and the Del Rey colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

  www.delreybooks.com

  eISBN: 978-0-307-79548-9

  vKFRONE3.1

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  HAN SOLO AT STARS’ END

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  About the Author

  Also by this Author

  Introduction to the Star Wars Expanded Universe

  Excerpt from Star Wars: The Adventures of Lando Calrissian

  Introduction to the Old Republic Era

  Introduction to the Rise of the Empire Era

  Introduction to the Rebellion Era

  Introduction to the New Republic Era

  Introduction to the New Jedi Order Era

  Introduction to the Legacy Era

  Star Wars Novels Timeline

  HAN SOLO AT STARS’ END

  To Poul Anderson and Gordon R. Dickson,

  for their kind words to a new guy

  and

  Owen Lock: learned editor and friend,

  who’ll race to Antares for pinks, any time

  The author wishes to thank Eleanor and

  Diana Berry for timely assistance

  I

  “IT’S a warship all right. Damn!”

  Instrument panels in the Millennium Falcon’s cockpit were alive with trouble lights, warning flashers, and the beeps and hoots of the sensor package. Readout screens were feeding combat-information displays at high speed.

  Han Solo, crouched forward in the pilot’s seat, coolly flicking his eyes from instrument to screen, hastily assessed his situation. His lean, youthful face creased in a frown of concern. Beyond the cockpit canopy, the surface of the planet Duroon drew steadily nearer. Somewhere below and astern, a heavily armed vessel had detected the Falcon’s presence and was now homing in to challenge her. That the warship had, in fact, picked up the Millennium Falcon first was a matter of no small worry to Han; the ability to come and go without attracting notice, especially official notice, was vital to a smuggler.

  He began relaying fire-control data to the ship’s weapons systems. “Charge main batteries, Chewie,” he said, not taking his eyes from his part of the console, “and shields-all. We’re in prohibited space; can’t let ’em take us or identify the ship.” Particularly, he added to himself, with the cargo we’re hauling.

  To his right, Chewbacca the Wookiee made a sound halfway between a grunt and a bark, his furry fingers darting to his controls with sure dexterity, his large, hairy form hunched in the oversized copilot’s seat. Wookiee-style, he showed his fierce fighting teeth as he rapidly surrounded the starship with layers of defensive energy. At the same time, he brought the Falcon’s offensive weaponry up to its maximum charge.

  Bracing his ship for battle, Han berated himself for ever having taken on this job. He’d known full well it could take him into conflict with the Corporate Sector Authority, in the middle of a steer-clear area.

  The Authority ship’s approach left Han and Chewbacca just seconds for a clutch decision: abort the mission and head for parts unknown, or try to pull off their delivery anyway. Han surveyed his console, hoping for a clue, or a hit off the Cosmic Deck.

  The other ship wasn’t gaining. In fact, the Falcon was pulling away. Sensors gauged the mass, armaments, and thrust of their pursuer, and Han made his best guess. “Chewie, I don’t think that’s a ship of the line; looks more like a bulk job, with augmentative weapons. She must’ve just lifted off when she got wind of us. Hell, don’t those guys have anything better to do?” But it figured; the one major Authority installation on Duroon, the only one with a full-dress port layout, was on the far side of the globe, where the dawn line would just be lightening gray sky. Han had planned his landing for a spot as far away from the port as possible, in the middle of the night-side.

  “We take her down,” he decided. If the Falcon could shake her follower, Han and Chewbacca could make their drop and, with the luck of the draw, escape.

  The Wookiee gave a grumpy growl, black nostrils flaring, tongue curling. Han glared at him. “You got a better idea? It’s a little late to part company, isn’t it?” He took the converted freighter into a steep dive, throwing away altitude in return for increased velocity, heading deeper into Duroon’s umbra.

  The Authority vessel, conversely, slowed even more, climbing through the planet’s atmosphere, trading speed for altitude in an attempt to keep the Millennium Falcon under sensor surveillance. Han ignored the Authority’s broadcast order to halt; telesponders that should have automatically given his starship’s identity in response to official inquiry had been disconnected long ago.

  “Hold deflector shields at full capacity,” he ordered. “I’m taking her down to the deck; we don’t want our skins cooked off.” The Wookiee complied, to shed thermal energy generated by the Falcon’s rapid passage through the atmosphere. The starship’s controls trembled as she began to buck the denser air Han worked to put the planet between himself and the Authority vessel.

  This he soon accomplished, as indicators registered increased heat from the friction of the freighter’s dive. Between watching sensors and looking through the canopy, Han quickly found his first landmark, a volcanically active crevasse that ran on an east-west axis, like a stupendous, burning scar on the flesh of Duroon. He brought the Falcon out of her swoop, her control systems rebelling against the immense strain. He leveled off only meters above the planet’s surface.

  “Let’s see them track us now,” he said, self-satisfied. Chewbacca snorted. The meaning of the snort was clear—this was temporary cover only. There was little danger of being detected either optically or by instrument over this seam in Duroon’s surface, for the Falcon would be lost against a background of ferrous slag, infernal heat, and radioactive discord. But neither could she remain there for long.

  In the vivid orange light of the fissure that illuminated the cockpit, Han conc
eded that fact. At best, he’d broken trail so the Authority ship would be unable to spot the Falcon should the pursuer gain enough altitude to bring her back into sensor range. He poured on as much airspeed as he dared in an effort to keep Duroon’s mass between himself and the vessel hunting him while he sought his landing site. He cursed the fact that there were no proper navigational beacons; this was seat-of-the-pants flying, and no chance of leaning out the cockpit and stopping a passerby for directions.

  In minutes the ship had neared the western end of the fissure. Han was compelled to dump some velocity; it was time to look for road signs. He reviewed the instructions given him, instructions he’d committed to memory alone. Off to the south a gigantic mountain range loomed. He banked the Falcon sharply to port, slapped a pair of switches, and bore straight for the mountains.

  The ship’s special Terrain Following Sensors came on. Han kept the freighter’s bow close above a surface of cooled lava and occasional active rifts, minor offspring of the great fissure. For whatever small edge it might give against detection, he trimmed the Falcon off at virtual landing altitude, screaming over eddied volcanic flatlands. “Anybody down there better duck,” he advised, keeping one eye pinned to the Terrain Following Sensors. They bleeped, having located the mountain pass for which he’d been searching. He adjusted course.

  Funny. His information said the break in the mountains was plenty wide for the Falcon, but it looked mighty narrow on the TFS. For a second he debated going for altitude fast, hurdling the high peaks, but that just might put him back onto the Authority’s scopes. He was too close to his delivery point, and a payday, to risk having to cut and run. The moment of option passed. He shed more airspeed, committed now to taking the pass at low level.

  Sweat collected on his forehead and dampened his shirt and vest. Chewbacca uttered his low rumble of utmost concentration as both partners synched to the running of the Millennium Falcon. The image of the pass on the TFS grew no more encouraging.

  Han tightened his grip on the controls, feeling the press of his flying gloves against them. “Pass, nothing—that thing’s a slot! Hold your breath, Chewie; we’ll have to skin through.”

  He threw himself into a grim battle with his ship. Chewbacca caterwauled his dislike for all unconventional maneuvers as he cut in braking thrusters, but even those would not be enough to avert disaster. The slot began to take on shape, a slightly lighter area of sky lit by bright stars and one of Duroon’s three moons, set off by the silhouette of the mountains. It was, just barely, too narrow.

  The starship took some altitude, and her speed slackened. Those extra seconds gave Han time to pilot for his life, calling on razor-edge reflexes and instinctive skills that had seen him through scrapes all across the galaxy. He killed all shields, since they’d have struck rock and overloaded, and wrenched his controls, standing the Millennium Falcon on her port-side. Sheer crags closed in on either side, so that the roar of the freighter’s engines rebounded from the cliffs. He made minute corrections, staring at rock walls that seemed to be coming at him through the canopy, and rattled off a string of expletives having nothing whatsoever to do with piloting.

  There was a slight jar, and the shriek of metal torn away as easily as paper. The long-range sensors winked out; the dish had been ripped off the upper hull by a protrusion of rock. Then the needle’s eye was threaded sideways, and the Falcon was through the mountains.

  Perspiration beading his face, dampening his light brown hair, Han pounded Chewbacca. “What’d I tell you? Inspiration’s my specialty!”

  The starship soared over the thick jungle that began beyond the mountains. Han leveled off, wiping a gloved hand across his brow. Chewbacca emitted a sustained growl. “I agree,” Han replied soberly in the wake of his elation. “That was a stupid place to put a mountain.” He took up scanning for the next landmark and spied it almost at once: a winding river. The Falcon skimmed in low over the watery coils as the Wookiee lowered the ship’s landing gear.

  In seconds they’d reached the landing area near a spectacular waterfall that dropped two hundred meters to the river in a flume like a blue-white, ghostly scrim under stars and moonlight. Han, reading the TFS, found a clearing in the heavy cover of vegetation and settled the ship slowly. The broad disks of the landing gear sank a bit in soft humus; then the hydrolics sighed briefly as the Millennium Falcon made herself comfortable.

  Han and Chewbacca sat at their controls for a moment, too drained to do more. Outside the cockpit canopy, the jungle was an irregular darkness, tangles of indefatigable growth topped by a roof of fernlike plants that stretched up twenty meters and more. Gauzy ground fog rolled through the undergrowth and clearing.

  The Wookiee gave a long, gusty, bass-register exhalation. “I couldn’t have said it better,” Han concurred. “Let’s get at it.” Both removed headsets and left their seats. Chewbacca picked up his crossbow weapon and a bandolier of metal ammo containers, which also supported a floppy carryall pouch at his hip. Han already wore his side arm, a custom-model blaster with rear-fitted macroscope, its front sight blade filed off to facilitate the speed draw. His holster was worn low, tied down at the thigh, cut so that it exposed the weapon’s trigger and trigger guard.

  According to directories, Duroon’s atmosphere would support humanoid life without respirators. The two smugglers moved directly to the ship’s ramp. The hatch rolled up and the ramp lowered silently, letting in smells of plant growth, of rotting vegetation, of hot, humid night and animal danger. The jungle was filled with sounds, calls, clacks, and cries of prey and predator, and, over all, with the monumental spillage of the waterfall.

  “Now it’s up to them to find us,” Han said. Checking the jungle, he saw no sign of life. Not surprising. The freighter’s landing had probably frightened most wildlife out of the area. He turned to his shaggy first mate/copilot/partner. “I’ll wait for them. Turn off sensors, shut down the engines, the works; kill all systems so the Authority can’t spot us. Then see how much structural damage she suffered topside when she got her back scratched.”

  Chewbacca barked acknowledgement and shambled off. Han stripped off his flying gloves, tucked them in his belt, and stepped down the ramp, which stretched down and out from the ship’s starboard side, astern the cockpit. He thumbed his gun’s sights to set it for night shooting, then glanced around. A lean young man dressed in spaceman’s high boots, dark uniform trousers with red piping, and civilian shirt and vest, Han had cast aside his uniform tunic, stripped of its rank and insignia, years ago.

  He ran a quick check of the Falcon’s underside, assuring himself that she had taken no damage there and that the landing gear had come to rest properly. He also made certain that the interrupter-templates had automatically slid into place along the servo-guides for the belly turret, so that the quad-mounted guns wouldn’t accidentally blow away the landing gear or ramp if he had to fire them while the ship was grounded.

  Satisfied, he went back to the foot of the ramp. He gazed up at the empty sky and the stars beyond, thinking: Let the Authority look for me; this whole part of Duroon’s spotted with hot springs, thermal vents, heavy-metal magma seepages, and radiation anomalies. It’d take them a month to find me, and in an hour or three, I’ll be gone like a cool breeze.

  He sat at the end of the ramp, wishing for a moment that he’d brought along something to drink; there was a flask of ancient, vacuum-distilled jet juice under the cockpit console. But he didn’t feel like going for it. Besides, he still had business to conduct.

  Duroon’s nocturnal life forms began reappearing in the mossy clearing. Lacy white things swam through the air with ripples of their thin bodies, resembling flying doilies, while nearby fern-trees held creatures that looked like bundles of straw, making their slow way along the wide fronds. Han kept an eye on them but doubted they’d approach the alien mass of his starship.

  As he watched, a smallish green sphere sailed out of the undergrowth in a high arc, landing with a boink. It appeared perfec
tly smooth at first, but then extruded an eyelike bump that studied the Falcon with jerky motions. But when it noticed the pilot, it flinched. The eye-bump disappeared, and the sphere-thing’s underside compressed. With another boink the thing bounced away into the jungle.

  Han returned to his musing as he listened to Chewbacca tramping around on the ship’s upper hull. The unfamiliar constellations here were how many light-years from the planet of Han’s birth? He couldn’t even make a close guess.

  Being a smuggler and a flyer-for-hire had its dangers, and those he accepted with a philosophical shrug. But a run into a prohibited sector with a cargo that would earn him a summary execution if caught, those were different table stakes altogether.

  The Corporate Sector was one wisp off one branch at the end of one arm of the galaxy, but that wisp contained tens of thousands of star systems, and not one native, intelligent species was to be found anywhere. No one was sure why. Han had heard that neutrino research showed abnormalities in the solar convective layers of every sun hereabout, something that might have spread like a virus among the stars in this isolated sector.

  In any case, the Corporate Sector Authority had been chartered to exploit—some called it plunder—the uncountable riches here. The Authority was owner, employer, landlord, government, and military. Its wealth and influence eclipsed that of all but the richest Imperial Regions, and the Authority spent much of its time and energy insulating itself from outside interference. Competition, it had none; but that didn’t make the Corporate Sector Authority any less jealous or vindictive. Any outside ship found off established trade corridors was fair game for the Authority’s warships, which were manned by its feared Security Police.

  But what do you do, Han asked himself, when your back’s to the wall? How could he have said no to a nice, lucrative run when usurious Ploovo Two-For-One described the riches that were to be had.