Star Wars - Han Solo at Star's End Read online

  “He’s not here, Solo. Doc’s gone.”

  “How informative; I’d never have guessed it just from seeing the room’s empty. Look, Jess, I have no time for games, no matter how much you’d like to play. I want—”

  “I know what you want!” Her face was bitter; it took him by surprise. “No one comes to us unless we know what they want from us. But my father’s not here. He’s disappeared, and nothing I’ve tried has turned up a hint. Believe me, Solo, I’ve tried it all.”

  Han eased down into a seat across the desk from her. Jessa explained, “Doc went off on one of his buying trips—you know, shopping for stuff that would fit the market, or for some customer’s special order. He made three stops and never arrived at the fourth. Just like that. He, three crewmen, and a star yacht just dropped out of sight.”

  Han thought for a moment about the old man with work-hardened hands, a quick, crusty grin, and a halo of frizzy white hair. Han had liked him, but if Doc was gone, that was that. Few people who vanished under circumstances like that ever showed up again. Luck of the draw. Han had always traveled light, with emotional baggage the first thing he jettisoned, and grief was far too heavy to lug around among the stars.

  So that only left thinking, Goodbye, Doc, and dealing with Jessa, the old man’s only surviving kin. But when his brief distraction broke, he saw that she’d studied the entire play of his thoughts on his face. “You got through that eulogy pretty fast, didn’t you, Solo?” she asked softly. “Nobody gets too far under that precious skin of yours, isn’t that so?”

  That pricked him. “If it was me who’d checked out, would Doc have gone on a crying jag, Jess? Would you? I’m sorry, but life goes on, and if you lose sight of that, sweetheart, you’re asking to be dealt out.”

  Her mouth opened to reply, but she thought better of it and changed tack. Her voice became as sharp as a vibro-blade. “Very well. Let’s do business. I know what you’re looking for, the sensor suite, the dish, the Waiver. I can take care of all of it. We got our hands on a sensor suite, powerful, compact, a military package built for long-range scoutships. It found its way to us from a supply depot; got misrouted by a happy coincidence I arranged. I can handle the Waiver, too. That only leaves”—she gazed at him coldly—“the question of price.”

  Han wasn’t crazy about the way she’d said it. “The money’s got to be right, Jess. I’ve only got—”

  She cut him off again. “Who said money? I know just how much you have, high roller, and where you got it, and how much you gave Ploovo. Don’t you think we hear everything sooner or late? Would I assume an imbecile who’s been gunrunning would be flush?” She leaned back, interlacing her fingers.

  He was confused. He’d planned to arrange long terms with Doc, but doubted if he could with Jessa. If she knew he couldn’t meet a decent price, why was she talking to him? “Are you going to explain, Jess, or am I supposed to do my famous mind-reading act?”

  “Give your jaws a rest, Solo, and pay attention. I’m offering you a deal, a handwash.”

  He was suspicious, knowing there’d be no generosity from her. But what were his alternatives? He needed his ship repaired, and the rest of it, or he might as well go somewhere out on the galactic rim and bid on a contract to haul garbage. With exaggerated sweetness, he answered, “I’m hanging on your every word. By what, I won’t mention.”

  “It’s a pickup, Solo, an extraction. There are details, but that’s basically it; you make contact with some people and take them where they want to go, within reason. They won’t be expecting you to drop them anywhere risky. Even your stunted attention span ought to suffice for that.”

  “Where’s the pickup?”

  “Orron III. That’s mostly an agricultural world, except that the Authority has a data center there. That’s where your passengers are.”

  “An Authority Data Center?” Han exploded. “And how do I get into a place like that? It’ll look like the Espos’ Annual Picnic and Grand Reunion. Listen, toots, I want that stuff from you, but I want to live to a ripe old age, too; I plan to sit in a rocker at the Old Spacemen’s Home, and what you’re suggesting will definitely exclude that option.”

  “It’s not so terrible,” she replied levelly. “Internal security’s not especially bad, because only two types of vessels are cleared to land on Orron III—drone barges for the crops and Authority fleet ships.”

  “Yeah, but in case you haven’t noticed, the Falcon’s neither.”

  “Not yet, Solo, but I’ll change that. We have a barge shell, hijacked it in transit. That wasn’t much of a trick; they’re robot hulks, and they’re pretty dumb. I’ll fit the Millennium Falcon with external control couplings and set her in where the command/control module usually goes, and partition into the hold space. My people can mock up the hull structure so it’ll con the Espos, port officials, or anybody else. You land, contact the parties in question, and off you go. Average ground time for a barge is about thirty hours, so you’ll have plenty of leeway to get things done. Once you’re in transit, you ditch the barge shell and you’re home free.”

  He thought hard about that one. He didn’t like anyone messing with his ship. “Why pick me for this thrilling honor? And why the Falcon?”

  “Because you need something from me, for one thing, so you’ll do it. Because, for another, even though you’re an amoral mercenary, you’re the hottest pilot I know; you’ve flown everything from a jetpack to a capital ship. As for the Falcon, she’s just the right size, and has computer capacity to spare, to run the barge. It’s a fair deal.”

  One thing had him puzzled. “Who’s the pickup? It sounds like you’re going to an awful lot of trouble for them.”

  “No one you’d know. They’re strictly amateurs, and they pay well. What they’re doing’s no concern of yours, but if they feel like telling you, that’s their decision.”

  He gazed up at the ceiling, which was patterned with glow-pearls. Jessa was offering everything he needed to make the Authority ripe for the plucking. He could give up gunrunning, petty-cash trips to backwater worlds, all that low-ante stuff.

  “Well,” coaxed Jessa, “do I tell my techs to get busy, or do you and the Wookiee plan to teach the galaxy the folly of crime by starving in poverty?”

  He brought his chair upright. “You better let me break the news to Chewie first, or your wrench jockies will be nothing but a mound of spare parts for the organ banks.”

  Doc’s organization—now Jessa’s—was nothing if not thorough. They had the factory specs for the Millennium Falcon, plus complete design holos on every piece of augmentative gear in her. With Chewbacca’s help and a small horde of outlaw-techs, Han had the Falcon’s engine shielding removed and her control systems exposed in a matter of hours.

  Service ’droids trundled back and forth while energy cutters flared, and techs of many races crawled over, under, and into the freighter. It made Han jittery to see so many tools, hands, tentacles, servogrips, and lift-locks near his beloved ship, but he gritted his teeth and simply did his best to be everywhere at once—and came close to succeeding. Chewbacca covered the things his partner missed, startling any erring tech or ’droid with a high-decibel snarl. No one doubted for a moment what the Wookiee would do to the being or mechanical who damaged the starship.

  Han was interrupted by Jessa, who had come up to inspect his progress. With her was an odd-looking ’droid, built along human lines. The machine was rather stocky, shorter than the woman, covered with dents, scrapes, smudges, and spot-welds. Its chest region was unusually broad, and its arms, hanging nearly to its knees, gave it a somewhat simian aspect. Its finish was a flat brown primer job peeling in places, and it had a stiff, snapping way of moving. The ’droid’s red, unblinking photoreceptors trained on Han.

  “Meet your passenger,” Jessa invited.

  Han’s features clouded. “You never said anything about taking a ’droid.” He looked at the aged mechanical. “What’s he run on, peat?”

  “No. And I w
arned you there’d be details. Bollux here is one of them.” She turned to the ’droid. “Okay, Bollux, open up the fruit stand.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Bollux replied in a leisurely drawl. There was a servomotor hum, and the ’droid’s chest plastron split down the center, the halves swinging away to either side. Nestled in among the goodies that were the ’droid’s innards was a special emplacement; secured in the emplacement was another unit, a separate machine entity of some kind that was approximately cubical, with several protrusions and folded appendages. Atop it was a phtoreceptor mount, monocular lensed. The unit was painted in deep, protective, multilayered blue. The monocular came on, lighting red.

  “Say hello to Captain Solo, Max,” Jessa instructed it.

  The machine-within-a-machine studied Han up and down, photoreceptor angling and swiveling. “Why?” it demanded. The pitch of its vocal mechanism was like that of a child.

  Jessa countered frankly, “Because if you don’t, Max, the nice man is liable to chuck your teensy iron behind out into deep space—that’s why.”

  “Hello!” chirped Max, with what Han suspected to be forced cheer. “A great pleasure to make your acquaintance, Captain!”

  “The parties you’re picking up need to collect and withdraw data from the computer system on Orron III,” Jessa explained. “Of course, they couldn’t just ask the Authority there for probe equipment without raising suspicions, and your walking in with Max under your arm might cause a few problems, too. But nobody’s going to bother much about an old labor ’droid. We named him Bollux because we had so many headaches restructuring his gut. We never did get his vocal pattern up to speed.

  “Anyway, that cutie in Bollux’s chest cavity is Blue Max; Max because we crammed as much computer capacity into him as we could, and blue for reasons that even you, Solo, can see, I’m sure. Blue Max was a piece of work, even for us. He’s puny, but he cost plenty, even though he’s immobile and we had to leave out a lot of the usual accessories. But he’s all they’ll need to tap that data system.”

  Han was studying the two machines, hoping Jessa would admit she’d been joking. He’d seen weirder gizmos in his time, but never on a passenger roster. He didn’t like ’droids very much, but decided he could live with these.

  He bent down for a better squint at Blue Max. “You stay in there all the time?”

  “I can function autonomously or in linkage,” Max squeaked.

  “Fabulous,” Han said dryly. He tapped Bollux’s head. “Button up.” As the brown segments of plastron swung shut on Max, Han called up to Chewbacca, “Yo, partner, find a place and stow this mollusk, will you? He’s with us.” He turned back to Jessa. “Anything else? A marching band, maybe?”

  She never did get to answer. Just then klaxons went off, sirens began to warble at deafening levels, and the public-address horns started paging her to the base’s command post. Everywhere in the hangar, outlaw-techs dropped their tools in a ringing barrage and dashed off frantically for emergency stations. Jessa sprinted away instantly. Han took off after her, yelling back for Chewbacca to stay with their ship.

  The two crossed the complex. Humans, nonhumans, and machines charged in every direction, necessitating a good deal of dodging and swerving. The command post was a simple bunker, but at the bottom of the steps leading to it, Jessa and Han entered a well-equipped, fully manned operations room. A giant holo-tank dominated the room with its phantom light, an analogue of the solar system around them. Sun, planets, and other major astronomical bodies were picked out in keyed colors.

  “Sensors have painted an unidentified blip, Jessa,” said one of the duty officers, pointing out a yellow speck at the edge of the system. “We’re awaiting positive ID.”

  She bit her lip, eyes fastened to the tank along with those of all the others in the bunker. Han moved up next to her. The speck was moving toward the center of the holotank, which would be, Han knew, the planet on which he was standing, represented by a bead of white light. The bogie’s speed decreased, and sensors painted a cluster of smaller blips breaking away from it. Then the original object accelerated, kept on accelerating, and faded from the tank a moment later.

  “It was an Authority fleet ship, a corvette,” the officer said. “It launched a flight of fighters, four of them, then ducked back into hyperspace. It must’ve detected us and gone for help, leaving the fighters to harass and keep us busy until it can return. I don’t see how they happened to be searching this system.”

  Han realized the officer was looking directly at him. In fact, everybody in the command post was, and hands had gone to side arms. “Whoa, Jess,” he protested, meeting her eyes, “when did I ever stooge for the Espos?”

  For a moment an expression of uncertainty crossed her face, but only for a moment. “I guess if you’d tipped them you wouldn’t have stuck around while they dropped in,” she admitted. “Besides, they would have shown up in full strength if they’d known we were here. You’ve got to concede, though, Solo, it’s some coincidence.”

  He changed the subject. “Why didn’t the corvette just put through a hyperspace transmission? They must be close enough to a base to call for support.”

  “This area’s full of stellar anomalies,” she said absently, focusing back on those ominous blips. “It fouls up hyperspace commo; that’s why we picked it, partly. What’s the fighters’ estimated time of arrival?” she asked the officer.

  “ETA less than twenty minutes,” was the reply.

  She blew her breath out. “And we haven’t got anything combatworthy except fighters ourselves. No use ducking it; get ready to scramble. Order evacuation to start in the meantime.”

  She looked to Han. “Those are probably IRDs’; they’ll eat up anything I can send up right now except for some old snubs I have here. I need to buy time, and I have almost nobody who’s done any combat flying. Will you help?”

  He saw all the grave faces still staring at him. He led Jessa to one side, caressed her cheek, but spoke in a low tone. “My darling Jess, this definitely was not in our deal. I’m for the Old Spacemen’s Home, remember? I have no intention of ever plunking my rear into one of those suicide sleds again.”

  Her voice was eloquent. “There are lives at stake! We can’t evacuate in time, even if we leave everything behind. I’ll send up inexperienced pilots if it comes to that, but they’ll be cold meat for those Espo flyers. You’ve got more experience than all the rest of us put together!”

  “All of which cries out to me that there’s no percentage fighting the good fight,” he parried, but he burned from the look she gave him. He nearly spoke again but held his tongue, unable to untangle his own nagging ambiguities.

  “Then go hide,” she said so low he could barely hear, “but you can forget your precious Millennium Falcon, Solo, because there’s no power in the universe that can make her spaceworthy before those raiders hit us and pin us down. And once their reinforcements arrive, they’ll carve this base and everything in it to atoms!”

  His ship, of course; that’s what must have been biting at the back of my mind, Han told himself. Must have been. The turbo-laser cannon would never stop fast, evasive fighters, and the raiders would indeed take the base apart. He and Chewbacca might possibly escape with their lives, but without their ship they’d be just two nameless, homeless pieces of interstellar flotsam.

  In the confusion of the command post, with the giving and receiving of frantic messages, she still heard his voice among all the others.

  “Jess?” She stared, confused, at his lopsided smirk. “Got a flight helmet for me?” He pretended not to see the sudden softening of her expression. “Something sporty, in my size, Jess, with a hole in it to match the one in my head.”

  IV

  HAN tagged after Jessa in another quick run across the base. They entered one of the lesser hangar domes where the air was filled with the whine of high-performance engines. Six fighters were parked there, their ground crews attending them, checking out power levels, armaments, def
lectors, and control systems.

  The fighters were primarily for interceptor service—or rather, Han corrected himself, had been a generation ago. They were early production snubships; Z-95 Headhunters; compact, twin-engined swing-wing craft. Their fuselages, wings and forked tails were daubed with the drab spots, smears, and spray-splotches of general camouflage coats. Their external hardpoints, where rockets and bomb pylons had once been mounted, were now bare.

  Indicating the snubs, Han asked Jessa, “What’d you do, knock over a museum?”

  “Picked them up from a planetary constabulary; they were using them for antismuggling operations, matter of fact. We worked them over for resale, but hung on to them because they’re the only combat craft we’ve got right now. And don’t be so condescending, Solo; you’ve spent your share of time in snubs.”

  That he had. Han dashed over to one of the Headhunters as a ground crewman finished fueling it. He took a high leap and chinned himself on the lip of the cockpit to eyeball it. Most of its console panels had been removed in the course of years of repair, leaving linkages and wiring exposed. The cockpit was just as cramped as he remembered.

  But with that, the Z-95 Headhunter was still a good little ship, legendary for the amount of punishment it could soak up. Its pilot’s seat—the “easy chair,” in parlance—was set back at a thirty-degree angle to help offset gee-forces, the control stick built into its armrest. He let himself back down.

  Several pilots had already gathered there, and another, a humanoid, showed up just then. There was little enough worry on their faces that Han concluded they hadn’t flown combat before. Jessa came up beside him and pressed an old, lusterless bowl of a flight helmet into his hands.

  “Who’s flown one of these beasts before?” he asked as he tried the helmet on. It was a bad fit, too tight. He began pulling at the webbing adjustment tabs in its sweat-stained interior.