The Han Solo Adventures (32 page)

She tried to smile and he encouraged her with a grin. He closed the utility locker hatch behind him and in a moment they had crossed through the boarding tube and entered the raider craft.

The passageway there was empty.
They must have the whole panting pack out looking for us
, he thought.

Picturing the raider’s hull as he had seen it when she’d warped in at the
Lady
, he started aft, heading for the boat bay that had made him stay his hand in the gun turret. He pushed Fiolla along in front of him and held the launcher at high port as if she were his prisoner. The spacesuit might keep him from being recognized as an outsider in the disorder of the boarding. It was, at least, worth a try.

He saw the caution lights and marker panels of a ship’s boat bay ahead.

“You there! Halt!” he heard a voice behind him shout. He pretended not to hear, and gave Fiolla a shove on her way. But the voice repeated the command. “Halt!”

He spun on his cleated heel, brought the launcher up and found himself staring at a face he recognized. It was the black-haired man who had appeared in the message tape, the one who was to have met Zlarb. He and another man in armored spacesuits, helmets thrown back, were digging at their sidearms.

But the pistols were held in military-style holsters, built for durability rather than speed.
Might just as well have those guns home in a drawer
, Han reflected dispassionately as he aimed. Fiolla was screaming something he couldn’t take time to listen to.

Both men realized at the last instant that they couldn’t outshoot him and hurled themselves back, arms covering their faces, just as he fired.

The antipersonnel round was set for close work; the canister went off almost as soon as it left the launcher, boosting the flechettes and filling the passageway with a deafening concussion. The slavers didn’t seem to be hurt, but remained on the deck where they had fallen. Han fired another AP round at them for good luck and, grabbing Fiolla’s elbow, ran for the boat bay. She seemed to be in shock but didn’t fight him. He opened the lock hatch and propelled her through.

“Find a place and grab on!” He found time to bite out a malediction that he had come upon a lifeboat rather than a pinnace or boarding craft.

A blaster beam mewed past him and burned out an illumination strip further down the passageway. Han knelt in the shelter of the lock and cut loose with four more rounds, emptying the launcher at the figures pounding down on him. They all dove for cover but he didn’t think he had gotten any of them.

Closing both hatches, he threw himself into the boat’s pilot’s seat and detonated its separator charges. Unlike the liner’s boats, the raider ship’s were still functioning. With a stupendous jolt the boat was blown from its lock. At the same moment he cut in full thrust and the lifeboat leaped as if it had been kicked.

Han swung hard, relying on steering thrusters alone here where there was no atmosphere to affect the tumbling boat’s control surfaces. He piloted grimly to miss the liner’s hull and looped up to put the bulk of the
Lady of Mindor
between himself and the slavers’ vessel. Opening the boat’s engine all the way, he vectored on until he was out of cannon range, then plunged toward the surface of Ammund.

He freed one hand from his struggle long enough to fling back his helmet.

“Can we outrun them?” Fiolla asked from the acceleration chair behind him.

“There’s more to it than that,” he said without taking his eyes from the controls. “They can’t come after us until they sound recall and get all their men back from the
Lady
. And if they want to send boats after us, they’d better have some awfully hot pilots.”

He heard a lurching and, despite the pull of the boat’s dive, Fiolla drew herself up to the copilot’s chair. “Sit down and stay put,” he told her heatedly, if a bit late. “If I’d had to maneuver or decelerate just then, you’d be scraping yourself off the bulkhead!”

She ignored that. He saw something else had so shocked her that she was still feeling the effect of it. Knowing how resilient she was ordinarily, he divided his attention for a moment.

“What’s wrong? Besides the fact that we might be vaporized at any second, I mean.”

“The man you shot at…”

“The black-haired one? He’s the one who left the message I told you about; he was Zlarb’s connection.” He turned to her sharply. “Why?”

“It was Magg,” Fiolla said, the blood drained from her face. “It was my hand-picked personal assistant, Magg.”

It was early in the morning of Ammuud’s short day when spaceport employees and automata alike stopped work as sirens announced a defense alert. Reinforced domes folded back to reveal emplacements around the port and in the snowy mountains above. For a quiet little spaceport, Ammuud had an impressive array of weaponry.

A boat came out of the sky, catching the light. Its pilot hit the braking thruster, and the ear-splitting sound of its passage caught up with it. Turbolasers, missile tubes, and multibar-reled cannons traced its descent, eager to fire should the boat show the slightest sign of hostile action. The defense command was already aware that a brief ship-to-ship action had been fought above Ammuud, and they were inclined to take no chances. Interceptors were kept clear, since it was a lone craft, and the entire sky was a potential free-fire area.

But the boat set down obediently and precisely at one side of the field by port control, at a spot designated. Ground vehicles mounted with portable artillery closed in around the little vessel while the larger emplacements went back to standby. The spaceport automata, cargo-handlers, automovers, and the like, their simple circuitry satisfied that there was no reason to discontinue work, returned to their tasks, with one exception. No one even noticed the labor ’droid who, still carrying a shipping crate, started off across the field.

As he cracked the boat’s hatch, Han turned to check on his companion. “Fiolla, you’ve got great judgment in hired help, that’s all I can say.”

“Solo, he passed an in-depth security investigation,” she insisted, rather more loudly. “What was I supposed to do, have him brain-probed?”

Han stopped as he was about to swing down to the landing field. “Not a bad idea. Anyway, this tells us a lot. When you gained access to the slavers’ computer pocket on Bonadan, it wasn’t just because of miskeying. Magg’s terminal probably had some sort of special-access equipment built into it; looks like he’s the slavers’ roving accountant, too, and maybe their security man as well.

“He sent you out on that scooter so you could be quietly taken out of the way. I’ll bet he gimmicked up that fancy scanner-proof gun of yours, too.”

Fiolla was fast on the recovery, he had to give her that. She had already accepted what she had seen and revised her ideas accordingly. “That doesn’t make any of this my fault,” she pointed out logically.

Han didn’t answer, being busy staring into the barrels and emission apertures of a variety of lethal weapons, doing his best to look friendly and unthreatening. He showed empty hands.

A man in unmatched tunic and trousers stepped up, disruptor in hand. His uniform wasn’t regulation but he wore a starburst insignia on an armband. Han already knew from inquiries that Ammuud was run by a loose and often competitive coalition of seven major clans under Authority subcontract. From the disparity of uniforms and attire it appeared that all seven clans supplied men to the port security force.

“What’s the meaning of this?” the leader snapped. “Who are you? What happened up there?” On that last he gestured toward the sky over Ammuud with his pistol barrel.

Han dropped down from the open hatch and casually but conspicuously raised his hands while donning his sunniest smile. “We were passengers on the liner
Lady of Mindor
. She was attacked and boarded by pirates; we two escaped, but I don’t know what happened after we left.”

“According to screens, the pirate has cut loose from that liner and run; we haven’t got a paint on it anymore. Let me see your identification, please.” The man hadn’t lowered his sidearm.

“We didn’t have time to pack our bags,” Han told him. “We jumped the first lifeboat we came to and got clear.”

“And just in time,” added Fiolla, poised at the hatch. “Please help me down, darling?”

Several of the port police automatically closed in to assist. Fiolla looked very good, even with her gown ripped and dust from the utility core on her. She also added a convincing note to Han’s story. He interceded before anyone else could help and, hands at her waist, lowered her to the field.

The officer in charge began rubbing his forehead. “It looks as if I’ll have to take you to the Reesbon stronghold for further questioning.”

But one of his men objected. “Why to the Reesbon’s? Why not to our clan stronghold, the Glayyd’s? There are more of us here than you.”

Han recalled that Reesbon and Glayyd were two of the six controlling clans here on Ammuud. And the Mor Glayyd, patriarch of his clan, was the man Han and Fiolla were here to see. A quick look around indicated to him that the
Falcon
didn’t seem to be on the field. Han resisted the impulse to inquire about his ship, not wanting to implicate Chewbacca in what was going on if he could avoid it.

But the problem of the moment involved being carted off to some clan stronghold. He wasn’t sure yet what he would say to the Glayyd leader, but he knew he had no desire to be sequestered in the family home of the Reesbons.

“Actually, I’m here because I have business to conduct with the Mor Glayyd,” he commented. That drew a scowl from the officer but, to Han’s surprise, also evoked a suspicious look from the Glayyd men and women.

The first Glayyd clansman spoke again. “There, you see? Do you deny that this is something that can be investigated by the Mor Glayyd just as honestly as by the Mor Reesbon?”

The officer and his kinsmen were in the great minority; he saw he could win neither by rank nor force. Han had the impression the port police forces were shot through with dissension. The officer’s lips compressed as he conceded the point stiffly. “I will summon a ground car; we’ll have to keep all the weapons vehicles here at the port.”

Just then a slow metallic voice behind Han drawled, “Sir, hadn’t I best come with you? Or would you rather I remained here with the boat?”

Han did his best to keep his jaw from dropping. Bollux stood in the lifeboat’s hatch, to all intents awaiting orders after an eventful descent and landing.

“I thought you two were alone?” said one of the port police with a hint of accusation.

Fiolla was faster on the uptake than Han. “There’s just us and our personal ’droid,” she explained. “Do the Ammuud clans count machinery among the clan populace?”

Han was still staring at Bollux; he couldn’t have been more surprised if the ’droid had danced his way out of a party-pastry. Then he got his brain into gear. “No, you might as well come with us,” he told the ’droid.

Bollux obediently lowered himself from the hatch. The officer was back, having spoken over the comlink in one of the weapons carriers. “A car has been dispatched from the central pool and will be here very shortly,” he told them. Turning to the Glayyd man who had given him the argument, he smiled bleakly. “I trust the Mor Glayyd will report on this matter to the other clans quickly. After all, he has other… pressing matters that may call him away soon.”

The Glayyd people shifted and glowered, fingering their weapons as if the Reesbon officer had made an extreme provocation. The officer returned to his vehicle and, with the rest of the Reesbon people, departed.

The Glayyd man wanted to know more about Han’s business with his clan leader. “No, he’s not expecting me,” Han answered honestly. “But it’s a matter of extreme urgency, as important to him as to me.”

To forestall more inquiries Fiolla leaned heavily on Han’s arm, eyelids fluttering. Putting a hand to her brow, she did such a convincing imitation of being close to collapse that further questions went unasked.

“She’s been through a lot,” Han explained. “Maybe we could sit down while we’re waiting for the car.”

“Forgive me,” muttered the Glayyd man. “Please make yourselves comfortable in the troop compartment of that carrier. I shall inform the Mor Glayyd of your arrival.”

“Uh, tell him I’m sorry if we’re taking him from something.” Han was thinking of what the Reesbon officer had said. “What have we interrupted?”

The Glayyd man’s eyes flicked over Han again. “The Mor Glayyd is to fight a death-duel,” he said, and departed to send his message.

Seated with Bollux in the troop compartment, Fiolla and Han pressed the ’droid for information. He gave them a brief summary of events following their parting on Bonadan.

“What’d you do when the escape pod grounded?” Han wanted to know.

“I’m afraid Spray’s timing wasn’t all that good, sir,” Bollux answered. “I landed some distance from the city, but at least that kept me from being painted by their sensor screens or destroyed on the way down; defenses are very good here. I walked the rest of the way to the spaceport and simply made myself inconspicuous, awaiting your appearance. I must admit I’d been concentrating on incoming ships at their small passenger terminal; I hadn’t expected you to arrive in this fashion. Also, I’ve managed to learn a good deal about the current situation here.”

“Wait; jet back,” instructed Han. “What’d you mean, made yourself inconspicuous? Where’ve you been?”

“Why, doing what ’droids are supposed to do, Captain Solo,” Bollux answered both of Han’s questions at once. “I simply entered the port through the labor-automata checkpoint and began doing whatever work there was to be done. Everyone always presumes that a ’droid is owner-imprinted and task-programmed. After all, why else would a ’droid be working? No one ever questioned me, even the labor-gang bosses. And since I wasn’t really assigned to anyone, no one ever noticed when I drifted from one job to another. Being a labor ’droid is very good protective coloration, Captain.”

Fiolla was interested. “But that involved deceiving humans. Didn’t it go against your fundamental programming?”

Han could have sworn Bollux sounded modest. “My actions involved a very high order of probability of contributing to your and the captain’s well-being or even, if I may say so, of preventing your coming to harm. That, it goes without saying, overcame any counterprogramming forbidding deception of a human. And so, when I saw your boat land, I simply carried a shipping crate across the field until I was behind your craft and then entered it through the rear hatch. As I said—”

“Nobody noticed a ’droid,” Han anticipated him. “When we’re out of here I’ll take care of that, if you like; we’ll repaint you in flashy colors, how’s that? Now what about this duel?”

“From what I’ve been able to learn listening to humans and talking to the few
intelligent
automata at the port, sir, there’s an extremely rigid code of honor in force among the clans. The Mor Glayyd, leader of the most powerful clan, has been mortally insulted by an outsider, an extremely proficient gunman. The other clans won’t intervene because they’d be happy to see the Mor Glayyd die. And, according to the code, no Glayyd family member is permitted to intervene either. If the Mor Glayyd fails to fight or his challenger is killed or injured before the contest, he’ll lose all face and much of his popular support, and violate his oath as clan protector.”

“We’ve got to get to him before this stupid duel,” Fiolla exclaimed to Han. “We can’t afford to have him killed!”

“I’m sure he feels the same way,” Han assured her dryly. Just then a car slid up, a wide, soft-tired ground vehicle gleaming a hard, enamel black.

“I’ve changed my mind,” Han told the Glayyd clansman. “My ’droid here will stay with the lifeboat. After all, it’s not my property and I guess I’ll be responsible for its safe return.”

There was no objection. Bollux reentered the boat and Han and Fiolla made themselves comfortable in the car’s deeply upholstered interior. Glayyd clanspeople caught handholds and mounted the car’s running boards.

The car was warm and comfortable, with enough room for a dozen passengers. A driver, backed by a guidance computer, sat on the other side of a thick transparisteel partition. The ride took them through the main part of the city. It was a rather ramshackle affair, its buildings being more often of wood or stone than of fusion-formed material or shaped formex. Street drainage was provided by open gutters that were frequently choked with refuse and pools of crimson-scummed water.

The people they passed showed a wide range of activity. There were trappers, starshipwrights, forestry service police, maintenance trouble-shooters, freight haulers, and street vendors. Among them jostled the young men of the clans and their carefully chaperoned kinswomen.

For all its faults and imperfections, Han preferred an open, brawling, and vital place like Ammuud to the depressing functionality of a Bonadan or the groomed sterility of one of the Authority’s capitol worlds. This place might never be awash in profit or influential in galactic affairs, but it looked like an interesting place to live.

Fiolla frowned as they rolled past a row of slums. “It’s an insult to have one of those eyesores in the Corporate Sector Authority.”

“There’re a lot worse things in the Authority,” Han replied.

“Keep your lectures about what’s wrong with the Authority,” she shot back. “I’m better informed about that than you are. The difference between us is that I’m going to do something about it. And my first move is to get on the Board of Directors.”

Han made a silencing motion, indicating the driver and the riders who clung to the car. Fiolla made a
hmmph!
at him, crossed her arms and stared angrily out her window.

The Glayyd stronghold looked like just that, a pile of huge blocks of fusion-formed material boasting detectors and weapons emplacements galore. The stronghold was set up against the rearing mountains at the edge of the city, and Han presumed that the peaks hid deep, all but impregnable shelters.

The car slid through an open gate at the foot of the stronghold and came to a stop in a cavernous garage guarded by young men, the Glayyd clan’s footsoldiers. They didn’t seem particularly wary and Han took it for granted that the car had been thoroughly checked out prior to admittance.

One of the clan guards escorted them to a small lift chute and stood aside as they entered, setting their destination for them. They rose quickly, and because the chute wasn’t equipped with autocompensation gear, Han’s ears popped.

When the doors swished open they found themselves looking out into a room far airier and more open than expected. Apparently some of those heavy blocks and slabs could be moved aside.