The Han Solo Adventures (41 page)

Han left the cab, swung from the handrail with one foot on the running board, and dove into the driver’s compartment. “We’ve gone and made them mad,” he hollered. “Escape and evade, old buddy!”

But even as Han exhorted his partner, Chewbacca was throwing the coach through zigs and zags, ignoring lane divider illumi-strips, applying full power though a disconcerting black smoke had begun to roil from the vehicle’s engine. At last, the rifleman, his eye at his weapon’s scope, fired.

A needlebeam sizzled at one of the scarlet tail fins, setting the lacquered wood afire and shearing off its tip as taillight circuitry blew. Han stood up, one hand firmly on the windshield and blaster gripped in the other. He replied with a hurried shot of his own; the bolt splashed harmlessly onto the pavement.

A second rifle beam hissed through the cab. “Get us out of here before they cut us in half!” Han yelled to his first mate.

Smoke from the hood now roiled more thickly. The Wookiee spun the steering-grip yoke, veering and putting an enormous robo-freighthauler between the coach and the limo. Another needlebeam, missing them, burned across the freighthauler’s rear end. The last view Han had of the limo was of its driver trying to maneuver for another clear shot. He shouted to Chewbacca, “Pump your braking thrusters!” The Wookiee did so without question, accustomed to his friend’s mad inspirations. When the freighthauler outstripped the coach, they found themselves even with the limo.

The surprised rifleman started to bring his weapon up, but Han fired first. The marksman, clutching his smoldering forearm, dropped back through the sunroof. Han’s second shot blew out a piece of the limo’s door. Two or three beings were trying to elbow their way up through the sunroof to set up a rocket launcher. If they couldn’t stop the coach, they’d settle for blowing it all over the landscape.

Han felt the coach surge and looked around. Directly in front of them was the freighthauler, its long rear gate bouncing on the road. Its bed was half empty, a pile of construction rubble heaped against the front wall. An overpass loomed in the distance; Han quickly grasped his first mate’s plan, holstered his weapon, and clung to Badure and Hasti for his life.

The coach jumped up the hanging rear gate, engine pouring black smoke, auxiliary thrusters overloading. Chewbacca pumped braking thrusters once to time his maneuver, then hit full power and the front-lift thrusters designed to help the coach negotiate low obstacles. The coach shot up the pile of rubble at the front of the cargo bed and soared into the air, the Wookiee plying his controls frantically.

Then the overpass was beneath them, and through some miracle it was unoccupied just then. The coach hit with an impact that collapsed its shock-absorption system, burned out its power routing, broke all the remaining lanterns, and shattered the cab windows. It slid, then ground to a halt against the overpass sidewall, crumpling its hood and popping its doors.

Coughing, Han and his first mate pulled Hasti and Badure from the wreckage. The black limo was already far down the road, forced along by the flow of traffic. Chewbacca, surveying the demolished groundcoach sorrowfully, sniffled and moaned to himself.

Wiping her eyes and choking, Hasti wanted to know: “Who ever told you two morons you could drive?” Then, noticing Chewbacca’s gloomy look, asked, “What’s wrong with him?”

“He figures he’ll have a hard time getting his deposit back,” Han explained.

Police groundcruisers and aircraft, converging under Traffic Control’s direction, were already beginning to gather farther down the highway. Since Chewbacca had elected to leave the road in a unique manner, it would probably take the local authorities some time to piece together what had happened.

“Quiet down and sit still.” Han took a firmer grip on his first mate’s head.

The Wookiee, seated in a rump-sprung, sweat-stained acceleration chair in the
Millennium Falcon
’s forward compartment, stopped squirming but couldn’t stifle his whimpers. He knew his neck injury had to be tended right away. Han, standing behind him, shuffling for a better stance, held his friend’s chin clamped in one elbow. He pushed the palm of his hand against the Wookiee’s skull.

“How many times have I done this now? Stop complaining!” Han began to apply pressure again, twisting Chewbacca’s head up and to the left. The Wookiee dutifully fought the urge to rise, crimping his long fingers on the arms of the acceleration chair.

Meeting resistance, Han drew a deep breath and, without warning, yanked the thick-maned skull with all his might. There was a cracking and popping; Chewbacca yipped and snuffled pitifully. But when Han ruffled his friend’s fur compassionately and stepped back, the Wookiee rubbed his neck and moved his head without pain. He immediately went off to prepare the starship for liftoff.

“If you’re through ministering to the afflicted, Doctor,” Hasti said from her seat by the gameboard, “it’s time we got a few things settled.”

Leaning against the tech station, Han agreed. “Let’s put them on the table and see what we’ve got.”

Badure, fully recovered from the stun charge, was sitting next to Hasti. To avoid conflict, he took over. “I met Hasti and her sister, Lanni, at a mining camp on a planet named Dellalt, here in the Tion Hegemony. It was a small plunder operation; I was contract labor there.”

He ignored Han’s surprise.
Things have been worse than I thought for him
, the pilot realized.

“And things weren’t too much better for them,” Badure went on. “You know how those camps can be, and this one was about the worst I’ve seen. We three sort of watched out for one another.

“Lanni had a Pilot’s Guild book and flew a lot of work runs, surface-to-surface stuff. Somewhere she had picked up a log-recorder, one of the ancient disk types. No ship has used one in centuries. She couldn’t read the characters, of course, but there was a figure most beings in this part of space know, the
Queen of Ranroon
.”

“How’d a log-recorder get to Dellalt?”

“That’s where the vaults are,” Badure said, and that brought some history back to Han. Xim the Despot had left behind legends of whole planets despoiled, of mass spacings of prisoners and other atrocities. And Xim the Despot had ordered that stupendous treasure vaults be built for the tribute to be sent him by his conquering armies. The treasure never arrived, and the vacant vaults, all that remained from Xim’s reign, were a minor curiosity generally ignored by the big, busy galaxy.

“Are you telling me the
Queen
made it to Dellalt after all?”

Badure shook his head. “But somebody made it there with the log-recorder disk.”

“The disk is in a lockbox in the public storage facility that set up operations in the old vaults,” Hasti told him. “My sister was afraid it would be taken from her, for the mining company runs surprise inspections, barracks searches, and sensor frisks. So she diverted course on a freight run and made the deposit.”

“How’d she get it in the first place? And where is she now?” Han saw the sobering answer on both their faces and wasn’t surprised. The opposition, he had already learned, was in deadly earnest. He abandoned the subject.

“So, off to Dellalt before that rental agent comes looking for his groundcoach.”

But Badure, slapping his ample belly, announced, “We have one more crewman coming. He’s on his way now. I canceled our public-carrier reservations so the line will refer him directly here.”

“Who? What do we need him for?” Han was reluctant to involve too many in this treasure hunt.

“His name is Skynx; he’s a ranking expert on pre-Republic times in this part of space. And he reads ancient languages; he’s already deciphered some characters Lanni had copied from the log-recorder disk. Good enough for you?”

Conditionally. Somebody, Han saw, would have to decipher the disk to find out what had happened to the
Queen
. Removing his vest, Han began disencumbering himself of the shoulder holster. “Next question: who’s the opposition?”

“The mine operators. You know how the Tion works. Somebody pays someone in the Ministry of Industry and gets a permit. The mining outfit carves up the terrain any which way, grabs what it can, and gets out long before any inspectors or legal paperwork catch up with them. They usually get their financing from some crime boss.

“This outfit’s run by twins. The woman’s name is J’uoch and her brother’s R’all. They have a partner, Egome Fass, their enforcer. He’s a big, mean humanoid, a
Houk
, even taller than Chewie there. All three came up the hard way, and that’s how they play.”

Han had buckled on his gunbelt and holster and transferred his blaster. “So I saw. And all you want is for us to get you to Dellalt and get you off?”

Just then the intercom carried the Wookiee’s news that someone was signaling for permission to board. “That’ll be Skynx,” Badure told him. Han passed word to admit the academician.

“If you’ll get us to the vaults and off Dellalt again,” Badure resumed, “I’ll pay you twice your usual first-asking price, out of the treasure. But if you throw in with us, you and the Wook can split a full share of the take.”

Hasti cried, “Half-share!” just as Han protested, “Full share each!” They glared at each other. “Wound up a little too tight are we, sweetheart?” Han asked. “How’re you going to get there without us, flap your arms?” He heard Chewbacca’s footsteps moving toward the main hatch.

Hasti’s temper flared. “For one hop, you and that furball want a full cut?”

Badure held up his hands and bellowed, “
Enough!
” They quieted. “That’s nicer, kiddies. We are discussing major cash here, plenty for everybody. The breakdown’s this way: a full share for me because I got Hasti off Dellalt alive and Lanni passed what she knew along to both of us, equally. Two shares for Hasti, her own and poor Lanni’s. And for you, Skynx, and the Wook, half-shares each at this point. Depending on who has to do what in the course of finding that treasure, we renegotiate. Agreed?”

Han studied Badure and the seething red-haired girl. “How much are we talking about?” he wanted to know.

The old man inclined his head. “Why not ask him?”

Badure indicated the individual who had come onboard and was following Chewbacca into the forward compartment.
Now why did I assume he’d be human
? Han wondered.

Skynx was a Ruurian, of average size—a little over a meter long—low to the ground, his natural coat a thick, woolly amber with bands of brown and red. He moved on eight pairs of short limbs with a graceful, rippling motion. Feathery, bobbing antennae curled back from his head. Skynx had big, multifaceted red eyes, a tiny mouth, and small nostrils. Behind him rolled a baggage-robo with several crates and boxes on its flatbed.

Skynx paused and reared up on his last four pairs of extremities. The digits on his limbs, four apiece, were mutually opposable, deft, and very versatile. He waved to the humans. “Ah, Badure,” he called in a rapid, high-pitched voice, “and the lovely Hasti; how are you, young lady? This fine Wookiee I’ve already met. So you would be our captain, sir?”

“Would be? I
am
. Han Solo.”

“Delighted! I am Skynx of Ruuria, Human History subdepartment, pre-Republic subdivision, whose chair I currently hold.”

“What do you use it for?” Han asked, eying Skynx’s strange anatomy. Seeing no reason to delay where cash was concerned, he inquired, “How much money are we after?”

Skynx poised his head in thought. “There’s so much conflicting information about the
Queen of Ranroon
, it’s best to say this: Xim the Despot’s treasure vessel was the largest ship ever built in her day. Your guess, sir, is no less plausible than my own.”

Han leaned back and thought about pleasure palaces, gambling planets, star yachts, and all the women of the galaxy who hadn’t been fortunate enough to make his acquaintance. Yet. Chewbacca snorted and returned to the cockpit.

“Count us in,” Han announced. “Tell the baggage clunker to leave your stuff right there, Skynx. Badure, Hasti, make yourselves at home.”

Hasti and Skynx both wanted to watch the liftoff from the cockpit. When they were alone, Badure spoke more confidentially. “There’s one thing I didn’t want the others to hear, Han. I had my ear to the ground, heard about some of the crazy jobs you’ve pulled. Word’s out that somebody’s looking for you. Money’s being spread around, but I haven’t heard any names. Any idea who it might be?”

“Half the galaxy, it feels like sometimes.” There had been many runs, many deals, jobs, and foul-ups. “How should
I
know?” But his expression hardened, and Badure thought Han had a very good idea who might be seeking him.

Han stood in the middle of the forward compartment, listening. The tech station and most of the other equipment in the compartment had been shut down to lower the noise level. He could feel the vibrations of the
Millennium Falcon
’s engines. He heard a quiet sound behind him.

Han spun, crouching, in execution of the speedraw, firing from the hip. The target-remote, a small globe that moved on squirts of repulsor power and puffs of forced air, didn’t quite dodge his beam. Its counterfire passed over him. Deactivated by his harmless tracer beam, the orb hung immobile, awaiting another practice sequence.

Han looked over to where Bollux, the labor ’droid, sat; his chest panels were open. Blue Max, the computer module installed in the ’droid’s chest cavity, had been controlling the remote. “I told you I wanted a tougher workout than that thing’s idiot circuitry could give me,” Han reprimanded Blue Max.

Bollux, a gleaming green, barrel-chested automaton, had arms long enough to suggest a simian. The computer, an outrageously expensive package built for maximum capacity, was painted a deep blue, whence came his name. Part of Han’s post-Corporate Sector splurge had included the modification the two mechanicals had requested, because without them he and the Wookiee might never have survived. Bollux now contained a newer and more powerful receiver, and Max had been provided with a compact holo-projector.

“That
was
,” the little module objected. “Can I help it if you’re so flaming fast? I could cut response time to nil, if you want.”

Han sighed. “No. And watch your language, Max; just because I talk like that doesn’t mean you can.” He took the combat charge his weapon usually carried from its case at his belt.

Badure was reclining in one of the acceleration chairs. “You’ve been practicing all through this run. You’re beating the bailie every time. Who’s got you worried?”

Han shrugged, then added as if by afterthought, “Did you ever hear of a gunman called Gallandro?”

Both of Badure’s thick eyebrows rose. “
The
Gallandro? You don’t bother yourself with small-timers, do you, Slick? So that’s it.”

Han looked around. Hasti, at her own and Badure’s insistence, had commandeered Han’s personal quarters—a cramped cubicle—for some secret purpose. Chewbacca was at the controls, but Skynx was present. Han decided it didn’t matter if the Ruurian heard.

“I backed Gallandro down a while back, didn’t even realize who he was. See, he had to let me do it at the time because it was part of a bigger deal he was working. Later on, though, he wanted to settle up.”

Sweat gathered on his forehead with the memory. “He really
moves
; I couldn’t even follow his practice draw. Anyway, I pulled a stunt on him and got out of the mess. I guess I made him look pretty bad, but I never thought he’d go to all this trouble.”

“Gallandro? Slick, you’re talking about the guy who single-handedly hijacked the
Quamar Messenger
on her maiden run and took over that pirate’s nest, Geedon V, all by himself. And he went to the gun against the Malorm family, drawing head bounty on all five of them. And no one has ever beaten the score he rolled up when he was flying a fighter with Marso’s Demons. Besides which, he’s the only man who ever forced the Assassins’ Guild to default on a contract; he personally canceled half of their Elite Circle—one at a time—plus assorted journeymen and apprentices.”

“I know, I know,” Han said wearily, sitting down, “
now
. If I’d known who he was then, I’d have put a few parsecs between us, at least. But what does a character like that want with me?”

Badure spoke as to a slow-witted child. “Han, don’t make someone like Gallandro back down, then walk away making a fool of him. His kind live on their reputations. You know that as well as I do. They accept no insult and never, never back down. He’ll make you his career until he settles with you.”

Han sighed. “It’s a big galaxy; he can’t spend the rest of his life looking for me.” He wished he could believe that.

There was a sound behind him, and he threw himself sideways out of his chair, firing in midair, rolling to avoid the remote’s sting-shot. His tracer beam hit the dodging globe dead center. “Good try, Max,” he commented.

“You strike me as being very adept, Captain,” Skynx said from the padded nook over the acceleration couch.

Han climbed to his feet. “You know all about master blastermen, don’t you?” He appraised the academician. “Why’d you come on this run anyway? We could’ve brought the disk to you.”

The little Ruurian seemed embarrassed. “Er, that is, as you probably know, my species’ life cycle is—”

“Never saw a Ruurian until I met you,” Han interjected. “Skynx, there’re more life forms in this galaxy than anyone’s bothered to count, you know that. Just listing the sentient ones is a life’s work.”

“Of course. To explain: we Ruurians go through three separate forms after leaving the egg. There is the larva, that which you see before you; the cycle of the chrysalis, in which we undergo changes while in pupa form; and the endlife stage, in which we become chroma-wing fliers and ensure the survival of our species. The pupae are rather helpless, you’ll understand, and the chroma-wings are, um, preoccupied, caring only for flight, mating, and egg-laying.”

“There better be no cocoons or eggs on this ship,” Han warned darkly.

“He promises,” Badure said impatiently. “Now will you listen?”

Skynx resumed. “All that leaves for us larval-stage Ruurians is to protect the pupae and ensure that the simple-minded chroma-wings don’t get into trouble—and to run our planet. We are very busy, right from birth.”

“What’s that got to do with a nice larva like you raising ship for lost treasure?” Han asked.

“I studied the histories of your own scattered species, and I came to be fascinated with this concept,
adventure
,” Skynx confessed as if unburdening himself of some dark perversity. “Of all the races who gamble their well-being on uncertain returns—and there aren’t that many, statistically—the trait’s most noticeable in humans, one of the most successful life forms.”

Skynx tried to frame his next words carefully. “The stories, the legends, the songs, and holo-thrillers held such appeal. Once, before I spin my chrysalis, to sleep deeply and emerge a chroma-wing who will no longer be Skynx, I wish to cast aside good sense and try a human-style adventure.” Saying the last, he sounded happy.

There was a silence. “Play him the song you played for me, Skynx,” Badure finally invited. In the upholstered nook he had occupied for most of the trip, Skynx had set up his species’ version of a storage apparatus, a treelike framework used in lieu of boxes or bags. From its various branches hung Skynx’s personal possessions and items he wished to have close to him. Each artifact was an enigma, but among them was apparently at least one musical instrument.

Han had heard enough nonhuman music to want to forgo listening. Though he might be passing up decent entertainment, he might also be avoiding sounds resembling somebody’s unoiled groundcoach. He changed the subject hurriedly.

“Why don’t you show us what’s in the crates instead?” Han looked around. “Where’s Hasti? She should be in on this.”

“We’ll be making planetfall soon, and she has preparations to make,” Badure said. “Skynx, show him those remains; they should interest him.”

Skynx rose, shook out his amber coat to fluff it, and flowed smoothly out of his nook. Hoping that “remains” didn’t refer to the sort of unappetizing objects he had seen in museums, Han stepped up to the crates with a power prybar. At Skynx’s direction, he opened a container and whistled softly in astonishment. “Badure, give me a hand getting this thing out of the crate, will you?” Between them they strained and lifted out the object, setting it on the gameboard.

It was an automaton’s head. More correctly, it was the cranial turret of some robot out of ancient history. Its optical lenses were darkened by long radiation exposure. It was armored like a dreadnought with a coarse, heavy gray alloy Han didn’t recognize. The assorted insignia and tech markings engraved into its surface were still visible and readable. Han expected the speaker grille to spew a challenge.

“It’s a war-robot. Xim the Despot built a brigade of them to serve as his absolutely faithful royal guard,” Skynx explained. “They were, at that time, the most formidable human-form fighting machines in the galaxy. This one’s remains were recovered from the floating ruins of Xim’s orbital fortress, possibly the only one that wasn’t vaporized in the Third Battle of Vontor, Xim’s final defeat. There are more pieces in those other crates. There were at least a thousand just like this one traveling onboard the
Queen of Ranroon
and guarding Xim’s treasure when the ship vanished.”

Han opened another crate. It contained a huge chestplate; Han knew he would never be able to uncrate the thing without Chewbacca’s help. In the plate’s center was Xim’s insignia, a death’s head with sunbursts in the eye sockets.

Bollux entered, chest panels open wide to let Blue Max perceive things as well. These two machines had been combined by a group of outlaw techs and had been instrumental in Han’s survival at an Authority prison called Stars’ End several adventures ago. Bollux and Max had elected to join Han and Chewbacca, exchanging labor for passage, in order to see the galaxy.

“Captain, First Mate Chewbacca says we’ll be reverting to normal space shortly,” the ’droid announced. Then his red photoreceptors fell on the cranial turret, and Han could have sworn they abruptly became brighter. In a voice more hurried than his usual drawl, Bollux queried, “Sir, what
is
that?” He went over to examine the thing more closely. Max studied the relic as well.

“So very old,” mused the ’droid. “What machine is this?”

“War-robot,” Han told him, sifting through the other crates. “Great-grandpa Bollux, maybe.” He didn’t notice the ’droid’s metallic fingers quizzically feeling the shape of the massive head.

Han was mumbling to himself. “Reinforced stress points; heavy-gauge armor, all points. Look how thick it is! You could run a machine shop off those power-delivery systems. Hmm, and built-in weapons, chemical and energy both.”

He stopped rummaging and looked at Skynx. “These things must’ve been unstoppable. Even with a blaster, I wouldn’t want to mix with one.” He slid the lid back on the crate. “Find yourselves a place and get comfortable, everybody. We’ll revert from hyperspace as soon as I get to the cockpit. Where’s Hasti? I can’t hold up the whole—”

His jaw dropped. Hasti—it had to be her—had just swept into the forward compartment. But the factory-world, mining-camp girl was gone. The red hair now fell in soft, fine waves. She wore a costume of rich iridescent fabrics in black and crimson; the hem of her ruffled, wrapfront gown brushed the deckplates, and over it she wore a long quilted coat with voluminous sleeves, its formal cowl flung back and its gilt waist sash left open. Her steps revealed supple, ornamentally stitched buskins.

She had applied makeup, too, but with such restraint that Han couldn’t tell what or how. She was cooler, more poised, and seemed older than Han recalled. Her expression dared him to make a crack. One side of him was trying to tally how long it had been since he had seen anyone this attractive.

“Girl,” breathed Badure, “for a second there I thought you were a ghost. It might’ve been Lanni, standing there.”

An hour ago I’d have said she couldn’t find romance in a prison camp with a jetpack on! I’m slipping
, Han thought. Then he found his voice. “But why?”

While Hasti inspected Han distantly, Badure explained. “When Lanni diverted course on a freight run to store the log-recorder disk at the vaults, she changed into this local outfit Hasti’s wearing so word wouldn’t leak that a woman from the mining camp had been there. Fortunately she gave us the rental code and retrieval combination before she was killed by J’uoch’s people. Hasti must look as much like poor Lanni as possible, in case any of the vault personnel happen to remember her sister.”

Hasti motioned back toward Han’s quarters. “Nice wallow you have there; it looks like the end of a six-day sweepstakes party.”

His reply was cut short by an angry caterwauling from the cockpit. It was Chewbacca insisting that Han come up for the reversion to normal space. “I wonder if I wouldn’t be asking too much to view the procedure from the cockpit?” Skynx said to Han.

“Sure; we’ll find some place for you.” Han met Hasti’s aloof gaze. “How about you? Care to watch?”

She pursed her mouth indifferently. Skynx left off observing what was, as far as he could conclude, a variation of human preening/courting rituals and excitedly hurried toward the cockpit, followed by Badure. Han, weighing Hasti’s expression, decided neither to offer his arm nor to touch her in any ushering-along gesture.

None of them noticed Bollux, who remained behind, contemplating the war-robot’s head, his cold fingers resting on the imposing armored brow.