The Han Solo Adventures (49 page)

In the midst of it all, the door swept open.

Bollux was ushered in and the door closed before any of them could do more than gape. In another moment they had congregated around the ’droid, elbowing one another, their demands for information and their questions interrupting one another’s.

After a few seconds Badure shouted everyone down. They quieted, realizing he would ask the same questions as they anyway. “What’s happened? Who are those people? What do they want from us?”

Bollux made the strangely human self-effacing sounds he employed in approaching a delicate subject. “There’s rather a surprising story here. It’s somewhat complicated. You see, long ago, there was—”

“Come on, Bollux!” Han shouted, cutting through the cybernetic rhetoric, “What are they going to
do
with us?”

The ’droid sounded dismayed. “I know it sounds absurd in this day and age, sir, but unless we can do something, you’re all about to become, er, a human sacrifice.”

“By which,” Skynx said with a forlorn hope, “we may assume you mean
only
humans?”

“Not quite,” Bollux admitted. “They’re not really sure what you and First Mate Chewbacca are, but they’ve concluded they have nothing to lose by sacrificing you. They’re discussing procedures now.”

The Wookiee growled and Skynx’s red eyes glazed.

“Bollux, who
are
these people?” Han demanded.

“They call themselves the Survivors, sir. The signal we picked up was a distress call. They’re waiting to be picked up. When I asked them why they didn’t simply go to the city, they became very vexed and excited; they harbor a great deal of hatred for the other Dellaltians. I gathered that that animosity is tied up with their religion somehow. They are extreme isolationists.”

“How did you find all this out?” Badure wanted to know. “Do they speak any Standard?”

“No, sir,” the ’droid replied. “They speak a dialect that was prevalent in this section of space prior to the rise of the Old Republic. It was recorded on a language tape in Skynx’s material, and Blue Max had stored it along with other information. Of course, I didn’t reveal that Max exists; he translated for me in burst-signals and I conducted the conversation.”

“A culture of pre-Republic origins,” pondered Skynx, forgetting to be scared.

“Will you forget the homework?” snapped Hasti, then turned again to Bollux. “What’s all this about sacrifices? Why us?”

“Because they’re waiting to be picked up,” said the ’droid. “They’re convinced that life-form termination enhances the effect of their broadcast.”

“So
we
stumbled in, a major power boost,” mused Han, thinking of all those people who had disappeared in these mountains. “When’s the big sendoff?”

“Late tonight, sir; it has something to do with the stars and is accompanied by considerable ritual.”

We’ve got just one trump card left
, Han thought, then said, “I think that’ll work out just fine.”

Their captors wasted no food or drink on them, which Han loudly proclaimed an indication that they had fallen into the hands of a low-class outfit. But they still had plenty of time to question Bollux.

The mountain warren was indeed a large complex, though it apparently housed what Bollux estimated to be no more than one hundred people living in a complicated family-clan group. Asked why he had been separated from them all, the ’droid could only say that the Survivors appeared to understand what automata were and held them in some awe. They had been adamant about the need to go forward with the sacrifice, but had bowed to his demands that he be permitted to see his companions.

On the details of the sacrifice Bollux was less clear. Ceremonial objects and equipment were being moved to the surface even as they spoke; the sacrifice was to take place on the mock-up landing field. Although the ’droid had been unable to locate the confiscated weapons, the captives decided that any attempt at escape would have a better chance of success if made on the surface. Han revealed his plan to the others, vague as it was.

“There are a lot of things that could go wrong,” Hasti protested.

Han agreed. “The worst of which is getting sacrificed, which will happen anyway. How long until nightfall?”

She consulted her wrist chrono; there were many hours yet. They decided to rest. Chewbacca barked his gameboard move to Han, then settled down for a nap. Badure followed suit.

Han scowled at the Wookiee, whose gameboard move was extremely unconventional. “Just because we’re going to be sacrificed, you’re playing a reckless game now?” The Wookiee flashed his teeth in a self-satisfied grin.

Skynx appeared to be in deep conversation with Bollux, using the obscure dialect the Survivors spoke. Hasti had gone off to commune with her thoughts, and Han decided not to bother her. He wished urgently that the group could take some immediate course of action to dispel any brooding. None was available, so he settled into that—for him—most difficult of all tasks, waiting.

The opening of the door brought Han out of a troubled sleep filled with visions of strangers doing terrible things to the
Millennium Falcon
.

Then, abruptly, Survivors wearing their extravagant costumes dashed into the quiet chamber, carrying glow-rods and weapons, making resistance sheer folly. Their weapons were a fascinating assortment: ancient beam-tubes powered by heavy backpacks, antiquated solid-projectile firearms, and several spring-loaded harpoon guns of the sort the lake men used. Han’s worse fear, that the Survivors would use their anaesthetic gas again and thus preclude any action on their captives’ part, was unrealized. He found himself breathing easier for that; he had no intention of ending his life passively.

With shouted instructions and gesticulations the Survivors herded their captives out of the chamber. They formed a forward and rear guard, keeping their weapons trained watchfully so there would be no opportunity for mishap. Chewbacca rumbled angrily through it all and nearly turned on one Survivor, who had jabbed the Wookiee with a harpoon gun to hurry him along. Han restrained his friend; all the other Survivors were out of reach, and there was no place to hide in the stone corridors. They had no choice but to move as ordered.

This time Han got a clearer impression of the underground warren. The corridors, like the chamber in which they had been held, were carefully and precisely cut, arranged along an organized central plan, their walls, floors, and ceilings fused solid to serve as support. Thermal plates warmed them, but Han could see no dehumidifying equipment, though he was certain it must exist. Everything implied a technology in excess of what the Survivors seemed capable of fully utilizing. Han was willing to bet these capering primitives did simple maintenance by rote and that the knowledge of the original builders had been lost long ago.

He saw unhelmeted Survivors for the first time, mainbreed humans who, aside from an unusual number of congenital defects, were unremarkable. The prisoners passed heated, well-lit hydroponic layouts. The glow-rods and thermal plates in them made Han wonder about the power source; something suitably ancient, he presumed, perhaps even an atomic pile.

Badure’s thoughts had been paralleling his own. “Regression,” the old man said. “Maybe the base was built by stranded explorers, or early colonists?”

“That wouldn’t explain their unreasoning shunning of the other Dellaltians,” Skynx put in. “They must have taken elaborate precautions to avoid notice all this time, even in these desolate—”

He was silenced when a Survivor singled him out with the end of a beam-tube, gesturing with unmistakable fury. Conversation stopped. Han saw that Bollux had been right; the warren had clearly been built for many more people than now occupied it. In some stretches light and heat had been shut down to conserve power or had failed altogether.

They passed a room from which odd, rhythmic sounds issued. For just an instant when he drew even with the doorway, Han had a view of the interior.

Colored lights strobed in the darkness, flashing on the walls and ceiling in arresting swirls and patterns. Someone was chanting in the Survivors’ tongue; underscoring the chant was the pulsing of a transonic synthesizer, as much felt as heard.

Han almost stopped short and had to step quickly to keep from being jabbed with a harpoon, thinking,
Hypno-imprinting! Crude version, but completely effective if you catch your subjects early enough. Poor kids
. It explained a lot.

Then they felt cold night air on their faces and their breath crystallized before them. They left the Survivors’ warren by a different door than that by which they had entered.

The mockup landing field was a different sight in the night than it had been during the day; it was now a scene of barbaric ceremony. The stars and Dellalt’s two moons brightened the sky; glow-rods and streaming torches lit the entire area, reflected by the sides of the dummy aircraft. At the edge of the ritual field, by the steep snowfield that sloped to the valley below, a large cage had been erected, a pyramid of bars, assembled piecemeal. Its door was a thick, solid plate, its lock in the center, inaccessible from within the cage.

Near the cage was a circle of gleaming metal, broader than Han was tall, suspended from a framework, suggesting an enormous gong. It was inscribed with lettering of an unfamiliar type, consisting of whorls and squares alternating with dots and ideographs.

Closer in, toward the center of the light, was a wide metal table, a medi-lab appurtenance of some kind. Near it were piled the prisoners’ weapons and other equipment. The implication of the table hit them at once: a sacrificial altar.

Han was ready to make a break then and there; the pyramidal cage seemed firmly anchored to the rock, so sturdy that even Chewbacca’s thews wouldn’t prevail against it. But the Survivors had been through this procedure before. They were alert and careful, with weapons trained in clear lines of fire. Han noticed that the muzzles and harpoons were pointed toward the captives’ legs. If the scheduled sacrificees made any wrong moves, the Survivors could shoot and still not be deprived of their ritual.

This decided the pilot against any immediate action. There was still a chance his plan would work, provided Bollux and Blue Max were flexible enough to adapt to circumstances as they arose. The ’droid was separated from the rest of them, complying with their captors as Han had instructed him.

The other captives were chivvied to the cage, ushered to the circular door plate that swung open on oiled hinges. It took every scrap of Han’s resolve to enter the pyramid; once inside he stood there closely watching the Survivors’ preparations.

The strange people were decked out in their finest garb. Now that he understood a little more about them, Han could interpret the Survivors’ costume. A ground-crewman’s blast-suit had become, over generations, an insect-eyed getup. Spacesuit speaker grilles had evolved into pointy-fanged mouths painted on imitation helmets; communication antennae and broadcast directors were represented by elaborate spikes and antlers of metal. Back tanks and suit packs were adorned with symbolic designs and mosaics, while tool belts were hung with fetishes, amulets, and charms of all kinds.

The Survivors whirled, leaped, and tootled their instruments, striking finger chimes and drums. Two of them beat the great wheel of metal with padded mallets, the gongings resounding back and forth across the valley.

With the prisoners’ arrival, things began to build toward a climax. A man mounted a rostrum that had been set near the altar. A silence fell.

The man wore a uniform festooned with decorations and braid; his trousers were seamed with golden cloth. He wore a hat that was slightly small for him, its military brim glittering with giltwork, a broad, flashing medallion riding its high crown. Two aides set a small stand on the rostrum beside him. It held a thick circle of transparent material about the size of a mealplate.

“A log-recorder disk!” exclaimed Skynx. The others competed to ask him if he was sure. “Yes, yes; I’ve seen one or two, you know. But the
Queen of Ranroon
’s is back in the treasure vaults, is it not? What one is that, then?”

No one could answer. The man on the rostrum regaled the crowd, delivering loud phrases that they echoed back to him, applauding, whistling, and stomping their feet. Flickering torchlight made the scene seem even more primeval.

“He’s saying they’ve been a good and faithful people, that the proof is there with him on the rostrum, and that the High Command won’t forget them,” Skynx translated.

Han was amazed. “You understand that garble?”

“I learned it as Bollux did, from the data tapes, a pre-Republic dialect. Can they have been here that long, Captain?”

“Ask the Chamber of Commerce. What’s he saying now?”

“He said he’s their Mission Commander. And something about mighty forces afoot; the rescue they’ve been promised will surely come soon. I—something about their generations of steadfastness, and deliverance by this High Command. The crowd keeps chanting ‘Our signal will be received.’”

With a final tirade the Mission Commander gestured to the pyramidal cage. Until now Bollux had stood to one side of the proceedings, surrounded by gray-clad, masked Survivors who chanted and rattled prayer clackers at him, descendants of techs entrusted with maintenance of machinery.

But now the ’droid broke out of their ring, moving quickly to take advantage of the surprise he had caused. He crossed to stand with his back to the pyramid’s door. The Survivors who had been about to fetch their first victim for the “transmission” wavered, still awed by the automaton. The ’droid hadn’t been able to secure a weapon, a departure from Han’s vague plan, but felt that he could wait no longer to make his move. Even in the rush of events Han wondered about the origin of the Survivors’ reverence for mechanicals. Surely there had never been a ’droid or robot through these mountains before?

The Mission Commander was exhorting his followers. Bollux, his photoreceptors glowing red in the night, slowly opened the halves of his chest plastron. Blue Max, carefully coached by the labor ’droid, activated his own photoreceptor, playing it across the crowd. Han heard sounds of indrawn breath among the Survivors.

Max switched from optical scanning to holo-projection mode. A cone of light sprang from him; there hovered in the air an image he had recorded off Skynx’s tapes, the symbol of Xim the Despot, the grinning death’s head with the starburst in each black eye socket. From his vocoder came recorded tech readouts from the tapes in the language of the Survivors.

The crowd drew back, many of them thrusting their thumbs at Bollux to fend off evil. Max put forth more images he had taken from the information Skynx had compiled: an ancient fleet of space battlewagons in flight against the stars; the brilliance of a full-scale engagement with exploding missiles, flaring cannonfire, and probing lasers; battle standards passing in review, displaying unit colors that had been forgotten long ago. The entire time, the ’droid was surreptitiously edging to the pyramidal cage’s door. While the crowd was riveted to Max’s performance, Bollux manipulated the door’s handle behind his back.