The Han Solo Adventures Part 27

HAN SOLO AND THE LOST LEGACY.

A book for Linda Kuehl.

and, with particular grat.i.tude,

for John A. Kearney.

I.

HAN Solo nearly had the control-stem leads hooked up, a sweaty job that had him stuck under the low-slung airspeeder for almost an hour, when there was a kick at his foot. "What's holding things up?"

The leads, now gathered together in precise order, sprang free of his fingers, going every which way. With a scalding Corellian malediction, Han shoved against the machine's undercarriage, and his repulsor-lift mechanic's creeper slid out from under the airspeeder.

Han leaped up instantly to confront Grigmin, his temporary employer, the color on his face changing from the red of frustration to a darker and more dangerous hue. Han was lean, of medium height, and appeared younger than his actual age. His eyes were guarded, intense.

Grigmin, tall, broad shouldered, handsomely blond, and some years younger than Han, either didn't notice his pit-crewman's anger or chose not to acknowledge it. "Well? What about it? That airspeeder's an important part of my show."

Han attempted not to lose his scant temper. Working as pit-crewman to Grigmin's one-man airshow on a circuit of fifth-rate worlds had been the only job he and his partner, Chewbacca, had been able to get when they found they needed work, but Grigmin's unrelenting arrogance made the task of keeping his outmoded aircraft running nearly unbearable.

"Grigmin," Han said, "I've warned you before. You put too much strain on your hardware. You could stay well within performance tolerances and still complete every maneuver in your routines. But instead you s...o...b..at, with junk heaps that were obsolete when the Clone Wars were news."

Grigmin's grin grew even wider. "Save the excuses, Solo. Will my airspeeder be ready for my afternoon show, or have you and your Wookiee sidekick decided you don't like working for me?"

Masterpiece of understatement! Han thought to himself, but mumbled, "She'll be in the air again if Fadoop gets here with the replacement parts."

Now Grigmin frowned. "You should have gone for them yourself. I never trust these useless locals; it's a rule I have."

"If you want me to use a starship for a crummy surface-to-surface skip, you'll have to pay the expenses-up front." Han would sooner trust a local like the amiable, gregarious Fadoop than a shifty deadbeat like Grigmin.

Grigmin ignored the invitation to part with some cash. "I want my airspeeder ready," he concluded and left to prepare for the next part of his performance, an exhibition of maneuvers with a one-man jetpack. Maneuvers any academy greenie could do, Han thought. These backwater worlds are the only place anyone would pay to see a feeble act like Grigmin's.

Still, if it hadn't been for Grigmin's needing a pitcrew, Han Solo and the Wookiee, Chewbacca, freelance smugglers, would have been on the Hurt Vector. He adjusted his sweatband, toed the mechanic's creeper over to him, settled onto it, and pulled himself back under the airspeeder.

Groping half-heartedly for the control leads, Han wondered just what it was that made his luck so erratic. He had had strokes of good fortune that rivaled anything he had ever heard of, but at other times....

He barked his knuckles, swore a mighty oath, and mulled over the fact that only a short time ago he and his Wookiee partner had held the galaxy by the tail. They had defied a slavery ring in the Corporate Sector, held the Authority's dreaded Security Police at bay with a Territorial Manager as hostage, and come out of the deal ten thousand credits richer.

But since then there had been needed repairs for their starship, the Millennium Falcon, and monumental celebrations on a dozen worlds as they put the Corporate Sector behind them. Then there had been ill-fated smuggling ventures: a ruinous try at clotheslegging in the Cron Drift; a failed Military Script-exchange plot in the Lesser Plooriod Cl.u.s.ter; and more, each adventure bringing a little closer that day when they would find themselves among the needy.

So they had ended up here in the Tion Hegemony, so far out among the lesser star systems of the vast Empire that the Imperials didn't even bother to exert direct control over it. In the Tion tended to congregate the petty grifters, unsuccessful con-artists, and unprosperous crooks of the galaxy. They ran Chak-root, picked up R'alla mineral water for the smuggling run to Rampa, swiped, ambushed, connived, and attempted in a thousand ways to fuel careers temporarily at a standstill.

Han considered all this as he carefully gathered the leads, once again separating them delicately. At least with Grigmin, Han and Chewbacca were paid, once in a while.

But that didn't make it any easier to take Grigmin's highhandedness. What particularly irritated Han was that Grigmin considered himself the hottest stunt pilot in s.p.a.ce. Han had entertained the idea of taking a swing at the younger man, but Grigmin was a former heavyweight unarmed combat champion....

His musings were interrupted by another kick that jolted his boot. The control leads sprang from his hands again. Furious, he pushed off against the airspeeder's undercarriage, jumped off the mechanic's creeper, and, combat champion or no, launched himself at his tormentor ...

... and was caught up instantly against a wide s.h.a.ggy chest in a frightfully strong but restrained hug and held a half-meter or so off the ground.

"Chewie! Let go, you big ... all right; I'm sorry."

Thick arms muscled like loops of steel released him. The Wookiee Chewbacca glared down from his towering height, growling a denunciation of Han's manners, his reddish-brown brows lowered, his fangs showing. He shook a long, hairy finger at his partner for emphasis and tried straightening the Authority Security Police admiral's hat perched rakishly on his head, his lush mane escaping from beneath it.

The admiral's hat was just about the only thing the two still had from their adventures in the Corporate Sector. Chewbacca had taken a fancy to its bright braid, snowy-white material, glossy black brim, and ornate insignia during an exchange of hostages just before their hasty departure from that region of s.p.a.ce. In his people's tradition of counting coup on their enemies, the Wookiee had demanded the hat as part of the ransom. Han, pressed by events, had indulged him.

Now the pilot threw up his hands. "Enough! I said I was sorry. I thought you were that vapor-brain Grigmin again. Now what?"

Han's giant copilot informed him that Fadoop had arrived. Fadoop stood nearby on her feet and knuckles, an unusually fat and outgoing native of the planet Saheelindeel. A short, bandy-legged, and densely green-furred primate, she was a local wheeler-dealer who flew an aircraft of sorts, an informal a.s.semblage of parts and components from various sc.r.a.pped fliers, a craft which she called Skybarge.

Pulling off his sweatband, Han walked toward Fadoop. "You scrounged the parts? Good gal!"

Fadoop, scratching behind one ear with a big toe, removed a malodorous black cigar from her mouth and blew a smoke ring. "Anything for Solo-my-friend. Are we not soulsealed buddies, you, me, and the Big One here, this Wookiee? But, ahh, there is a matter-"

Fadoop looked away somewhat embarra.s.sed. Working the quid of Chak-root that swelled her cheek, she spat a stream of red liquid into the dust. "I trust Solo-my-friend, but not Grigmin-the-blowhard. I hate to bring up money."

"No apologies; you earned it." Han dug into a coverall pocket for the cash he had gotten in advance for the airspeeder parts. Fadoop tucked the money away swiftly into her belly pouch, then brightened; a twinkle sparkled in her close-set, golden eyes.

"And there's a surprise, Solo-my-friend. At the s.p.a.ceport, when I picked up the parts, two new arrivals were looking for you and the Big One. I had room in my ship, and so brought them with me. They wait."

Han reached back under the airspeeder and drew out his coiled gunbelt, which he always kept at arm's length. "Who are they? Imperials? Did they look like skip-tracers or Guild muscle?" He buckled the custom-model blaster around his hips, fastening the tiedown at his right thigh, and snapped open his holster's retaining strap.

Fadoop objected. "Negatron! Nice, peaceful fellows, a little nervous." She scratched her verdant, bulging midsection, making a sandpaper sound. "They want to hire you. No weapons on them, at least."

That sounded rea.s.suring. "What do you think?" Han asked Chewbacca.

The Wookiee resettled his admiral's hat, pulling the gleaming brim down low over his eyes, and stared across the airfield. After a few seconds, he barked a syllable of affirmation, and the three started off for Fadoop's ship.

It was high festival on Saheelindeel, formerly a time of tribal reunions and hunting rituals, then of fertility and harvest ceremonies. Now it incorporated elements of an airshow and industrial fair. Saheelindeel, like so many other planets in the Tion Hegemony, was struggling to thrust itself into an age of modern technology and prosperity in emulation of the galaxy at large. Farming machinery was on display as well as factory robotry. Vehicles new to the wide-eyed Saheelindeeli but obsolete on more advanced worlds were in evidence, along with communications and holo apparatuses that delighted the touring crowd. In an exhibition game of shockball, the charged orb sizzled between players wearing insulated mitts; the winning team was using a zoned offense.

Off in the distance, Grigmin was looping and diving in jetpack harness. Just seeing him again put Han in a more receptive frame of mind to meet Fadoop's pa.s.sengers. Pa.s.sing by the reviewing stand, he saw the Saheelindeeli's grizzled matriarch holding the elaborate trophy she was to present that afternoon for the best thematic float or exhibit. The fair's theme was Fertility of the Soil, Challenge of the Sky. Favored heavily to win was the opulent float entered by the Regional Fork-Pitchers' Local.

At last Han and his companions arrived at Fadoop's slapdash cargo ship. Despite her rea.s.surances, Han was relieved to see the new arrivals were not Imperial stormtroopers-"snowmen" or "white-hats," as they were called in slang-talk-but an una.s.suming pair, human and humanoid.

The humanoid-a tall, reedy, purple-skinned type whose eyes, protruding from an elongated skull, held tiny red pinpoints of pupil-nodded at Han. "Ah, Captain Solo? A pleasure to meet you, sir!" He stuck out a thin arm. Han clasped the long, slender hand, trying to ignore its greasy skin secretions.

"Yes, I'm Solo. What can I do for you?"

The human, an emaciated albino wearing a sunproof robe, explained. "We represent the Committee for Interinst.i.tutional a.s.sistance of the University of Rudrig. You've heard of our school?"

"I think so." He vaguely remembered that it was the only decent advanced school in the Tion Hegemony.

"The university has concluded an Agreement of Aid for a fledgling college on Brigia," the albino continued.

The humanoid took up the conversation. "I am Hissal, and Brigia is my homeworld. The university has promised us guidance, materials, and teaching aids."

"So you should be contacting Tion Starfreight or Interstellar Shipping," Han noted. "But you came looking for us. Why?"

"The shipment is completely legal," the gaunt Hissal hastened to add, "but there is opposition from my planetary government. Though they can't contravene Imperial trade agreements, of course, we still fear there might be trouble in making delivery and-"

"-you want someone who can look out for your stuff."

"Your name had come to us as a capable fellow's," Hissal admitted.

"Chewie and I try to avoid trouble-"

"The job pays rather well," interposed the albino. "One thousand credits."

"-unless there's some profit in it. Two thousand," Han finished, doubling the price automatically even though the offer had been more than fair. There ensued a few moments of haggling. But when Han pressed the university representatives too sharply and their enthusiasm began to waver, Chewbacca issued a howl that made them all jump. He didn't much like crewing for Grigmin either.

"Uh, my copilot's an idealist," Han improvised, scowling up at the Wookiee. "Luckily for you. Fifteen hundred." The albino and the Brigian agreed, adding that half would be paid on consignment, half on delivery. Chewbacca pushed his gaudy admiral's hat back on his head and beamed at his partner, overjoyed to be lifting off again.

"So," said Fadoop, slapping her belly merrily with both hands and one foot, "that only leaves telling that fool Grigmin good riddance."

"It does, doesn't it?" Han agreed. "He'll be doing his big stunt display any time now." He rubbed his jaw and studied the ungainly, stubby-winged vessel that stood nearby. "Fadoop, can I borrow old Skybarge for a few minutes?"

"No questions asked. But she's got cargo onboard, several cubic meters of enriched fertilizer for the agricultural pavilion." Fadoop relit her cigar.

"No problem," Han told her. "Warm up your ship. I'll be right back."

Having already amazed the unsophisticated Saheelindeeli with his hover-sled, jetpack, and repulsorlift swoops, Grigmin began his grand finale, an exhibition of stunt flying with an obsolete X-222 high-alt.i.tude fighter. The triple-deuce looped, climbed, dove, and banked through textbook maneuvers, releasing clouds of colorful aerosols at certain points to the delight of the crowd.

Grigmin came into his final approach, putting the limber and lean ship through a fancy aerobatic display before coming in toward a precise landing. He didn't realize, however, that a second ship had come in after him on the same approach his fighter had taken. It was Fadoop's c.u.mbersome Skybarge with Han Solo at the controls. To show what he thought of Grigmin's flying ability, Han took the tubby ship through the same display the exhibition flier was just completing. But, coming into his first loop, Han feathered his portside engine.

The green-furred Saheelindeeli gasped collectively and pointed the second ship out to one another with a great commotion, forgetting to watch Grigmin's landing entirely. They expected to see Skybarge plummet from the air. But Han completed the roll, deftly working with the nearly empty craft's stubby wings, control surfaces, and chugging engine. On the second roll, he feathered the starboard engine, too, and went into a third with zero thrust.

Shrieks of fright from the crowd and their tentative race for cover abated as they saw that the unwieldy aircraft was still under control. Jumping up and down, pointing with fingers and toes, they sent up a ragged cheer for the mad pilot, then a more forceful one, reflecting the Saheelindeeli affection for grand gestures, even insane ones.

Grigmin, who had exited from his ship virtually unnoticed, threw down his flight helmet and watched Skybarge in mounting fury. Han coaxed the third roll out of his homely vessel and waggled her down toward the strip.

But only one landing wheel emerged from its bay. Grigmin grinned at the prospect of a crash; but unexpectedly the ship bounced off the single wheel, trimmed handily, and settled a second time as another landing wheel lowered. She bore on the reviewing stand with surprising grace and rebounded from two wheels.

As Skybarge neared the reviewing stand, the crowd parted before her, clapping their hands and feet in high approbation. The ship waggled her tail in midair, extended her third and last landing wheel, and rolled cleanly for the reviewing stand. By that time Grigmin was so distracted that he didn't notice the cargo ship heading directly for his precious triple-deuce fighter.

Too late! Slam! He could only dodge out of the way as Skybarge rolled by. Han threw a wicked grin at him from the c.o.c.kpit.

Skybarge's high, heavy-duty landing gear permitted her to pa.s.s directly over the low, sleek fighter. With consummate skill, Han flipped open her cargo-bay doors and suddenly an avalanche of enriched fertilizer dumped directly into the fighter through the open c.o.c.kpit canopy.

The Saheelindeeli began applauding madly. Skybarge's overhead c.o.c.kpit hatch popped open, and Han's happy face appeared. He inclined his head graciously to acknowledge the ovation as Grigmin was being elbowed farther and farther away by the press of the crowd.

From the reviewing stand the matriarch's voice wheezed through the crackling public address system. "First prize! Trophy to Skybarge for best exhibit, Fertility of the Soil, Challenge of the Sky." She waved the tall loving cup as her advisers whistled and stomped their feet in glee.

II.

THE Millennium Falcon rested on Brigia's single s.p.a.ceport landing field. She looked very much like the battered, much-repaired, and worn-out stock freighter she was, but there were incongruities. The irregular docking tackle, oversized thruster ports, heavy-weapons turrets, and late-model sensor-suite dish betrayed something about her real line of work.

"That's the last of the tapes," Han announced. He checked the offloading on his hand-held readout screen as Bollux, the labor 'droid, stumped past, guiding a repulsorlift hand truck. The automaton's green finish looked eerie in the glow of the irradiators with which the ship was now rigged. Brigia was flagged in all the standard directories, thus requiring phase-one decontam procedures. The ship's environmental systems circulated broad-spectrum anticontamination aerosols along with air. Han's and Chewbacca's immunization treatments would protect them against local maladies, but they were nonetheless eager to be away.

Han watched Bollux head for the steam-powered freight truck parked near the ship. The glare of the landing field's illumigrids showed him the Brigian workers, all volunteers from the budding college, arranging crates, packing canisters and carry-cases that the Falcon had delivered. They conversed animatedly among themselves, thrilled with the new broadcasting equipment and especially with the library of tapes.

Han turned to Hissal, who had accompanied him on the flight and who was to be the college's first president. "The only thing left to get outboard is your duplicator."

"Ah, yes, the duplicator, our most-awaited-item," commented Hissal, "and the most expensive. It will print and collate material at speeds our own presses cannot match and synthesize any paper or other material from the raw const.i.tuents it contains. This, from a device that fits into a few crates. Amazing!"

Han made a noncommittal sound. Bollux was returning, and Han called down the curve of the pa.s.sageway, "Chewie! Secure the main hold and crack open the number two; I want to get that duplicator off and raise ship." From aft echoed the Wookiee's answering growl.

"Captain, there's one more thing," Hissal went on, drawing a pouch from beneath his lateral folds. Han's right hand dropped immediately to his blaster. Hissal, sensing his breach of decorum, held up a thin hand in denial.

"Be of tranquil mind. I know that among your kind it is customary to offer a gratuity for a task well done." Hissal plucked a curl of bills out of his pouch and extended it to the pilot.

Han examined the bills. They had a strange texture, more like textile than like paper. "What is this stuff?"

"A new innovation," admitted Hissal. "Several Progressions ago the New Regime replaced bartering and local coinages with a planet-wide monetary system."

Han slapped the sheaf of minutely inscribed bills against the palm of his flying glove. "Which gives them a hammer-lock on trade, of course. Well, thanks anyway, but this stuff isn't worth much off-planet."

Hissal's elongated face grew even longer. "Unfortunately, only the New Regime may hold off-world currency; thus, all equipment and materials for our school had to come by donation. The first thing the New Regime did when it acc.u.mulated enough credits was bring in a developmental consulting firm. Aside from the currency system, the firm's main accomplishment was to profit from a major purchase of military equipment, which included that warship you saw."

Han had noticed the ship, a pocket-cruiser of the outmoded Marauder cla.s.s surrounded by worklights and armed guards.

"Her main control stacks blew on her shakedown cruise," Hissal explained. "Naturally, there are no Brigian techs capable of repairing her, and so she remains inert until the Regime can muster enough credits to import techs and parts. That money could have brought us commercial technology, or medical advancements."

Han nodded. "First thing most of these boondock worlds do-no offense, Hissal-is pick up some toys to build their image. Then their neighbors run out and do the same."

"We are a poor planet," the Brigian told him solemnly, "and have more important priorities."

Han declined further comment on that subject. Bollux had returned and was waiting for Han's next order, when suddenly there was a distant screeching of steam sirens.