[Han Solo] - 01 - The Paradise Share (A C Crispin), Star Wars - Books And Short Stories
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STAR WARSTHE HAN SOLO TRILOGY1THE PARADISE SNAREBy A. C. CRISPIN1Trader's LuckThe ancient troopship, a relic of the Clone Wars, hung in orbit over the planet Corellia, silent and seemingly derelict. Looks were deceiving, however. The old Liberator-class vessel, once called Guardian of the Republic, now had a new life as Trader's Luck. The interior had been gutted and refitted with a motley assortment of living environments, and now contained nearly one hundred sentient beings, many of them humanoid. At the moment, however, only a few of them were awake, since it was the middle of the sleep cycle.There was a watch on the bridge, of course. Trader's Luck spent much of its time in orbit, but it was still capable of hyperspace travel, even though it was slow by modern standards. Garris Shrike, the leader of the loosely allied trading "clan" that lived aboard the Luck, was a strict taskmaster, who followed formal ship's protocols. So there was always a watch on the bridge.Shrike's orders aboard the Luck were always obeyed; he was not a man to cross without a good reason and a fully charged blaster. He ruled the clan of traders as a less-than-benevolent despot. A slender man of medium height, Garris was handsome in a hard-edged way. Streaks of silver-white above his temples accentuated his black hair and iceblue eyes. His mouth was thin-lipped; he seldom smiled--and never with good humor. Garris Shrike was an expert shot and had spent his early years as a professional bounty hunter. He'd given it up, though, due to bad "luck"meaning that his lack of patience had caused him to lose the richest bounties reserved for live delivery. Dead bodies were frequently worth far less.Shrike did possess a warped sense of humor, especially if the pain of others was involved. When he was gambling and winning, he was subject to bouts of manic gaiety, especially if he was also drunk.As he was at the moment. Sitting around the table in the former wardroom of the enlisted officers, Shrike was playing sabacc and drinking tankards of potent Alderaanian ale, his favorite beverage.Shrike peered at his card-chips, mentally calculating. Should he hold pat and hope to complete a pure sabacc? At any moment the dealer could push a button and the values of all the card-chips would shift. If that happened, he'd be busted, unless he took an additional two and tossed most of his hand into the interference field in the center of the table.One of his fellow players, a hulking Elomin suddenly turned his tusked head to glance behind him. A light on one of the auxiliary "status" panels was blinking. The huge, shaggy-furred Elomin grunted, then said in guttural Basic, "Something funny about the lockout sensor on the weapons cache, Captain."Shrike insisted on "proper" protocol and chain of command, especially as it applied to himself. Unless engaged in some planetside caper, he always wore a military uniform while aboard the Luck--one he'd designed himself, patterned on the dress uniform of a high-ranking Moff. It was hung about with "medals" and "decorations" Shrike had picked up in pawnshops across the galaxy.Now, hearing the Elomin's warning, he glanced up a little blearily, rubbed his eyes, then straightened up and dropped his card-chips onto the tabletop. "What is it, Brafid?"The giant being wrinkled his tusked snout. "Not sure, Captain. It's reading normal now, but something flickered, as though the lock shorted out for a second. Probably just a momentary power flux."Moving with such unusual grace and coordination that even the foppish "uniform" couldn't detract from his presence, the captain rose and walked around the table to study the readouts himself. All signs of intoxication had vanished."Not a power flux," he decided after a moment. "Something else."Turning his head, he addressed the tall, heavyset human on his left."Larrad, look at this. Somebody shorted out the lock and is running a sim to fool us into thinking it's just a power flux. We've got a thief aboard. Is everyone armed?"The man addressed, who happened to be Shrike's brother, Larrad Shrike, nodded, patting the holster that hung on the outside of his thigh.Brafid the Elomin fingered his "tingler"--an electric prod that was his weapon of choice--though the hairy alien was large enough to pick up most humanoids and break them over his knee.The other person present, a female Sullustan who was the Luck's navigator, stood up, patting the scaled-down blaster she wore. "Ready for action, Captain!" she squeaked. Despite her diminutive height, flapping jowls, and large, appealing bright eyes, Nooni Dalvo appeared almost as dangerous as the hulking Elomin who was her closest shipboard friend."Good," Shrike grunted. "Nooni, go post a guard over the weapons locker, just in case he comes back. Larrad, activate the biosensors, see if you can ID the thief and where he's heading."Shrike's brother nodded and bent over the auxiliary control board."Corellian human," he announced after a moment. "Male. Young.Height, 1.8 meters. Dark hair and eyes. Slender build. The bioscanner says it recognizes him. He's heading aft, toward the galley."Shrike's expression hardened until his eyes were as cold and blue as the glaciers on Hoth. "The Solo kid," he said. "He's the only one cocky enough to try something like this." He flexed his fingers, then hardened them into a fist. The ring he wore, made from a single gem of Devaronian blood-poison, flashed dull silver in the bulkhead lights."Well, I've gone easy on him so far, 'cause he's a good swoop pilot, and I never lost when I bet on him, but enough is enough. Tonight, I'm going to teach him to respect authority, and he's going to wish he'd never been born."Shrike's teeth flashed, much brighter than the gem in his ring. "Or that I'd never 'found' him seventeen years ago and brought his sniveling, pants-wetting little behind home to the Luck. I'm a patient, tolerant man . . ." he sighed theatrically, "as the galaxy knows, but even I have my limits."He glanced over at his brother, who was looking rather uncomfortable.Garris wondered if Larrad was remembering the Solo kid's last punishment session a year ago. The youth hadn't been able to walk for two days.Shrike's mouth tightened. He wouldn't tolerate any softness among his subordinates. "Right, Larrad?" he said too softly."Right, Captain!"Han Solo gripped the stolen blaster as he tiptoed along the narrow metal corridor. When he'd wired into the sim and jimmied the lock into the weapons cache, he'd only had a moment to reach in and grab the first weapon that came to hand. There'd been no time to pick and choose.Nervously, he pushed strands of damp brown hair back from his forehead, realizing he was sweating. The blaster felt heavy and awkward in his hand as he examined it. Han had seldom held one before, and he only knew how to check the charge from the reading he'd done.He'd never actually fired a weapon. Garris Shrike didn't permit anyone but his officers to walk around armed, Squinting in the dim light, the young swoop pilot flipped open a small panel in the thickest part of the barrel and peered down at the readouts. Good. Fully charged.Shrike may be a bully and a fool, but he runs a taut ship.Not even to himself would the youth admit how much he actually feared and hated the captain of Trader's Luck. He'd learned long ago that showing fear of any sort was a swift guarantee of a beating---or worse.The only thing bullies and fools respected was courage--or, at least, bravado. So Han Solo had learned never to allow fear to surface in his mind or heart.There were times when he was dimly aware that it was there, deep down, buried under layers of street toughness, but anytime he recognized it for what it was, Han resolutely buried it even deeper.Experimentally, he swung the blaster up to eye level and awkwardly closed one brown eye as he sighted along the barrel. The muzzle of the weapon wavered slightly, and Han cursed softly under his breath as he realized his hand was trembling. Come on, he told himself, show some backbone, Solo. Getting off this ship and away from Shrike is worth a little risk.Reflexively, he glanced over his shoulder, then turned back just in time to duck under a low-hanging power coupling. He'd chosen this route because it avoided all the living quarters and recreation areas, but it was so narrow and low-ceilinged that he was beginning to feel claustrophobic as he tiptoed forward, resisting the urge to turn and look back over his shoulder.Ahead of him, the near tunnel widened out, and Han realized he was almost at his destination. Only a few more minutes, he told himself, continuing to move with a stealthy grace that made his progress as soundless as that of a wonat's furred toe-pads. He was skirting the hyperdrive modules now, and then a larger corridor intersected. Han turned right, relieved that he could now walk without stooping.He crept up to the door of the big galley and hesitated outside, his ears and nose busy. Sounds . . . yes, only the ones he'd been expecting to hear. The soft clatter of metal pans, the splooooch of dough being punched, and then the faint sounds of it being kneaded.He could smell the dough, now. Wastril bread, his favorite. Han's mouth tightened. With any luck, he wouldn't be here to eat any of this particular batch.Sticking the blaster into his belt, he opened the door and stepped into the galley. "Hey . . . Dewlanna . . ." he said softly. "It's me.I've come to say goodbye."The tall, furred being who had been vigorously kneading the wastril dough swung around to face him with a soft, inquiring growl.Dewlanna's real na...
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