Star Wars - Han Solo Trilogy - The Paradise Snare Read online

  THE HAN SOLO TRILOGY

  By A. C. CRISPIN

  The Paradise Snare

  This book is dedicated to my friend, Thia Rose.

  When we were twelve, we swore we'd always be best friends . . . . .

  and, more years later than we like to count, we still are.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Writing in the Star Wars universe is like becoming a part of acommunity-or, even, a family. The writers are encouraged to read eachother's books, and there are dozens of nonfiction and technical booksdevoted to the characters, hardware, planets, and so forth. Writerstrade information and tips back and forth, and generally help eachother out. Thus, many, many people helped me with this book. With the caveat thatany mistakes readers may find are my own, I would like to thank thefollowing Kevin Anderson, who gave me my first chance to write in the Star Warsuniverse. Kevin and Rebecca Moesta also helped with information aboutthe Star Wars background and characters, as well as hand-holding,encouragement, and sage advice. Michael Capobianco, fellow writer and significant other, forbrainstorming, research help, intelligent advice, and fixing dinnerwhen I was too busy writing to even realize I was hungry. Thanks,dear. Bill Smith and Peter Schweighofer of West End Games for helping mefigure out answers to such odd and esoteric questions as, "What doesHan wear for underwear?" They "unstuck" me from quandaries more timesthan I can count. Tom Dupree and Evelyn Cainto of Bantam Books for assistance, advice,and encouragement. Sue Rostoni and Lucy Autrey Wilson of Lucasfilm for the "true facts." Michael A. Stackpole, for help figuring out how to break a tractorbeam, and other advice relating to ships and piloting. Steve Osmanski, for reading the manuscript and giving sage advice on"techie" stuff. As always, Kathy O'Malley, friend and writing buddy, for hand-holdingand an occasional, well-deserved kick in the pants. And, of course, George Lucas, who started it all. Star Wars blew meaway the first time I saw it, and it's been an honor to contribute tothe saga in a small way. Thanks again, and may the Force be with you all.

  one

  Trader's Luck

  The ancient troopship, a relic of the Clone Wars, hung in orbit overthe planet Corellia, silent and seemingly derelict. Looks weredeceiving, however. The old Liberator-class vessel, once calledGuardian of the Republic, now had a new life as Trader's Luck. Theinterior had been gutted and refitted with a motley assortment ofliving environments, and now contained nearly one hundred sentientbeings, many of them humanoid. At the moment, however, only a few ofthem were awake, since it was the middle of the sleep cycle.

  There was a watch on the bridge, of course. Trader's Luck spent muchof its time in orbit, but it was still capable of hyperspace travel,even though it was slow by modern standards. Garris Shrike, the leaderof the loosely allied trading "clan" that lived aboard the Luck, was astrict taskmaster, who followed formal ship's protocols. So there wasalways a watch on the bridge.

  Shrike's orders aboard the Luck were always obeyed; he was not a man tocross without a good reason and a fully charged blaster. He ruled theclan of traders as a less-than-benevolent despot. A slender man ofmedium height, Garris was handsome in a hard-edged way. Streaks ofsilver-white above his temples accentuated his black hair and iceblueeyes. His mouth was thin-lipped; he seldom smiled--and never with goodhumor. Garris Shrike was an expert shot and had spent his early yearsas 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 therichest

  bounties reserved for live delivery. Dead bodies were frequentlyworth far less.

  Shrike did possess a warped sense of humor, especially if the pain ofothers was involved. When he was gambling and winning, he was subjectto bouts of manic gaiety, especially if he was also drunk.

  As he was at the moment. Sitting around the table in the formerwardroom of the enlisted officers, Shrike was playing sabacc anddrinking tankards of potent Alderaanian ale, his favorite beverage.

  Shrike peered at his card-chips, mentally calculating. Should he holdpat and hope to complete a pure sabacc? At any moment the dealer couldpush a button and the values of all the card-chips would shift. Ifthat happened, he'd be busted, unless he took an additional two andtossed most of his hand into the interference field in the center ofthe table.

  One of his fellow players, a hulking Elomin suddenly turned his tuskedhead to glance behind him. A light on one of the auxiliary "status"panels was blinking. The huge, shaggy-furred Elomin grunted, then saidin guttural Basic, "Something funny about the lockout sensor on theweapons cache, Captain."

  Shrike insisted on "proper" protocol and chain of command, especiallyas it applied to himself. Unless engaged in some planetside caper, healways wore a military uniform while aboard the Luck--one he'd designedhimself, patterned on the dress uniform of a high-ranking Moff. It washung about with "medals" and "decorations" Shrike had picked up inpawnshops 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 ontothe tabletop. "What is it, Brafid?"

  The giant being wrinkled his tusked snout. "Not sure, Captain. It'sreading normal now, but something flickered, as though the lock shortedout 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 andwalked around the table to study the readouts himself. All signs ofintoxication 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 asim to fool us into thinking it's just a power flux. We've got a thiefaboard. 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 washis weapon of choice--though the hairy alien was large enough to pickup most humanoids and break them over his knee.

  The other person present, a female Sullustan who was the Luck'snavigator, stood up, patting the scaled-down blaster she wore. "Readyfor action, Captain!" she squeaked. Despite her diminutive height,flapping jowls, and large, appealing bright eyes, Nooni Dalvo appearedalmost as dangerous as the hulking Elomin who was her closest shipboardfriend.

  "Good," Shrike grunted. "Nooni, go post a guard over the weaponslocker, 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. Thebioscanner says it recognizes him. He's heading aft, toward thegalley."

  Shrike's expression hardened until his eyes were as cold and blue asthe glaciers on Hoth. "The Solo kid," he said. "He's the only onecocky enough to try something like this." He flexed his fingers, thenhardened them into a fist. The ring he wore, made from a single gem ofDevaronian 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'mgoing to teach him to respect authority, and he's going to wish he'dnever been born."

  Shrike's teeth flashed, much brighter than the gem in his ring. "Orthat I'd never 'found' him seventeen years ago and brought hissniveling, pants-wetting little behind home to the Luck. I'm apatient, tolerant man . . ." he sighed theatrically, "as
the galaxyknows, 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 lastpunishment session a year ago. The youth hadn't been able to walk fortwo days.

  Shrike's mouth tightened. He wouldn't tolerate any softness among hissubordinates. "Right, Larrad?" he said too softly.

  "Right, Captain!"

  Han Solo gripped the stolen blaster as he tiptoed along the narrowmetal corridor. When he'd wired into the sim and jimmied the lock intothe weapons cache, he'd only had a moment to reach in and grab thefirst weapon that came to hand. There'd been no time to pick andchoose.

  Nervously, he pushed strands of damp brown hair back from hisforehead, realizing he was sweating. The blaster felt heavy andawkward 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 anyonebut his officers to walk around armed, Squinting in the dim light, theyoung swoop pilot flipped open a small panel in the thickest part ofthe 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 fearedand hated the captain of Trader's Luck. He'd learned long ago thatshowing fear of any sort was a swift guarantee of a beating---orworse.

  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 hismind 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 itfor what it was, Han resolutely buried it even deeper.

  Experimentally, he swun g the blaster up to eye level and awkwardlyclosed one brown eye as he sighted along the barrel. The muzzle of theweapon wavered slightly, and Han cursed softly under his breath as herealized his hand was trembling. Come on, he told himself, show somebackbone, Solo. Getting off this ship and away from Shrike is worth alittle risk.

  Reflexively, he glanced over his shoulder, then turned back just intime to duck under a low-hanging power coupling. He'd chosen thisroute because it avoided all the living quarters and recreation areas,but it was so narrow and low-ceilinged that he was beginning to feelclaustrophobic as he tiptoed forward, resisting the urge to turn andlook back over his shoulder.

  Ahead of him, the near tunnel widened out, and Han realized he wasalmost at his destination. Only a few more minutes, he told himself,continuing to move with a stealthy grace that made his progress assoundless as that of a wonat's furred toe-pads. He was skirting thehyperdrive modules now, and then a larger corridor intersected. Hanturned right, relieved that he could now walk without stooping.

  He crept up to the door of the big galley and hesitated outside, hisears and nose busy. Sounds . . . yes, only the ones he'd beenexpecting to hear. The soft clatter of metal pans, the splooooch ofdough 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 ofthis particular batch.

  Sticking the blaster into his belt, he opened the door and stepped intothe 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 wastrildough swung around to face him with a soft, inquiring growl.

  Dewlanna's real name was Dewlannamapia, and she had been Han's closestfriend since she'd come to live aboard Trader's Luck nearly ten yearsago, when Han had been about nine. (The young swoop pilot had no ideaof when he'd been born, of course. Or who his parents had been. If ithadn't been for Dewlanna, he wouldn't even have known that his lastname was "Solo.") Han couldn't speak Wookiee--trying to reproduce thegrowls, barks, roars, and rumbling grunts made his throat sore, and heknew he sounded ridiculous--but he understood it very well. For herpart, Dewlanna couldn't speak Basic, but she understood it as well asshe did her own language. So communication between the human youth andthe elderly Wookiee widow was fluent, but . . . different.

  Han had gotten used to it years ago and never thought about itanymore.

  He and Dewlanna just . . . talked. They understood each otherperfectly. Now he hefted the stolen blaster, careful not to point itat his friend.

  "Yes," he replied, in response to Dewlanna's comment, "tonight's thenight. I'm getting off Trader's Luck and I'm never coming back."

  Dewlanna rumbled at him worriedly as she automatically resumed kneadingher dough. Han shook his head, giving her a lopsided grin. "You worrytoo much, Dewlanna. Of course I've got it all planned. I've got aspacesuit stashed in a locker near the robot freighter docks, andthere's a ship docked there now that will be departing as soon as it'sunloaded and refueled. A robot freighter, and it's headed where I wantto go."

  Dewlanna punched her dough, then growled a soft interrogatory. "I'mheading for Ylesia," Han told her. "Remember I told you all aboutit?

  It's a religious colony near Hutt space, and they offer pilgrimssanctuary from the outside universe. I'll be safe from Shrike there.

  And"--he held up a small holodisk where the Wookiee cook could seeit--"look at this! They're advertising for a pilot! I already used upthe last of my payout credits from that job we pulled, to send amessage, telling them I'm coming to interview for the job."

  Dewlanna roared softly.

  "Hey, I can't let you do that," Han protested, watching the cook setthe loaves into pans and slide them into the thermal grid to bake.

  "I'll be

  okay. I'll lift some credits on my way to the robot ship. Don'tworry, Oewlanna."

  The Wookiee ignored him as she shuffled quickly across the galley, herhairy, slightly stooped form moving rapidly despite her advanced age.

  Dewlanna was nearly six hundred years old, Han knew. Old even for aWookiee.

  She disappeared into the door of her private living quarters, and then,a moment later, reappeared, clutching a pouch woven of some silkymaterial that might even, from the look of it, be Wookiee fur.

  She held it out to him with a soft, insistent whine.

  Han shook his head again, and childishly put his hands behind hisback.

  "No," he said firmly. "I'm not taking your savings, Dewlanna. You'llneed those credits to buy passage to join me."

  The Wookiee cocked her head and made a short, questioning sound. "Ofcourse you're going to join me!" Han said. "You don't think I'm goingto leave you here to rot on this hulk, do you? Shrike gets crazierevery year. Nobody's safe aboard the Luck. When I get to Ylesia andget settled in, I'm going to send for you to join me. Ylesia's areligious retreat, and they offer their pilgrims sanctuary. Shrikewon't be able to touch us there."

  Dewlanna reached inside the pouch, her hairy fingers surprisinglydexterous as she sifted through the credit vouchers inside. She handedseveral to her young friend. With a sigh, Han relented and tookthem.

  "Well . . . okay. But this is just a loan, okay? I'm going to payyou back.

  The salary the Ylesian priests are offering is a good one."

  She growled her assent, then, without warning, reached out to rufflehis hair with her massive paw, leaving it sticking out in wilddisarray.

  "Hey!" Han yelped. Wookiee head rubs were not to be taken lightly.

  "I just combed my hair!"

  Dewlanna growled, amused, and Han drew himself up indignantly. "I donot look better scruffy. I keep telling you, the term 'scruffy' ain'tcomplimentary among humans."

  He stared at her, his indignation vanishing as he realized that thiswas the last time he'd see her beloved furry face, her gentle blueeyes, for a long time. Dewlanna had been his closest--and frequentlyonly--friend for so long now. Leaving her was hard, very hard.

  Impulsively, the Corellian youth threw himself against her w
arm, solidbulk, hugging her fiercely, His head reached only to the middle of herchest. Han could remember when he'd barely stood as tall as herwaist.

  "I'm going to miss you," he said, his face muffled against her fur, hiseyes stinging. "You take care of yourself, Dewlanna."

  She roared softly, and her long, hairy arms came around him as shereturned the embrace.

  "Well, ain't this a touching sight," said a cold, all-too-familiarvoice.

  Han and Dewlanna both froze, then wheeled to face the man who'd enteredthrough the Wookiee's quarters. Garris Shrike lounged in the doorway,his handsome features set in a smile that made Han's blood coagulate inhis veins. Beside him, he could feel Dewlanna shudder, either withfear or loathing.

  Two other crew members--Larrad Shrike and Brafid the Elomin--werevisible over Shrike's shoulder. Han balled his fists withfrustration.

  If it had only been Shrike, he might've chanced jumping the Luck'sCaptain. With Dewlanna to help him, they might have been able tosubdue Garris, but with Larrad and the Elomin also present, they didn'thave a chance.