The Han Solo Adventures Part 22

Han peered through the scope at the next length of enemy hull, then pushed himself away from the twin cannon and began drawing himself headfirst out of the gunner's saddle. "Let's go," he prompted Fiolla.

"What's this, the sudden onset of senile sanity?"

"Inspiration's my specialty," he replied lightly. "I just hope I remember the layout of this old M-cla.s.s right. It's a long time since I s.h.i.+pped in one."

She trailed him forward again as he studied engineer's markings on the liner's frames, talking to himself under his breath. There quickly followed the hollow, heavy concussion of the pirate making fast to the liner's hull. Han skidded to a stop and drew Fiolla back into the temporary safety of a side pa.s.sageway.

Not too far ahead a covey of pa.s.sengers had foolishly gathered near a main airlock in defiance of the captain's instructions. Among them Fiolla recognized the priest of Ninn in his green vestments, an Authority a.s.sistant supervisor of plant inoculation from an agroworld, and a dozen others she had come to know. All of them shrank back from the pneumatic sounds of the airlock's cycling.

Then the pa.s.sengers rushed away like game-avians flushed from cover as the airlock's inner hatch swung open and armed boarders poured into the pa.s.sageway. The boarders, wearing armored s.p.a.cesuits, brandished blasters, force-pikes, rocket launchers, and vibro-axes. They had the look of faceless, invulnerable executioners.

There were orders from helmet speaker grilles and cries from the pa.s.sengers. The latter were ignored amid a great deal of rough handling. A takeover team dashed toward the Lady's bridge with shock grenades, fusion-cutters, plasma torches, and sapper charges, in case the captain changed his mind about surrendering. A few of the boarders began herding feebly objecting pa.s.sengers toward the lounge while the rest split up into teams and began a rapid search outward in all directions from the airlock.

Han led Fiolla to an inboard pa.s.sageway and struck out aft again, still reading frame markings, until they came to a utility locker. Inside the locker was a hatch giving access to a service core that ran the length of the s.h.i.+p. Normally the hatch would have been secured shut, but it could, for safety's sake, be opened manually when the s.h.i.+p was on emergency status. Han undogged it and entered the service core, squatting among power conduits and thick cables. Ventilation was never good in these cores, and layers of dust had settled everywhere, deposited by the liner's wheezy circulators.

Fiolla made a face. "What good's hiding? We're liable to wind up adrift in a derelict, Solo."

"We've got a reservation for two on the next boat out of here. Now get in; you're letting in a draft."

She entered awkwardly, trailing skirt gathered in one hand, and climbed under him so that he could dog the hatch, then clumsily s.h.i.+fted position to let him lead the way. He noticed, in the process, that Fiolla had two very nice legs.

The trip soon had both of them dirty, hot, and irritable as they hauled themselves over, under, and between obstacles. "Why is life so complicated around you?" she panted. "The pirates would take my money and leave me in peace, but not Han Solo, oh no!"

He sn.i.g.g.e.red nastily as he loosened the clips on a grating and wrenched it out of his way. "Has it occurred to you yet that this isn't a pirate attack?"

"I wouldn't know; I get invited to so few of them."

"Trust me; it's not. And they sure could've found fatter, safer targets out in the fringe areas. They're taking an awful risk hitting this close to Espo patrols. And then there's all this nonsense about not launching the boats. They're after someone in particular, and I think it's us."

He was leading her in a strained, squatting progress over ducts and power routing, b.u.mping heads on the occasional low-hanging conduit. There were only intermittent emergency lights, nodes that only slightly relieved the darkness. After what seemed like an eternity he found the hatch he had been searching for, just aft of a major reinforced frame.

"Where are we?" Fiolla asked.

"Just under and aft of the portside airlock," he said, jerking his thumb toward the deck overhead. "The Lady's probably swarming with boarders by now."

"Then what're we doing here? Has anyone ever criticized your leaders.h.i.+p, Solo?"

"Never ever." He ascended a short ladder and she followed dubiously. But when he tried the hatch at the top he found its valve frozen in place. Setting his shoulder to its wheel and nearly losing his footing did no more good.

"Here," Fiolla said, handing up a short length of metal. He saw that she had pulled loose one of the ladder rungs from beneath her.

"You're wasting your time doing honest work," he told her frankly, and set the rung through the wheel's spokes. The second try elicited a creaking of metal and the wheel turned, then spun. He cracked the hatch a fraction to have a look around and saw, as he'd hoped he would, the interior of the utility locker just off the airlock's inner hatch. In it hung the maintenance ready-crew's s.p.a.cesuits and tool harnesses, waiting to be donned on a moment's notice.

Drawing Fiolla up after him, he swung the core hatch shut as silently as he could. "There shouldn't be more than a guard or two out there at the airlock," he explained. "I doubt that they're worried about counterattack very much; there won't be more than two or three firearms...o...b..ard the Lady all told."

"Then what're we doing here?" She imitated his unconscious whisper.

"We can't hide for very long. If they have to, they'll sweep the whole s.h.i.+p with sensors, and I doubt that there are any s.h.i.+elded areas. There's only one place where we'll get an escape boat now."

She caught her breath as she realized what he meant and opened her mouth to object. But he put a finger across her lips. "They're slavers, not pirates, and they're not going through all this trouble just to let us live. They want to find out how much we know, then wipe our tapes for good. I'm not sure how this will work out, but if you get to the Falcon without me you can have Zlarb's data plaque. Tell Chewie it's in the breast pocket of my thermosuit and he'll know it's all right."

She started to say something, but he put her off. "Fight and run, remember? Here's what you do."

The guard watching the main airlock had been following the boarding via helmet comlink. The s.h.i.+p was fairly well secured and search parties were going through their a.s.signed areas.

A noise from the utility locker attracted his attention. Though difficult to identify through the sound-dampening helmet, it sounded like metal striking metal.

Holding his launcher ready, the guard hit the hatch release. It swung the hatch out of the way and he entered the utility locker. At first he thought the room was empty; it had been searched earlier. But then he noticed the figure crouching in a futile attempt to hide behind one of the ready-crew's suits. It was a terrified young woman wearing a torn evening gown.

The guard swung his weapon up at once and checked out the rest of the locker, but it contained only tools and hanging s.p.a.cesuits. He stepped into the locker, motioning with the launcher, switching to external address mode. "Come out of there right now and I won't hurt you."

That turned out to be true in a way the guard hadn't foreseen. A weighty power prybar caught him across the helmet and shoulder, driving him to his knees. Despite his armor the guard was stunned for a moment and his shoulder and arm went numb. He fumbled for his comlink controls, but the blow had smashed the transceiver on the side of his helmet.

The woman dashed up to try to wrench the launcher away from him, but the guard fought to retain it. A scrabbling sound from behind him and another clout made the guard forget all about his weapon. Much of the impact was absorbed by armor and helmet padding, but the blow had been so severe that even the amount that penetrated knocked him out flat on his face, dazed, with a huge dent in his helmet.

Han Solo, still in the s.p.a.cesuit by which he'd dangled from a hook in ambush, threw himself on the raider and quickly slipped a tool harness around him, drawing it tight to pin his arms. With another he bound the man's legs. Fiolla watched the entire process nervously, gazing at the shoulder-fired rocket launcher she held as if it had materialized out of thin air.

Han rose and gently took the weapon from her. He found it to be loaded with anti-personnel rounds, flechette canisters. Those wouldn't hurt a boarder inside his armored s.p.a.cesuit, but they'd be graphically effective against unprotected pa.s.sengers and crew members. Han would have preferred a blaster, but the old-fas.h.i.+oned launcher would suffice for now.

His voice was muted by the helmet he wore. "We don't know whether he's supposed to check in or what. All we can do is go. Ready?"

She tried to smile and he encouraged her with a grin. He closed the utility locker hatch behind him and in a moment they had crossed through the boarding tube and entered the raider craft.

The pa.s.sageway there was empty. They must have the whole panting pack out looking for us, he thought.

Picturing the raider's hull as he had seen it when she'd warped in at the Lady, he started aft, heading for the boat bay that had made him stay his hand in the gun turret. He pushed Fiolla along in front of him and held the launcher at high port as if she were his prisoner. The s.p.a.cesuit might keep him from being recognized as an outsider in the disorder of the boarding. It was, at least, worth a try.

He saw the caution lights and marker panels of a s.h.i.+p's boat bay ahead.

"You there! Halt!" he heard a voice behind him shout. He pretended not to hear, and gave Fiolla a shove on her way. But the voice repeated the command. "Halt!"

He spun on his cleated heel, brought the launcher up and found himself staring at a face he recognized. It was the black-haired man who had appeared in the message tape, the one who was to have met Zlarb. He and another man in armored s.p.a.cesuits, helmets thrown back, were digging at their sidearms.

But the pistols were held in military-style holsters, built for durability rather than speed. Might just as well have those guns home in a drawer, Han reflected dispa.s.sionately as he aimed. Fiolla was screaming something he couldn't take time to listen to.

Both men realized at the last instant that they couldn't outshoot him and hurled themselves back, arms covering their faces, just as he fired.

The antipersonnel round was set for close work; the canister went off almost as soon as it left the launcher, boosting the flechettes and filling the pa.s.sageway with a deafening concussion. The slavers didn't seem to be hurt, but remained on the deck where they had fallen. Han fired another AP round at them for good luck and, grabbing Fiolla's elbow, ran for the boat bay. She seemed to be in shock but didn't fight him. He opened the lock hatch and propelled her through.

"Find a place and grab on!" He found time to bite out a malediction that he had come upon a lifeboat rather than a pinnace or boarding craft.

A blaster beam mewed past him and burned out an illumination strip further down the pa.s.sageway. Han knelt in the shelter of the lock and cut loose with four more rounds, emptying the launcher at the figures pounding down on him. They all dove for cover but he didn't think he had gotten any of them.

Closing both hatches, he threw himself into the boat's pilot's seat and detonated its separator charges. Unlike the liner's boats, the raider s.h.i.+p's were still functioning. With a stupendous jolt the boat was blown from its lock. At the same moment he cut in full thrust and the lifeboat leaped as if it had been kicked.

Han swung hard, relying on steering thrusters alone here where there was no atmosphere to affect the tumbling boat's control surfaces. He piloted grimly to miss the liner's hull and looped up to put the bulk of the Lady of Mindor between himself and the slavers' vessel. Opening the boat's engine all the way, he vectored on until he was out of cannon range, then plunged toward the surface of Ammund.

He freed one hand from his struggle long enough to fling back his helmet.

"Can we outrun them?" Fiolla asked from the acceleration chair behind him.

"There's more to it than that," he said without taking his eyes from the controls. "They can't come after us until they sound recall and get all their men back from the Lady. And if they want to send boats after us, they'd better have some awfully hot pilots."

He heard a lurching and, despite the pull of the boat's dive, Fiolla drew herself up to the copilot's chair. "Sit down and stay put," he told her heatedly, if a bit late. "If I'd had to maneuver or decelerate just then, you'd be sc.r.a.ping yourself off the bulkhead!"

She ignored that. He saw something else had so shocked her that she was still feeling the effect of it. Knowing how resilient she was ordinarily, he divided his attention for a moment.

"What's wrong? Besides the fact that we might be vaporized at any second, I mean."

"The man you shot at ..."

"The black-haired one? He's the one who left the message I told you about; he was Zlarb's connection." He turned to her sharply. "Why?"

"It was Magg," Fiolla said, the blood drained from her face. "It was my hand-picked personal a.s.sistant, Magg."

IX.

IT was early in the morning of Ammuud's short day when s.p.a.ceport employees and automata alike stopped work as sirens announced a defense alert. Reinforced domes folded back to reveal emplacements around the port and in the snowy mountains above. For a quiet little s.p.a.ceport, Ammuud had an impressive array of weaponry.

A boat came out of the sky, catching the light. Its pilot hit the braking thruster, and the ear-splitting sound of its pa.s.sage caught up with it. Turbolasers, missile tubes, and multibar-reled cannons traced its descent, eager to fire should the boat show the slightest sign of hostile action. The defense command was already aware that a brief s.h.i.+p-to-s.h.i.+p action had been fought above Ammuud, and they were inclined to take no chances. Interceptors were kept clear, since it was a lone craft, and the entire sky was a potential free-fire area.

But the boat set down obediently and precisely at one side of the field by port control, at a spot designated. Ground vehicles mounted with portable artillery closed in around the little vessel while the larger emplacements went back to standby. The s.p.a.ceport automata, cargo-handlers, automovers, and the like, their simple circuitry satisfied that there was no reason to discontinue work, returned to their tasks, with one exception. No one even noticed the labor 'droid who, still carrying a s.h.i.+pping crate, started off across the field.

As he cracked the boat's hatch, Han turned to check on his companion. "Fiolla, you've got great judgment in hired help, that's all I can say."

"Solo, he pa.s.sed an in-depth security investigation," she insisted, rather more loudly. "What was I supposed to do, have him brain-probed?"

Han stopped as he was about to swing down to the landing field. "Not a bad idea. Anyway, this tells us a lot. When you gained access to the slavers' computer pocket on Bonadan, it wasn't just because of miskeying. Magg's terminal probably had some sort of special-access equipment built into it; looks like he's the slavers' roving accountant, too, and maybe their security man as well.

"He sent you out on that scooter so you could be quietly taken out of the way. I'll bet he gimmicked up that fancy scanner-proof gun of yours, too."

Fiolla was fast on the recovery, he had to give her that. She had already accepted what she had seen and revised her ideas accordingly. "That doesn't make any of this my fault," she pointed out logically.

Han didn't answer, being busy staring into the barrels and emission apertures of a variety of lethal weapons, doing his best to look friendly and unthreatening. He showed empty hands.

A man in unmatched tunic and trousers stepped up, disruptor in hand. His uniform wasn't regulation but he wore a starburst insignia on an armband. Han already knew from inquiries that Ammuud was run by a loose and often compet.i.tive coalition of seven major clans under Authority subcontract. From the disparity of uniforms and attire it appeared that all seven clans supplied men to the port security force.

"What's the meaning of this?" the leader snapped. "Who are you? What happened up there?" On that last he gestured toward the sky over Ammuud with his pistol barrel.

Han dropped down from the open hatch and casually but conspicuously raised his hands while donning his sunniest smile. "We were pa.s.sengers on the liner Lady of Mindor. She was attacked and boarded by pirates; we two escaped, but I don't know what happened after we left."

"According to screens, the pirate has cut loose from that liner and run; we haven't got a paint on it anymore. Let me see your identification, please." The man hadn't lowered his sidearm.

"We didn't have time to pack our bags," Han told him. "We jumped the first lifeboat we came to and got clear."

"And just in time," added Fiolla, poised at the hatch. "Please help me down, darling?"

Several of the port police automatically closed in to a.s.sist. Fiolla looked very good, even with her gown ripped and dust from the utility core on her. She also added a convincing note to Han's story. He interceded before anyone else could help and, hands at her waist, lowered her to the field.

The officer in charge began rubbing his forehead. "It looks as if I'll have to take you to the Reesbon stronghold for further questioning."

But one of his men objected. "Why to the Reesbon's? Why not to our clan stronghold, the Glayyd's? There are more of us here than you."

Han recalled that Reesbon and Glayyd were two of the six controlling clans here on Ammuud. And the Mor Glayyd, patriarch of his clan, was the man Han and Fiolla were here to see. A quick look around indicated to him that the Falcon didn't seem to be on the field. Han resisted the impulse to inquire about his s.h.i.+p, not wanting to implicate Chewbacca in what was going on if he could avoid it.

But the problem of the moment involved being carted off to some clan stronghold. He wasn't sure yet what he would say to the Glayyd leader, but he knew he had no desire to be sequestered in the family home of the Reesbons.

"Actually, I'm here because I have business to conduct with the Mor Glayyd," he commented. That drew a scowl from the officer but, to Han's surprise, also evoked a suspicious look from the Glayyd men and women.

The first Glayyd clansman spoke again. "There, you see? Do you deny that this is something that can be investigated by the Mor Glayyd just as honestly as by the Mor Reesbon?"

The officer and his kinsmen were in the great minority; he saw he could win neither by rank nor force. Han had the impression the port police forces were shot through with dissension. The officer's lips compressed as he conceded the point stiffly. "I will summon a ground car; we'll have to keep all the weapons vehicles here at the port."

Just then a slow metallic voice behind Han drawled, "Sir, hadn't I best come with you? Or would you rather I remained here with the boat?"

Han did his best to keep his jaw from dropping. Bollux stood in the lifeboat's hatch, to all intents awaiting orders after an eventful descent and landing.

"I thought you two were alone?" said one of the port police with a hint of accusation.

Fiolla was faster on the uptake than Han. "There's just us and our personal 'droid," she explained. "Do the Ammuud clans count machinery among the clan populace?"

Han was still staring at Bollux; he couldn't have been more surprised if the 'droid had danced his way out of a party-pastry. Then he got his brain into gear. "No, you might as well come with us," he told the 'droid.

Bollux obediently lowered himself from the hatch. The officer was back, having spoken over the comlink in one of the weapons carriers. "A car has been dispatched from the central pool and will be here very shortly," he told them. Turning to the Glayyd man who had given him the argument, he smiled bleakly. "I trust the Mor Glayyd will report on this matter to the other clans quickly. After all, he has other ... pressing matters that may call him away soon."

The Glayyd people s.h.i.+fted and glowered, fingering their weapons as if the Reesbon officer had made an extreme provocation. The officer returned to his vehicle and, with the rest of the Reesbon people, departed.

The Glayyd man wanted to know more about Han's business with his clan leader. "No, he's not expecting me," Han answered honestly. "But it's a matter of extreme urgency, as important to him as to me."

To forestall more inquiries Fiolla leaned heavily on Han's arm, eyelids fluttering. Putting a hand to her brow, she did such a convincing imitation of being close to collapse that further questions went unasked.

"She's been through a lot," Han explained. "Maybe we could sit down while we're waiting for the car."

"Forgive me," muttered the Glayyd man. "Please make yourselves comfortable in the troop compartment of that carrier. I shall inform the Mor Glayyd of your arrival."

"Uh, tell him I'm sorry if we're taking him from something." Han was thinking of what the Reesbon officer had said. "What have we interrupted?"

The Glayyd man's eyes flicked over Han again. "The Mor Glayyd is to fight a death-duel," he said, and departed to send his message.

Seated with Bollux in the troop compartment, Fiolla and Han pressed the 'droid for information. He gave them a brief summary of events following their parting on Bonadan.