XI XI“HIS name was Zlarb,” Han said to the Mor Glayyd in that fortunate young man’s study. “He tried to cheat me and kill me. He had a list of ships that were cleared through your clan’s agency, but I haven’t got the plaque with me right now. But if you could find his name in your records—”
“That isn’t necessary. I know his name well,” interrupted the Mor Glayyd, exchanging looks of extreme gravity with his sister.
“His bosses owe me ten thousand,” said Han with something akin to fervor, “and I want it.”
The Mor Glayyd leaned back, his conform lounger molding to him, and folded his hands. He no longer seemed quite so young; he was playing a role for which he’d been well groomed. Han wished he had hung on to one of those guns in the armory.
“What do you know of the clans of Ammuud and their Code, Captain Solo?”
“That the Code almost plotted your terminal orbit for you today,” Han answered.
The youthful Mor Glayyd conceded, “A possibility. The Code is what holds the clans together yet keeps us from one another’s throats. Without it, we’d revert to the backward, warring savages we were a hundred years ago. But betraying a trust or breaking an oath is also covered by the Code, and makes the violator a nonentity, an outcast, whatever his previous status. And not even a clan Mor is above the Code.”
Oh, let me guess where this is going, Han simmered, but he said nothing.
“Those dealings my clan had with Zlarb’s people fall into that category. We asked no questions; we accepted our commission for delivery and pickup of the ships without concerning ourselves with their use. Zlarb and his associates knew our practice; that’s why they were willing to pay us so well.”
“Meaning you’re not going to tell me what I want to know,” Han predicted.
“Meaning that I cannot. You’re free to summon Gallandro back if you wish,” returned the Mor Glayyd stiffly. His sister looked apprehensive.
Fiolla broke in: “Forget that; it’s over with. But Zlarb’s people broke faith with Han. Doesn’t that mean anything to your Code? Do you shield traitors?”
The Mor Glayyd shook his head. “You don’t see. No one broke faith with me or mine; that’s the province of the Code.”
“We’re wasting our time,” Han rasped to Fiolla. He was thinking of Chewbacca and the Falcon. He was willing to put aside his quest for the ten thousand for the time being; it didn’t matter as much right now as the fact that Chewbacca was still somewhere out in the Ammuud mountains.
But as a parting shot he waved out at the city, at the departed Gallandro. “You saw what sort of people they are; you’re throwing in with slavers and double-crossers and poisoners! They—”
The Mor Glayyd and his sister came out of their loungers so suddenly that the furniture slid on the slick floor. “How’s that you say,” the girl whispered, “poisoners?”
He’d said it thinking of the kit he had found on Zlarb and wondered now what nerve he had hit. “Zlarb was a Malkite poisoner.”
“The late Mor Glayyd, our father, was killed with poison only a half-month ago,” Ido said. “Had you not heard of his death?”
When Han shook his head, the Mor Glayyd went on. “Only the most trusted of my clan circle know he was poisoned. It’s unprecedented; the clans almost never use poisons, but we take precautions against them. And none of our food tasters showed any ill effects.”
“They wouldn’t, from Malkite stuff,” Han told him. “Even some food-scanning equipment and air samplers miss it. And all a Malkite poisoner does to get around tasters is dose them with an antidote beforehand. The tasters never notice, and only the victim dies. Run tests on your tasters, and I bet you’ll find antidote traces in their systems.”
He looked to Fiolla. “The poisoning must be the suggestion Magg spoke about in the tape I found on Zlarb; I don’t know how the duel bears on it.”
The Mor Glayyd had been rocked by what he’d heard. “Then, then—”
His sister finished for him. “We, too, have been betrayed, Ewwen.”
Han Solo checked his pocket to make sure the plaque given him by the Mor Glayyd was secure and tugged at the too-tight collar of the suit he had borrowed. Bollux was just finishing loading the lifeboat with guidance components—shielded circuitry rather than those damned fluidics!—provided from his own repair shops by the Mor Glayyd.
The boat had been moved here to the Glayyd yards so that its departure would be less conspicuous. The Mor Glayyd had shown a grim openhandedness when quick tests had borne out Han’s suspicion that the food tasters’ bodies contained traces of a Malkite antidote.
“You’re certain you don’t want us to accompany you?” the boy was saying for the fourth time.
Han declined. “That would draw too much attention if the slavers or the other clans are watching. I just hope the port defenses don’t burn us out of the sky.”
“Many of my people are on watch today,” the Mor Glayyd answered, “and you’re listed as a regular patrol flight over hereditary Glayyd lands. You’ll go unchallenged. We’ll be listening; if you need us, we’ll come as quickly as we can. I’m sorry that your Millennium Falcon dropped beneath the detection ceiling when she bypassed the spaceport.”
“No stress; I’ll find her. But they should be getting the Lady of Mindor repaired any time now. Right after that, this place’ll be alive with Espos. Do you think you can stall them?”
The Mor Glayyd was mildly amused. “Captain Solo, I thought you understood; my people are very good at not answering questions. None will violate the Silence, especially to Security Police.”
Fiolla joined them. Like Han, she wore a borrowed Glayyd flier’s snugsuit of gleaming blue and high spacer’s boots. She’d been both awed and angered when she’d seen the names of Authority higher-ups who were implicated in the slaving ring by the Glayyd records, though the evidence was a bit tenuous, mostly official permits for ship charters and certifications for operation within the Authority.
“Please remember, Fiolla, we expect to hear from you when you’ve rooted out our enemies,” the Mor Glayyd said. “If we can’t work our own vengeance we will at least witness yours.”
She promised soberly, “You will—and I know what a vow means to the Mor Glayyd. When I’ve gotten all this before an Authority Court I think I’ll be able to keep you from prosecution. But I’d advise you to scrutinize future clients more closely.”
The Mor Glayyd raised his hand in farewell. “We will not be used again, you may be confident.” Ido kissed both Han and Fiolla on the cheek. Then brother and sister stepped back, as did their kinsmen and kinswomen. Within seconds the lifeboat lifted from its resting place, drifted into a departure lane, and sped up toward the mountains above the spaceport, hurtling between them and rising for the higher peaks beyond.
“How are you going to find them, anyway?” Fiolla, again in the copilot’s seat, asked. “The sensors and detectors in this kettle aren’t made for a tight search, are they?” She moved aside a disruptor rifle given them by the Mor Glayyd, to give herself more room.
Han laughed, happy to be off the ground again. “This wreck? You’d be lucky to find your own back pocket with the gear she carries. Even if she had a whole scoutship package, there’d be all these peaks and valleys and the ground clutter. But we’ve got this,” he put a forefinger to his temple dramatically.
“If we haven’t got something a little more high-powered than that,” she said, mimicking his gesture perfectly, “I hope there are some drop-harnesses aboard, because I want out!”
Han brought the little craft over onto a prechosen course, satisfied that he’d dipped low enough behind the peaks to be off the spaceport’s detectors. “We know the course Chewie was on when he passed over the port and I know how he thinks, how he pilots. I am now Chewie, with a damaged Falcon under me, one I’ve got to keep above three thousand meters, with limited guidance response. I know his style well enough to duplicate it. For instance, he’d never bank right off those three high peaks up there. You can’t see enough of what’s beyond to be sure of finding a high enough landing place to set down without blowing the rest of the fluidics.
“The Falcon would have enough emergency thrust to take the other cliff, and the terrain layout says there’ll be more open space over there; you can see more of what you’d be getting into. That’s the way my cautious old Wookiee pal likes things. He’ll be looking for an out-of-the-way spot where he can set down, keep out of sight, try to do some repairs himself, and wait for me. I’ll find him, don’t worry.”
“You call this a plan?” she scoffed. “Why don’t we just buzz along yelling his name out the hatch?”
His tone sharpened. “I said I’d find him!”
Then Fiolla understood what desperate fears for Chewbacca’s safety Han had been suppressing. “I know you will, Han,” she added quietly.
Spray, the skip-tracer, wound his sinuous body through the chilly water, fully at home, indulging in aquabatics and playful zigzags for the sheer joy of it, his tapered tail and webbed paws driving and guiding him with grace and power, his nostrils clenched shut tightly. The clear water in this small mountaintop lake, fed by underground springs and runoff, was cold even by Spray’s standards, but his pelt kept him comfortable enough for short swims. As a youth, he had swum in much colder water, but he hadn’t had the leisure for much swimming in a long time.
At last the Tynnan saw what he was looking for, one of the multilegged crustaceans that made its home in the lake’s bottom. Spray was a bit short on air, having been frolicking when he should have been searching, he realized a little guiltily. He put on a burst of speed, hoping to catch the creature without a prolonged chase.
The crustacean didn’t sense Spray’s shadow or the pressure-wave he threw out before him until it was too late. It had barely begun to pick up speed when Spray seized it from behind—carefully, to avoid the pincers and walking legs. The velocity of his dive carried him down nearer the lake’s bottom where, to his great surprise, his shadow scared up a second crustacean.
With a happy burble at the thought of the good lunch he would provide, Spray struck and doubled his catch for the day. When his air supply approached its limit, Spray headed for the lake’s surface. He broke through with a happy squeal, spitting a jet of water high into the air and filling his lungs again.
He held his catch over his head, treading water and waving the crustaceans at Chewbacca, who stood on the shore. The Wookiee woofed happily and hungrily and waved back. By the time Spray was wading ashore, the Falcon’s first mate was already knee-deep in the cold water, holding an empty toolbag wide open. Spray dropped his prizes into the bag gingerly, and Chewbacca shut it at once; he ruffled the skiptracer’s furry head in approval. “You came along at just the right moment,” said the Tynnan.
The freighter’s rations had been all but depleted when Chewbacca had set her down, and no grazers had come near since the stampede. But Spray’s skill had kept them fed, and they had split their tasks—Chewbacca staying busy with repairs and Spray taking on the job of meal procurement. Now they turned back for the half-kilometer trudge to the grounded starship. Water was already bubbling in an old inducer cowling that Spray had set over a thermal coil at the ramp’s foot.
Their contemplation of a tasty meal was broken when Spray’s head perked up, his ears swinging this way and that. Chewbacca craned at the sky and pointed, woofing an exclamation. A small boat or large gravsled had just crested the ridge and was now dropping in directly toward them.
The Wookiee pressed the toolbag into Spray’s hands, leaving his own free to unsling his bowcaster. Not that the weapons would be much good against an aircraft, he reminded himself, as there was no cover near them. Luckily, Spray had the sense to imitate Chewbacca in remaining perfectly still. He realized that movement, more than anything else, would attract the attention of the airborne observer.
The boat passed over them, but even as it did, Chewbacca could hear the strain of its steering thrusters as its pilot came about for another pass. He pivoted, watching, then barked and roared with pleasure. On its second pass the boat waggled and went into a barrel roll. It could only be Han Solo.
Chewbacca plunged through the snow toward the freighter, yowling at the top of his lungs, making the shallow valley echo. Spray, clutching the writhing toolbag to his chest, followed in the Wookiee’s wake as best he could.
When the lifeboat had settled next to the Falcon, its lock opened and Han jumped out. Chewbacca raced to him, kicking up an aftermath of churned snow, and began pounding his friend on the back and howling his delight across the valley from time to time. When the first wave of joy had passed, the Wookiee noticed Fiolla at the boat’s hatch. He plucked her down and whirled her around in a carefully restrained hug, then set her on her feet.
Last to descend was Bollux. To him Chewbacca extended a friendly growl but withheld a helping paw, not wanting to imply that the ’droid needed assistance. A rumble of inquiry from the Wookiee and a thumb indicating Bollux’s chest panels brought assurances that Blue Max, too, was present.
“We almost passed you by,” Han said. “You’re a little too good at camouflage.” He meant the Millennium Falcon, which Chewbacca had permitted to settle until her landing gear was nearly retracted. The Wookiee and Spray had piled snow around the starship and spread clumps of scrub and more snow across her upper hull.
“But we noticed all those animal tracks detouring around to either side of her,” Han added, “so I took a closer look.” Spray and Chewbacca were tugging at the arrivals, urging them to come aboard. Han delayed just long enough to drag forth some of the new circuitry; he thought for a moment his copilot was going to weep at the sight of it.
Lunch was forgotten as they brought one another up on what had happened. Spray turned sheepish when his jettisoning of Bollux was mentioned. “To tell the truth, Captain,” he said, “as I explained to Chewbacca here, I got the idea all at once and knew I’d have to act instantly.” To the ’droid he said, “I truly apologize, but it seemed like the only thing to do, and I sometimes have trouble making snap decisions. I just plunged ahead with it before I could stop and dither. Perhaps the general impulsiveness was contagious.”
“I fully understand, sir,” Bollux answered graciously. “And as it worked out, it was quite fortunate for all of us that you thought and acted so quickly. Blue Max agrees with me, too.”
They all thought it best to ignore the high-pitched hollow sounding “Hah!” that came from Bollux’s closed chest panels.
Soon they were all at work. Bollux, Spray, and Fiolla began clearing away what they could of the piled snow, concentrating on exposing the cockpit, bow, and main thrusters. Han and Chewbacca strained at repairs with Blue Max, out of Bollux’s chest emplacement and connected to the forward tech station to check for accuracy as each individual hookup was made.
As the fluidic components were removed one by one from the starship, Chewbacca took great pleasure in heaving them as far as he could; some of his throws were so impressive that Han regretted that it wasn’t a formal athletic event. He pardoned his friend these excesses; the fluidics had been as much a curse as a blessing since they were installed.
As the replacements were made, the pile of discarded adaptors and jury-rigged gear grew. Because they knew intimately every cubic centimeter of their ship, they worked rapidly; they had originally installed the fluidics in such fashion that removal would be simple.
Activating another component, Han asked Max over the comlink how things looked from the tech station. “Checks out perfectly, Captain,” came the computer’s childish voice.
Pleased with the speed with which their labors were going, Han said, “We should take time to retune the engine power-curves for peak efficiency, but I’d rather get off Ammuud first. The biggest job’s the only one left—the hyperspace control units. Shouldn’t take more than—”
“Captain Solo!” Max’s vocoder communicated urgency. “Trouble! Long-range sensors paint three blips!”
Chewbacca yipped a question at Han, who snapped a sharp response. “What’s it matter who they are? They’re not coming for a gala sendoff, that’s for sure. No time for the hyperdrive. Seal up the hull.” He called to Fiolla and the others “Get aboard; we’re raising ship right now!”
Han sprinted up the ramp, leaving his first mate to close up the exposed systems. In the cockpit his hands flew back and forth across both his own and Chewbacca’s sides of the console. Among other things, he flicked on the ship’s commo board and monitoring outfit, though he doubted he’d pick up much in the way of transmissions from the bogies.
But a moment later, in the midst of charging the ship’s weaponry, he noticed a blinking telltale on the broad-band monitor. He read the instruments; there was a steady signal coming from somewhere very close by. A fast scan by the direction finder told him its origin.
He recalled that he had left the disruptor rifle in the lifeboat. But Chewbacca had placed his gunbelt in the navigator’s chair. Good boy! Fastening the belt around his hips and tying down the holster, he rushed back for the ramp.
Chewbacca noticed the blaster at once. “We’ve been popped,” Han explained. “Somebody keyed the boat transceiver; we’ve been sending all along. It probably took them this long to pick us up among all the dips and crags.” He was glaring meaningfully at Fiolla.
“After all this time,” she said with amazement, “you still don’t trust me.”
“Name another nominee? Spray hasn’t been near the boat and I sure don’t remember doing it.” He beckoned his partner. “We’ve got work to do, pal. Spray, you too. Bollux, go with our other guest to the forward compartment and watch her. And brace your chassis for some rough weather.” He started back for the cockpit, and Fiolla headed for the forward compartment without another word.
Han ushered Spray into the navigator’s chair, directly behind his own, and all three buckled themselves in. He thought about sending out a distress signal to the Mor Glayyd, but a glance at the commo board ended that; one or more of the oncoming craft was jamming, and he had no time to try to circumvent the interference.
Bringing thrusters up to a hover, he retracted the ship’s three-point landing gear the rest of the way. Over the low tumult of the engines he asked the Wookiee, “How good a pilot is he?” He jerked a thumb at Spray. The first mate made a so-so motion of his hairy paw but nodded, which meant that while the skip-tracer might never make the Kessel Run, he would be adequate in a jam—which this was. “Splendid,” Han said unenthusiastically, and cut in main thrusters. Kicking up fountains of steam and mud and clumps of scrub growth, the Millennium Falcon blasted free of the remaining snow and shot off into the sky.
Han let his copilot take the controls and left his seat to bend over Spray. “Here it is: we haven’t got hyperdrive because we didn’t have time to reconnect it. That means we can’t duck out of this one. Sensors say those are small, fast jobs coming for us, maybe interceptors, and sooner or later they’ll overhaul us. We can’t outrun them but we can outfight them if Chewie and I can man the turrets. That means somebody’s got to pilot, so unless you feel like manning a quad-mount—”
“Captain,” gasped Spray, “I’ve never fired a weapon in my life!”
“Sort of what I figured,” sighed Han. “Take a seat here.” Scratching his hand nervously, Spray sat unwillingly in the pilot’s seat while Han adjusted it and pushed it closer to the console. Spray poked his buck-toothed snout up to various indicators, scopes, and gauges; with his inferior eyesight he was, of course, primarily an instrument pilot. But he obviously knew what he was doing.
“Just keep shields up and try to angle with their attack runs,” Han instructed, “and try to preserve her resale value, if that inspires you. Otherwise, nothing fancy. Just leave the rest to us.”
He and his partner made their way to the central ladderwell that led to the top and belly turrets. “I wish there was another way to do this,” Han confessed.
“Dowwpp,” the Wookiee responded.
Han climbed toward the top turret and felt the vibrations along the ladder that told him his copilot was descending. He hauled himself into the turret, seating himself before the quad-guns and donning his headset.
Ship’s gravity was altered here, permitting him to sit with his back perpendicular to the ladderwell without feeling a downward drag. In the same way, Chewbacca would be sitting in the belly turret facing directly “downward” without being pulled against his seat’s belt.
Glancing over his shoulder, Han could look directly down the ladderwell at his friend’s back. Chewbacca flipped him a quick wave, and each of them ran his battery through a few test-traverses, making sure the servos responded to control grips and tracked accurately.
“The usual stakes,” Han called down, “and double for kills in the Money Lane.” Chewbacca woofed consent.
Spray’s voice, shaking with tension, came up. “I have three confirmed blips on approach. They should be on your screens by—they’re on us!”