XII

JUST as Spray apprised the two partners of the oncoming craft, the newcomers announced their own arrival unmistakably. The Millennium Falcon quaked, her shields claiming huge amounts of power as cannon fire incandesced against her.

“They’re breaking!” Spray yelled, but both Han and Chewbacca could already see that from their targeting monitors. Clutching the handgrips of his gunmount, Han traversed the quad-barrels astern to address his natural target, the uppermost of the vessels overtaking his ship. He knew the Wookiee would be on the one falling deepest into his own field of fire. They’d been through this sort of thing before; each knew the area of his responsibility and how the other worked.

The targeting computer drew up intersecting lines in two parallel grids and showed Han an arrowhead of light representing the bandit. From a lifetime’s habit, Han divided his time and attention between computer modeling on the tiny screen and visual ranging. He never entirely trusted computers or any other machine; he liked to see what he was shooting at.

The target swept in, even faster than he had expected. It was, as he had thought it would be, a pinnace, a ship’s fighting boat. So, our friends the slavers are still with us.

At the same time he was squeezing off quick bursts, trying to bracket the pinnace. The quad-guns slammed away in alternating pairs, but the pinnace had picked up too much speed; it was into his gunsights and out again before Han had a chance to come close.

The starship shook like a child’s toy as her defensive mantle struggled to deal with the blasts of the pinnace’s cannon. Han registered, distantly, the sound of the belly guns and Chewbacca’s frustrated howl as the Wookiee, too, missed on the first pass.

Then, instead of one triangle of light on his targeting monitor screen, Han saw two. He brought the quad-mount around hastily, its servos protesting, throwing him deeper against the padding of the gunner’s seat.

A pinnace had come in from directly astern, its blaster fire bisecting the Falcon’s upper hull precisely. There were deep vibrations as the starship shuddered from the fire. Han couldn’t stop himself, when he saw the volley walking along the hull at him, from throwing an arm up to protect himself. But deflectors held, and in a split second the pinnace had swept by with its two companions to come to bear for another run.

The pinnaces were perhaps twice the size of the lifeboat Han and Fiolla had stolen. They were fast, heavily armed, and nearly as maneuverable as fighters. Lacking hyperdrive, there was no question of outrunning them; the Falcon could only make a fight of it.

The freighter tilted and sideslipped as Spray attempted an evasive tactic. Han, his aim spoiled, yelled into his headset mike. “Nothing fancy, Spray. Just go with their strafing runs and cut into their speed advantage; no aerobatics!”

Spray trimmed the freighter. The pinnaces had broken right and left with the third ship going into a steep, rolling climb for an overhead attack. Han held fire, knowing they were out of range, and bided his time. Spray headed the freighter deeper into the high mountains.

The pinnace that had broken left now dove abruptly and came in under the Falcon’s belly. Han could hear the reports of Chewbacca’s guns as he brought his own weapon around, its four barrels pivoting and elevating on their pintles in response to the commands of the targeting grips.

He tried for the diving pinnace. Outside the ball-turret the quad-guns responded minutely to the least adjustment of his controls. The computer limned aiming grids, plotted the pinnace’s estimated course and speed, and predicted where it would be. Han slewed his seat around, hands clenching the grips, and four cannon barrels swung to follow suit. He opened fire and the quad-guns pounded red destruction at the bandit. He scored a partial hit, but the pinnace’s shields held and it managed to evade his fire almost instantly.

“Swindler!” he howled, tracking the pinnace in a hopeless effort to connect again. There was the sound of a distant explosion and a triumphant roar echoed up the ladderwell. Chewbacca had drawn first blood.

The third pinnace swept past, taking a course almost at right angles to the one Han was still tracking. The newcomer got off a sustained burst that splashed harmlessly off shields, but there was a surge from the Millennium Falcon’s engines. The ship’s defensive mantle was in danger of failing, having taken extreme punishment from the sustained, well-directed fire of the attackers.

Realizing he couldn’t catch up with the one he had just missed and ignoring his comlink, Han yelled down the ladderwell, “Chewie! One in the Money Lane!”

Because of the Falcon’s design, a flattened sphere, and the position of her main batteries at the precise top and bottom of the ship, her turrets’ fields of fire overlapped in a wedge expanding from the freighter’s waist all the way around. This overlap was what Han and his first mate called the Money Lane; kills scored there counted extra, since it was a shared responsibility; their standing wager on who was better with a quad-mount carried a double payoff for hits in the Money Lane.

But right now Han didn’t care if he ended up owing the Wookiee his shirt. Chewbacca brought his weapon around and just barely failed to get a bead on the pinnace out in the Money Lane, chopping the air behind it with crimson cannonfire.

“Spray, keep your eye on the long-range sensors,” Han called into his mike. “If their parent ship sneaks up on us, Interstellar Collections will have nothing to auction off but a gas cloud!”

The ship missed by Chewbacca came up into Han’s field of fire. He led it, reaching out for it with red cannon blasts, but the pinnace’s pilot was quick and threw his ship out of the line of fire before his shields gave. The enemy scored on the Millennium Falcon’s upper hull, and the freighter bucked. Han caught the smell of smouldering circuitry.

“Captain Solo, there’s a large vessel moving up rapidly from magnetic southwest. At current courses it’ll close with us in another ninety seconds!”

Han was too busy to answer the skip-tracer. Hearing his first mate’s frustrated growl at a near miss, reverberating in the ladderwell, he saw the ship the Wookiee had just lost. It arced out beyond the bow mandibles, its pilot going into a fast bank as he realized he’d flown into another line of fire.

Han didn’t bother with the targeting computer but tracked by eye, catching the pinnace at the slow point in its turn with a sustained burst. A moment later the pinnace disappeared in a fireball, shreds of it hurled outward.

The third pinnace, coming about for another run, swerved to avoid the explosion of its companion, rolled, and was again in the Money Lane. Han’s and Chewbacca’s fire probed at it simultaneously. It, too, became an eruption of enormous violence.

Han was instantly at the ladderwell, not bothering to climb down but sliding with toes clamped to its side-pieces, braking himself with his hands, worrying about the oncoming mother ship.

As he reached main deck level, he found Chewbacca swarming up the rungs beneath him. The Wookiee crowed happily and Han found time to sneer “What d’you mean, pay up? I made the kill in the Money Lane; you never even touched him!”

Chewbacca snarled as they dashed together toward the cockpit, but the issue of who owed whom had to be dropped. Once Chewbacca was in place, Spray squirmed out of the pilot’s seat, breathing with relief as Han dropped into it.

“That ship’s coming at vector one-two-five-slash-one-six-zero,” Spray said, but Han had already read that information off the console. Bringing the starship’s helm over and accelerating, he angled all deflectors aft with one hand, belting himself in with the other.

Spray had taken on more altitude than Han would have liked. With the hyperdrive still inoperable, things boiled down to a simple race. His best chance to deny the enemy a clear shot at him was to put the planet between them.

He was still increasing speed, the engines’ rumble growing louder and louder, when the Falcon was jolted by a teeth-rattling explosion. Checking combat information feeds, Han found that the approaching mother ship was firing from extreme range even though its shots had little chance of penetrating the freighter’s shields at this distance.

Their pursuer was indeed the slaver, the would-be “pirate” that had stopped and grappled the Lady of Mindor. That left him nonplused about Fiolla’s part in matters and why the lifeboat transceiver had been left keyed open. Surely the slavers were out to get Fiolla, too?

Then he had no more time for imponderables; the slaver ship was closing the gap between them and nothing he did seemed to make any difference. She was an extremely well-armed vessel, easily three times the Millennium Falcon’s size, and fast in the bargain.

If we had had time to retune the engines, Han carped at himself, we’d be highstepping away from them right now.

A voice crackled over the open commo board. “Heave to, Millennium Falcon, or we fire for effect!” Han recognized the voice.

He switched his headset to transmit mode. “No free meals today, Magg!”

Fiolla’s onetime assistant said nothing more. The pursuer’s shots came closer; the shields’ drain on the Falcon’s power grew acute. Han trained batteries aft by servo-remote. The slaver with her heavier guns was still out of range. Though Han flew a twisting, evasive course, parting the cold air of Ammuud with a high whistle of speed, he knew the slaver would soon close. All he could hope for was that inspired piloting, more than a little luck, and a well-placed salvo to damage the slaver would get him clear.

He brought his ship out of a quick bank with a flourish, sideslipping as thick streams of turbolaser fire belched past to starboard, just missing the Falcon. He thought, we could still make it, unless—

Fulfilling his silent fear, the freighter wobbled and shook herself as if in the throes of a fit. Instruments confirmed that a brute tractor beam had fastened onto the Falcon. Her maximum effort failed to free her.

With the freighter held fast, the slaver closed rapidly. In another moment, Han knew, their pursuer would be on top of them. He tried not to be distracted by regrets; his hands flew across the console and he lacked even the time to tell his copilot what he was about to do.

Han brought the Falcon about at full power, just barely overcoming the drag of the tractor, redeploying defensive shields to maximum over the upper half of his ship’s hull. Before the startled pilot of the slaver vessel knew what was happening, the Millennium Falcon had come about, reversing field in the tractor beam, and dived under his bow. Evading the tractor projector set in the bottom of the slaver’s hull took an extra twist and full power from the freighter’s already overworked engines, using both the tractor’s draw and the Falcon’s thrust to snap-roll free of the beam.

Dumbfounded fire-control officers began redirecting their gun crews’ aim, but the suddenness of the freighter’s evasion had won Han the advantage of surprise.

Streaking under the length of the slaver, Han fired salvos from his top turret and waited with some dread for the moment his shields failed. But they didn’t, and Han’s wild aerobatics eluded all fire coming from the surprised slaver.

Nearly. There was a monumental jarring. Such of the Falcon’s alarms and warning lights as were not already alive came on. Chewbacca, taking damage readings, hooted worriedly as Han accelerated again, leaving the slaver to match him if she could.

He turned to Spray. “Some of that new stuff we put in today must’ve been hit; I don’t get any readouts from it. Try the forward tech station and see if you can find out anything.”

The skip-tracer staggered off, lurching this way and that as the ship swayed around him. Reaching the forward compartment, he found Fiolla and Bollux still seated in the acceleration couch. From the tech station’s chair Spray began examining readouts and squinting into scanners and scopes, twisting in the chair and scratching at his hand nervously.

“Does your hand still hurt, Spray?” asked Fiolla.

“No, it’s much—” he started to say, then stopped and swung his chair around to face her with a shocked look. “I meant—that is—”

“Somatigenerative treatments always leave the skin itchy, don’t they?” Fiolla went on, ignoring his protests. “You’ve been scratching since we got here. Solo told me he bit the hand of whoever jumped him in the hangar at the Bonadan spaceport. It was you, wasn’t it?” There was little of inquiry in her tone, more of statement.

Spray was very calm. “I forgot how bright you are, Fiolla. Well, yes, as a matter of fact—” The Falcon quaked again; the slaver was gaining on her once more.

“And you left the lifeboat transceiver keyed open, too, didn’t you?” she snapped. “But how? Han was right; you weren’t anywhere near that boat.”

“I did not,” Spray declared soberly. “That, you may believe. I hadn’t expected things to go quite this far, either; I abhor all this useless violence. This will end soon; your ambitious former assistant is close.”

Still not sure she credited any of what he had said, she told him, “You know I’m going to tell Han, don’t you?”

Bollux turned red photoreceptors from one to the other, wondering if he dared leave them alone long enough to inform Han of what he’d heard.

Then the Falcon jolted again in response to a barrage. “I doubt if that would make any difference now,” Spray stated calmly. “And it’s in your own best interests, Fiolla, to cooperate with me; your life has reached a critical juncture.”

   Han and Chewbacca had run out of options. The slaver had fastened her tractor on them again. This time there would be no survival value in a sudden reversal; the next volley would almost certainly penetrate shields and convert the Millennium Falcon into an explosive nimbus.

Han was busily training batteries for a last futile salvo in an attempt to avert death. But the volley didn’t come. Chewbacca began pointing at the sensors and hooted excitedly. Han gaped, wanting to rub his eyes, at the size of the ship moving up hard astern the slaver.

She was an Espo destroyer of the old Victory class, close to a kilometer long, an armored space-going fortress. Where she’d come from wasn’t as important to Han as what she would do.

The tractor beam pulling at the Falcon dissipated; the slaver had seen the destroyer, too, and wanted no part of her. But the Security Police battlewagon had tractors of her own, mightier than the slaver’s. Suddenly the Millennium Falcon and her pursuer were both held in an inflexible, invisible grip.

Somebody aboard the slaver had the bad judgment to try a volley at the destroyer. Cannonade splashed harmlessly off the Espo’s immense shields and a turbolaser turret in the warship’s side answered, opening a huge hole in the slaver’s hull and evaporating most of her power plant.

The slaver offered no further resistance. She was drawn up, uncontesting, into the gaping boarding lock in the destroyer’s underbelly. The Falcon’s commo board sounded with a general override broadcast: “All personnel in both captive ships remain where you are. Follow all instructions and offer no opposition.” There was something familiar about the voice. “Shut down your engines and lock all systems except commo.”

Since the slaver was already occupying the destroyer’s boarding lock, the Falcon was eased down toward the ground, the vast bulk of the battlewagon settling in over her, blocking out the sky. Relaxing to the inevitable, Han extended his ship’s landing gear; the Falcon could never break from this tractor beam, and he had just seen the stupidity of trying to slug it out. He shut off his engines and cut power to weapons, shields, tractors, sensor suite.

He nudged his partner. “Keep your bowcaster ready; maybe we can make a break for it when we’re outside.” If they could get away, perhaps the Mor Glayyd could use a couple of good pilots. If not, there was nothing to worry about anyway, except which periodicals to subscribe to while in prison. But Han was determined to go out kicking.

The Espo craft descended until it was no more than fifty meters above the grounded Falcon. By leaning forward in the cockpit, Han could see the captive slaver ship. A boarding tube, no doubt packed with combat-armored Espo assault troops, was extending itself and fastening to the slaver’s main lock.

Now, Magg, see how you like it, thought Han. It was only a knot of satisfaction in his long string of bad luck, but it was something. He savored it while he could.

From another lock in the destroyer a safety cage appeared, lowered by a utility tractor beam, coming down slowly and silently. The safety cage was a circular, basketlike affair with high guardrails and an overhead sling for hoist work. Within the cage, where Han would have expected a flock of triggerhappy Espos, there was only the man who had given the instructions over the commo a few moments before.

It was Gallandro, the gunman.