X XTHE terrain lifted away from the lakeshore in a series of rolling hills carpeted with soft, blue moss that cushioned their steps. Han was gratified to see the moss spring back when they had passed, thereby obliterating the group’s prints.
Supplies were no problem. The workers on this side of the lake, all members of Kasarax’s shore gang, had departed in haste on seeing their leader defeated, fearing the blood-vengeance of the non-gang members. Calculating a ten- to twelve-day march through the mountains, the party had carefully picked through the abandoned storage buildings for provisions and equipment.
They had filled their packs with jars of lake crustaceans marinated in syrup, plastic cartons of the doughy stuff Hasti had first sampled, tubes of pickled vegetable slices, bags of meal, smoked fish, cured meat, and some hard purple sausages. Even though they carried capacious water bladders, they were relying on finding more water in the mountains. According to the survey map, there were abundant run-offs and fresh springwater throughout the area. Those who wore clothing had gathered cold weather gear. Han had pulled off his wet clothes, settling for a Dellaltian outfit until he could dry his own, and contrived a bandage for the knife cut. Practicality had made Hasti exchange her robes and gown for an outfit suitable for an adolescent boy. They had also found thick, insulated bedrolls.
There were no riding animals or power vehicles to be found. But Han didn’t mind, trusting unfamiliar beasts no more than he did the aged and breakdown-prone Dellaltian machinery. Bollux, who could bear a heavy pack and yet consumed no water or food, found that his popularity had increased. They felt lucky to have him along, knowing none of the local domesticated animals or ground vehicles were suited to the mountain terrain and aircraft were few and far between on Dellalt. They had found some lengths of rope, but no other climbing gear. Neither had they found medicine or a medi-pack, additional weapons or charges, commo or navigational gear, heating unit, or macrobinoculars or tele-eye, though the scope on Han’s blaster would be some compensation for the last. For shelter, they had brought along a wagoner’s tent they found in one of the abandoned buildings.
And they were armed. In addition to Han’s side arm and Chewbacca’s bowcaster, they also had the weapons captured from J’uoch’s forces. Badure carried the stun-gun he had already used and a brace of long-barreled power pistols. Hasti had a compact disrupter, a dart-shooter loaded with toxic missiles, and a blaster, but the latter was nearly exhausted because Han had used it to recharge his own. Skynx declined to bear arms, which his species never used, and Bollux’s basic programming, the ’droid said, prohibited him from using them as well.
Ascending the foothills, they kept the ridge lines between themselves and the region behind, though Han doubted anyone was taking time to try to spot them. The collapse of Kasarax’s racket was probably occupying everyone’s attention. Gusting winds tore across the open hills, pressing at the resilient moss and stirring the travelers’ hair, clothing, and fur. The country was stark and vacant. Lacking a second comlink, they decided not to put out a point-walker, but rather to rely on the wide field of surveillance they could maintain.
Chewbacca took the lead, treading the blue moss lightly for all his size, testing the air with black nostrils flaring. His blue eyes moved constantly, his hunter’s senses keenly attuned. A dozen paces behind trudged Bollux. The labor ’droid had opened his chest plastron a crack at the computer’s demand, and Max was taking in the view.
Next came Badure and Hasti side by side. Skynx followed after, carrying only his musical instruments because none of the packs fit him and he couldn’t have borne much weight anyway. Undulating along, he kept pace without difficulty.
Han brought up the rear, frequently casting glances behind, making, minute adjustments in the balance and shoulder-strap padding of the makeshift pack he had thrown together. He lined up prominent terrain features and did his best to keep track of their direction and course, since that was the only way they would have of orienting themselves to the surveying map. From time to time he thought about the treasure, but the open countryside and the brisk wind made him happier than he would have admitted. In a way, they reminded him of the freedom of space travel.
The group moved on throughout the morning with deliberate speed, Han stopping frequently to scan his blaster’s scope for some sign of pursuit. But as Dellalt’s blue-white primary climbed the sky and none appeared, they slowed a bit, saving strength for the long journey.
Skynx dropped back to talk to Han. The Ruurian had a rapid metabolism and so had recovered from his bout with the flask. Han, who had been walking backward for a few paces while he checked the rear, pivoted around in step. It occurred to him that Skynx must be thoroughly disillusioned with human-style adventuring.
“Hey, Skynx, break out that hip-pocket orchestra of yours. We’re out in the open anyway, like a bug on a canopy. A little music won’t make things any chancier.”
The Ruurian complied eagerly. Using his lowermost four sets of limbs for locomotion without decreasing speed, he took up the tympanic pulsers, bellows-horn, and flute. He began a human-tempo marching tune, one for marching overland rather than for a parade.
The small pulsers held a catchy beat, the bellows-horn tootled, and the flute skirled. Han resisted the quickened pace, but enjoyed the music.
Badure squared his shoulders and fell into energetic stride, sucking in his overhanging stomach and humming with the music. Hasti smiled at Skynx and strode along more quickly.
Chewbacca tried to stay in step, although Wookiees don’t generally take to regimentation. The process was awkward for him. He achieved a kind of animated swagger, though not even remotely in time. Bollux, however, fell right into step, mechanical legs pumping precisely, arms swinging, chin held high.
They trod blue moss; cold wind made the landscape seem barren and free. In this manner they proceeded over the hill.
They were well up into the heights when the blue-white sun set. The few lights of the city came on, far below and behind them. Outcroppings of rock had begun to appear, rising from the blue moss. They camped at one of these ledges, under an overhang that would afford some protection from wind. There was no fuel for a fire.
As they settled in, Han established priorities. “I’m going to check the area with the scope. Chewie will take first watch, after he eats. Badure, you take second and I’ll take third. Skynx can have the wake-up duty. Is that all right with everybody?”
Badure didn’t mention Han’s assumption of leadership, being content with the arrangement. “What about me?” Hasti asked evenly.
“You can have first watch tomorrow, so don’t feel left out. Would it be straining our bonds of affection to ask to borrow your wrist chrono?”
Teeth clenched, she threw it at him, then he and Chewbacca set off. “You’re welcome!” she called after him. “Who does he think he is, anyway?” she said to the others.
Badure answered mildly. “Slick? He’s used to taking charge; he wasn’t always a smuggler and a freighter bum. Didn’t you notice the red piping on the seams of his shipboard trousers? They don’t give away the Corellian Blood-stripe for perfect attendance.”
She considered that for a moment. “Well, how did he get it? And why do you call him Slick?”
“You’ll have to get that first part from him, but the nickname business goes back to the first time I met him, way back.”
In spite of herself, she was curious. Skynx was also listening with interest, as were Bollux and Blue Max. The two automata decided to hear Badure out before shutting down for the night; their photoreceptors glowed in the dusk.
It was becoming colder fast, and the humans pulled their cloaks tighter, Badure closing his flight jacket. Skynx curled his woolly form to conserve body heat.
“I’d been a line officer, had a few decorations myself,” Badure began, “but there was the matter of a floating Jubilee Wheel I was running onboard the flagship. Anyway, they reassigned me to the staff at an academy.
“The commandant was a desk pilot, off his gyros. His bright idea was to take a training ship, an old U-33 orbital loadlifter, and rig her so the flight instructor could cause malfunctions: realistic stress situations.
“ ‘Enough can go wrong without building more into a ship,’ I said, but the commandant had pull. His program was approved. I was flight instructor, and the commandant came along on the first training mission. He gave the briefing himself, playing up the wise old veteran act.
“In the middle of it a cadet interrupted. ‘Excuse me, sir, but the U-33’s primary thrust sequence is four-stage, not three.’ The kid was gangly, all elbows and ears, and had this big chow-eating grin.
“The commandant was cold as permafrost. ‘Since Cadet Solo is such a slick student, he will be first in the hotseat.’ We all boarded and took off. Han handled everything the C.O. threw at him, and that grin grew bigger and bigger. He really had put in a lot of time on that kind of ship.
“That crate had checked out one hundred percent, but something went wrong and something blew; a second later we had all we could do to keep her in the air. I couldn’t get the landing gear to extend, so I raised ground control and asked for emergency tractor retrieval.
“And the tractors failed, primaries and secondaries both, on the approach run. I just managed to get us up again. The commandant was white around the eyes by then; the crash wagons and firefighting machinery were deploying onto the field.
“Which was when Cadet Solo announced, ‘The reservoir-locking valve on the landing gear’s stuck shut, sir; these U-33’s do it all the time.’
“And I said, ‘Well, do you feel like crawling down into the gear bay and taking a wrench to it right this second?’
“ ‘No need,’ the kid says, ‘We can joggle it with a couple of maneuvers.’
“The commandant’s teeth were rattling. ‘You can’t take a bulk vessel through aerobatics!’ Then I said, ‘You hope to sit in your mess kit. I can’t, sir, because I don’t know which maneuvers Slick over there is talking about. He’ll have to do it.’ While his mouth was hanging open, I reminded him he was ranking officer. ‘Either you land this beast or let the kid try out his idea.’
“He shut up, but about that time there was a rumpus in the passenger compartment. The other cadets were becoming nervous. So Han opened the intercom. ‘By order of the commandant, this is a full-dress emergency-landing drill. All procedures will be observed; you are being graded on your performance.’
“I told him he was playing fast and loose with what might be somebody’s last moments, and he told me to go ahead and tell them the truth if I wanted a panic in the hold. I let it ride. Han took control back.
“The U-33 isn’t designed for the things Han did to that bird. He took her through three inverted outside loops to free up the locking claws. Our vision began to go. How Han coaxed lift from those inverted wings, I’ll never know: but he was smirking, hanging there from his harness.
“He went into barrel rolls to build centrifugal force in the reservoir. I thought he was going to rip the wings off and I almost took control back, but just then I got a board light. He had forced the valve open.
“But gravity could’ve swung it shut again, so he had to fly upside-down while the landing gear cranked out. The ship had begun losing altitude and the commandant was sort of frothing at the mouth, babbling for Han to pull out. Han refused. ‘Wait for it, wait for it,’ he said. Then we heard this long grinding sound as the landing gear seated, and a clang as it locked.
“Han snap-rolled, hit full reverse thrusters, and hung out all the hardware. We uprooted two stop-nets and only lived because we landed into the wind. Jouncer landing, I tell you.
“They had to help the commandant off the ship. Then they deactivated that ship for good. Han locked down his board, just like the rule book says. ‘Slick enough for you?’ he asked. I said ‘Slick.’ That’s how the nickname started.”
It was fully dark now. The stars were luminous overhead, and both of Dellalt’s moons were in the sky. “Badure, if it happened today,” Hasti asked quietly, “would you tell those cadets they might die?”
He sounded tired. “Yes. Even though they might’ve panicked. They had a right to know.”
The logical next question, then, was, “Well, what’re our chances, the truth? Can we get the Falcon back, or even survive an attempt?” Skynx, and the automata, too, hung on his reply.
Badure remained silent. Through his mind passed the options: lying, telling the truth, or simply rolling over and going to sleep. But when he opened his mouth to answer, he was interrupted.
“Depends on what we run up against,” Han Solo said from the darkness, having returned so quietly that they hadn’t heard him. “If camp security’s loose, we could get away without losses. If it’s tight, we have to tackle them somehow, maybe draw them out. Anyway, it means risk. We’d probably have casualties and some of us might not make it.”
“Some? Admit it, Solo; you’re so concerned with getting that ship of yours back that you’re ignoring facts. J’uoch’s got more hired killers than—”
“J’uoch’s got portside brawlers and some small-time muscle,” Han corrected Hasti. “If they were quality, they wouldn’t be working for a two-credit outfit like hers. Handing some clod a gun doesn’t make him a gunman.”
He stepped closer and she could see his silhouette against the stars. “They have the numbers, but the only real gunman within light-years is standing right in front of you.”
The craft was trim, sleek, luxuriously customized, a scoutship off the military inventory. Her approach and landing were exacting, and she set down precisely where the Millennium Falcon had landed several days earlier. Her lone occupant emerged.
The man was limber, graceful, though his movements were at times abrupt. Although he was tall and lean, his form seemed compact. His clothes were expensive and impeccable, of the finest materials, but somber—gray trousers and a high-collared white shirt with a short gray jacket over it. A long white scarf, knotted at his throat, fell in soft folds, and his black shoes shone. He wore his graying hair cropped short, but his mustachios were long, their ends gathered and weighted with two tiny golden beads, giving him a subtly roguish look.
Townspeople appeared and clustered around him, just as they had greeted the Falcon’s passengers. But something in this stranger’s blue, unblinking eyes, something penetrating and without mercy, made them wary. He soon obtained from them the story of the Falcon’s arrival and removal by the mining-camp ship. They showed him the spot where the spaceboat had been destroyed by the lighter. Even scavengers had avoided the bits of wreckage, fearing radiation residues.
The stranger told the townspeople to disperse, and seeing the look in his eyes, they obeyed. He carefully removed his jacket and hung it inside his ship. Around his waist an intricately tooled black gunbelt held a blaster high on his right hip.
He brought certain sensitive instruments from his ship, some on a carrying harness, others attached to a long probe, and still others set in a very sophisticated remote-globe. Loosening his scarf, he made a patient examination of the area, working in a careful pattern.
An hour later he returned the equipment to his ship and rubbed the dust from his gleaming shoes with a rag. He was satisfied that no one had died when J’uoch’s spaceboat had been destroyed. He reknotted his scarf while he considered the situation.
Eventually, Gallandro drew on his jacket and locked up his ship, then made his way into the city. He soon heard rumors of bizarre goings-on down at the lake and battles among the natives. He couldn’t verify much about the outside humans involved, though; the only close-range witnesses, the shore gang of the sauropteroid Kasarax, had gone into hiding. Still, he was willing to credit the story. It was in keeping with Han Solo’s wildly unpredictable luck.
No, Gallandro corrected himself. “Luck” was what Solo would have called it. He, Gallandro, had long ago rejected mysticism and superstition. It made it that much more frustrating to see how events seemed to conspire to impel Solo along.
Gallandro intended to prove that Solo was no more than he appeared to be, a small-time smuggler of no great consequence. That the gunman had doubtless given the matter far more thought than Solo himself was a source of ironic amusement to him. Using the vast resources of his employer, the Corporate Sector Authority, he had tracked Solo and the Wookiee this far and would, with only a little more patience, complete the hunt.