Star Wars - Han Solo and the Lost Legacy (2 page)

“No apologies; you earned it.” Han dug into a coverall pocket for the cash he had gotten in advance for the airspeeder parts. Fadoop tucked the money away swiftly into her belly pouch, then brightened; a twinkle sparkled in her close-set, golden eyes.

“And there’s a surprise, Solo-my-friend. At the spaceport, when I picked up the parts, two new arrivals were looking for you and the Big One. I had room in my ship, and so brought them with me. They wait.”

Han reached back under the airspeeder and drew out his coiled gunbelt, which he always kept at arm’s length. “Who are they? Imperials? Did they look like skip-tracers or Guild muscle?” He buckled the custom-model blaster around his hips, fastening the tiedown at his right thigh, and snapped open his holster’s retaining strap.

Fadoop objected. “Negatron! Nice, peaceful fellows, a little nervous.” She scratched her verdant, bulging midsection, making a sandpaper sound. “They want to hire you. No weapons on them, at least.”

That sounded reassuring. “What do you think?” Han asked Chewbacca.

The Wookiee resettled his admiral’s hat, pulling the gleaming brim down low over his eyes, and stared across the airfield. After a few seconds, he barked a syllable of affirmation, and the three started off for Fadoop’s ship.

   It was high festival on Saheelindeel, formerly a time of tribal reunions and hunting rituals, then of fertility and harvest ceremonies. Now it incorporated elements of an airshow and industrial fair. Saheelindeel, like so many other planets in the Tion Hegemony, was struggling to thrust itself into an age of modern technology and prosperity in emulation of the galaxy at large. Farming machinery was on display as well as factory robotry. Vehicles new to the wide-eyed Saheelindeeli but obsolete on more advanced worlds were in evidence, along with communications and holo apparatuses that delighted the touring crowd. In an exhibition game of shockball,
the charged orb sizzled between players wearing insulated mitts; the winning team was using a zoned offense.

Off in the distance, Grigmin was looping and diving in jetpack harness. Just seeing him again put Han in a more receptive frame of mind to meet Fadoop’s passengers. Passing by the reviewing stand, he saw the Saheelindeeli’s grizzled matriarch holding the elaborate trophy she was to present that afternoon for the best thematic float or exhibit. The fair’s theme was
Fertility of the Soil, Challenge of the Sky
. Favored heavily to win was the opulent float entered by the Regional Fork-Pitchers’ Local.

At last Han and his companions arrived at Fadoop’s slapdash cargo ship. Despite her reassurances, Han was relieved to see the new arrivals were not Imperial stormtroopers—“snowmen” or “white-hats,” as they were called in slang-talk—but an unassuming pair, human and humanoid.

The humanoid—a tall, reedy, purple-skinned type whose eyes, protruding from an elongated skull, held tiny red pinpoints of pupil—nodded at Han. “Ah, Captain Solo? A pleasure to meet you, sir!” He stuck out a thin arm. Han clasped the long, slender hand, trying to ignore its greasy skin secretions.

“Yes, I’m Solo. What can I do for you?”

The human, an emaciated albino wearing a sunproof robe, explained. “We represent the Committee for Interinstitutional Assistance of the University of Rudrig. You’ve heard of our school?”

“I think so.” He vaguely remembered that it was the only decent advanced school in the Tion Hegemony.

“The university has concluded an Agreement of Aid for a fledgling college on Brigia,” the albino continued.

The humanoid took up the conversation. “I am Hissal, and Brigia is my homeworld. The university has promised us guidance, materials, and teaching aids.”

“So you should be contacting Tion Starfreight or Interstellar Shipping,” Han noted. “But you came looking for us. Why?”

“The shipment is completely legal,” the gaunt Hissal hastened to add, “but there is opposition from my planetary government. Though they can’t contravene Imperial trade agreements, of course, we still fear there might be trouble in making delivery and—”

“—you want someone who can look out for your stuff.”

“Your name
had
come to us as a capable fellow’s,” Hissal admitted.

“Chewie and I try to avoid trouble—”

“The job pays rather well,” interposed the albino. “One thousand credits.”

“—unless there’s some profit in it. Two thousand,” Han finished, doubling the price automatically even though the offer had been more than fair. There ensued a few moments of haggling. But when Han pressed the university representatives too sharply and their enthusiasm began to waver, Chewbacca issued a howl that made them all jump. He didn’t much like crewing for Grigmin either.

“Uh, my copilot’s an idealist,” Han improvised, scowling up at the Wookiee. “Luckily for you. Fifteen hundred.” The albino and the Brigian agreed, adding that half would be paid on consignment, half on delivery. Chewbacca pushed his gaudy admiral’s hat back on his head and beamed at his partner, overjoyed to be lifting off again.

“So,” said Fadoop, slapping her belly merrily with both hands and one foot, “that only leaves telling that fool Grigmin good riddance.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” Han agreed. “He’ll be doing his big stunt display any time now.” He rubbed his jaw and studied the ungainly, stubby-winged vessel that stood nearby. “Fadoop, can I borrow old
Skybarge
for a few minutes?”

“No questions asked. But she’s got cargo onboard, several cubic meters of enriched fertilizer for the agricultural pavilion.” Fadoop relit her cigar.

“No problem,” Han told her. “Warm up your ship. I’ll be right back.”

* * *

Having already amazed the unsophisticated Saheelindeeli with his hover-sled, jetpack, and repulsorlift swoops, Grigmin began his grand finale, an exhibition of stunt flying with an obsolete X-222 high-altitude fighter. The triple-deuce looped, climbed, dove, and banked through textbook maneuvers, releasing clouds of colorful aerosols at certain points to the delight of the crowd.

Grigmin came into his final approach, putting the limber and lean ship through a fancy aerobatic display before coming in toward a precise landing. He didn’t realize, however, that a second ship had come in after him on the same approach his fighter had taken. It was Fadoop’s cumbersome
Skybarge
with Han Solo at the controls. To show what he thought of Grigmin’s flying ability, Han took the tubby ship through the same display the exhibition flier was just completing. But, coming into his first loop, Han feathered his portside engine.

The green-furred Saheelindeeli gasped collectively and pointed the second ship out to one another with a great commotion, forgetting to watch Grigmin’s landing entirely. They expected to see
Skybarge
plummet from the air. But Han completed the roll, deftly working with the nearly empty craft’s stubby wings, control surfaces, and chugging engine. On the second roll, he feathered the starboard engine, too, and went into a third with zero thrust.

Shrieks of fright from the crowd and their tentative race for cover abated as they saw that the unwieldy aircraft was still under control. Jumping up and down, pointing with fingers and toes, they sent up a ragged cheer for the mad pilot, then a more forceful one, reflecting the Saheelindeeli affection for grand gestures, even insane ones.

Grigmin, who had exited from his ship virtually unnoticed, threw down his flight helmet and watched
Skybarge
in mounting fury. Han coaxed the third roll out of his homely vessel and waggled her down toward the strip.

But only one landing wheel emerged from its bay. Grigmin grinned at the prospect of a crash; but unexpectedly the ship
bounced off the single wheel, trimmed handily, and settled a second time as another landing wheel lowered. She bore on the reviewing stand with surprising grace and rebounded from two wheels.

As
Skybarge
neared the reviewing stand, the crowd parted before her, clapping their hands and feet in high approbation. The ship waggled her tail in midair, extended her third and last landing wheel, and rolled cleanly for the reviewing stand. By that time Grigmin was so distracted that he didn’t notice the cargo ship heading directly for his precious triple-deuce fighter.

Too late! Slam! He could only dodge out of the way as
Skybarge
rolled by. Han threw a wicked grin at him from the cockpit.

Skybarge
’s high, heavy-duty landing gear permitted her to pass directly over the low, sleek fighter. With consummate skill, Han flipped open her cargo-bay doors and suddenly an avalanche of enriched fertilizer dumped directly into the fighter through the open cockpit canopy.

The Saheelindeeli began applauding madly.
Skybarge
’s overhead cockpit hatch popped open, and Han’s happy face appeared. He inclined his head graciously to acknowledge the ovation as Grigmin was being elbowed farther and farther away by the press of the crowd.

From the reviewing stand the matriarch’s voice wheezed through the crackling public address system. “First prize! Trophy to
Skybarge
for best exhibit,
Fertility of the Soil, Challenge of the Sky
.” She waved the tall loving cup as her advisers whistled and stomped their feet in glee.

II

THE
Millennium Falcon
rested on Brigia’s single spaceport landing field. She looked very much like the battered, much-repaired, and worn-out stock freighter she was, but there were incongruities. The irregular docking tackle, oversized thruster ports, heavy-weapons turrets, and late-model sensor-suite dish betrayed something about her real line of work.

“That’s the last of the tapes,” Han announced. He checked the offloading on his hand-held readout screen as Bollux, the labor ’droid, stumped past, guiding a repulsorlift hand truck. The automaton’s green finish looked eerie in the glow of the irradiators with which the ship was now rigged. Brigia was flagged in all the standard directories, thus requiring phase-one decontam procedures. The ship’s environmental systems circulated broad-spectrum anticontamination aerosols along with air. Han’s and Chewbacca’s immunization treatments would protect them against local maladies, but they were nonetheless eager to be away.

Han watched Bollux head for the steam-powered freight truck parked near the ship. The glare of the landing field’s illumigrids showed him the Brigian workers, all volunteers from the budding college, arranging crates, packing canisters and carry-cases that the
Falcon
had delivered. They conversed animatedly among themselves, thrilled with the new broadcasting equipment and especially with the library of tapes.

Han turned to Hissal, who had accompanied him on the
flight and who was to be the college’s first president. “The only thing left to get outboard is your duplicator.”

“Ah, yes, the duplicator, our most-awaited-item,” commented Hissal, “and the most expensive. It will print and collate material at speeds our own presses cannot match and synthesize any paper or other material from the raw constituents it contains. This, from a device that fits into a few crates. Amazing!”

Han made a noncommittal sound. Bollux was returning, and Han called down the curve of the passageway, “Chewie! Secure the main hold and crack open the number two; I want to get that duplicator off and raise ship.” From aft echoed the Wookiee’s answering growl.

“Captain, there’s one more thing,” Hissal went on, drawing a pouch from beneath his lateral folds. Han’s right hand dropped immediately to his blaster. Hissal, sensing his breach of decorum, held up a thin hand in denial.

“Be of tranquil mind. I know that among your kind it is customary to offer a gratuity for a task well done.” Hissal plucked a curl of bills out of his pouch and extended it to the pilot.

Han examined the bills. They had a strange texture, more like textile than like paper. “What
is
this stuff?”

“A new innovation,” admitted Hissal. “Several Progressions ago the New Regime replaced bartering and local coinages with a planet-wide monetary system.”

Han slapped the sheaf of minutely inscribed bills against the palm of his flying glove. “Which gives them a hammer-lock on trade, of course. Well, thanks anyway, but this stuff isn’t worth much off-planet.”

Hissal’s elongated face grew even longer. “Unfortunately, only the New Regime may hold off-world currency; thus, all equipment and materials for our school had to come by donation. The first thing the New Regime did when it accumulated enough credits was bring in a developmental consulting firm. Aside from the currency system, the firm’s main accomplishment was to profit from a major purchase
of military equipment, which included that warship you saw.”

Han
had
noticed the ship, a pocket-cruiser of the outmoded Marauder class surrounded by worklights and armed guards.

“Her main control stacks blew on her shakedown cruise,” Hissal explained. “Naturally, there are no Brigian techs capable of repairing her, and so she remains inert until the Regime can muster enough credits to import techs and parts. That money could have brought us commercial technology, or medical advancements.”