Part 27 (1/2)

HAN SOLO AND THE LOST LEGACY.

A book for Linda Kuehl.

and, with particular grat.i.tude,

for John A. Kearney.

I.

HAN Solo nearly had the control-stem leads hooked up, a sweaty job that had him stuck under the low-slung airspeeder for almost an hour, when there was a kick at his foot. ”What's holding things up?”

The leads, now gathered together in precise order, sprang free of his fingers, going every which way. With a scalding Corellian malediction, Han shoved against the machine's undercarriage, and his repulsor-lift mechanic's creeper slid out from under the airspeeder.

Han leaped up instantly to confront Grigmin, his temporary employer, the color on his face changing from the red of frustration to a darker and more dangerous hue. Han was lean, of medium height, and appeared younger than his actual age. His eyes were guarded, intense.

Grigmin, tall, broad shouldered, handsomely blond, and some years younger than Han, either didn't notice his pit-crewman's anger or chose not to acknowledge it. ”Well? What about it? That airspeeder's an important part of my show.”

Han attempted not to lose his scant temper. Working as pit-crewman to Grigmin's one-man airshow on a circuit of fifth-rate worlds had been the only job he and his partner, Chewbacca, had been able to get when they found they needed work, but Grigmin's unrelenting arrogance made the task of keeping his outmoded aircraft running nearly unbearable.

”Grigmin,” Han said, ”I've warned you before. You put too much strain on your hardware. You could stay well within performance tolerances and still complete every maneuver in your routines. But instead you s...o...b..at, with junk heaps that were obsolete when the Clone Wars were news.”

Grigmin's grin grew even wider. ”Save the excuses, Solo. Will my airspeeder be ready for my afternoon show, or have you and your Wookiee sidekick decided you don't like working for me?”

Masterpiece of understatement! Han thought to himself, but mumbled, ”She'll be in the air again if Fadoop gets here with the replacement parts.”

Now Grigmin frowned. ”You should have gone for them yourself. I never trust these useless locals; it's a rule I have.”

”If you want me to use a stars.h.i.+p for a crummy surface-to-surface skip, you'll have to pay the expenses-up front.” Han would sooner trust a local like the amiable, gregarious Fadoop than a s.h.i.+fty deadbeat like Grigmin.

Grigmin ignored the invitation to part with some cash. ”I want my airspeeder ready,” he concluded and left to prepare for the next part of his performance, an exhibition of maneuvers with a one-man jetpack. Maneuvers any academy greenie could do, Han thought. These backwater worlds are the only place anyone would pay to see a feeble act like Grigmin's.

Still, if it hadn't been for Grigmin's needing a pitcrew, Han Solo and the Wookiee, Chewbacca, freelance smugglers, would have been on the Hurt Vector. He adjusted his sweatband, toed the mechanic's creeper over to him, settled onto it, and pulled himself back under the airspeeder.

Groping half-heartedly for the control leads, Han wondered just what it was that made his luck so erratic. He had had strokes of good fortune that rivaled anything he had ever heard of, but at other times....

He barked his knuckles, swore a mighty oath, and mulled over the fact that only a short time ago he and his Wookiee partner had held the galaxy by the tail. They had defied a slavery ring in the Corporate Sector, held the Authority's dreaded Security Police at bay with a Territorial Manager as hostage, and come out of the deal ten thousand credits richer.

But since then there had been needed repairs for their stars.h.i.+p, the Millennium Falcon, and monumental celebrations on a dozen worlds as they put the Corporate Sector behind them. Then there had been ill-fated smuggling ventures: a ruinous try at clotheslegging in the Cron Drift; a failed Military Script-exchange plot in the Lesser Plooriod Cl.u.s.ter; and more, each adventure bringing a little closer that day when they would find themselves among the needy.

So they had ended up here in the Tion Hegemony, so far out among the lesser star systems of the vast Empire that the Imperials didn't even bother to exert direct control over it. In the Tion tended to congregate the petty grifters, unsuccessful con-artists, and unprosperous crooks of the galaxy. They ran Chak-root, picked up R'alla mineral water for the smuggling run to Rampa, swiped, ambushed, connived, and attempted in a thousand ways to fuel careers temporarily at a standstill.

Han considered all this as he carefully gathered the leads, once again separating them delicately. At least with Grigmin, Han and Chewbacca were paid, once in a while.

But that didn't make it any easier to take Grigmin's highhandedness. What particularly irritated Han was that Grigmin considered himself the hottest stunt pilot in s.p.a.ce. Han had entertained the idea of taking a swing at the younger man, but Grigmin was a former heavyweight unarmed combat champion....

His musings were interrupted by another kick that jolted his boot. The control leads sprang from his hands again. Furious, he pushed off against the airspeeder's undercarriage, jumped off the mechanic's creeper, and, combat champion or no, launched himself at his tormentor ...

... and was caught up instantly against a wide s.h.a.ggy chest in a frightfully strong but restrained hug and held a half-meter or so off the ground.

”Chewie! Let go, you big ... all right; I'm sorry.”

Thick arms muscled like loops of steel released him. The Wookiee Chewbacca glared down from his towering height, growling a denunciation of Han's manners, his reddish-brown brows lowered, his fangs showing. He shook a long, hairy finger at his partner for emphasis and tried straightening the Authority Security Police admiral's hat perched rakishly on his head, his lush mane escaping from beneath it.

The admiral's hat was just about the only thing the two still had from their adventures in the Corporate Sector. Chewbacca had taken a fancy to its bright braid, snowy-white material, glossy black brim, and ornate insignia during an exchange of hostages just before their hasty departure from that region of s.p.a.ce. In his people's tradition of counting coup on their enemies, the Wookiee had demanded the hat as part of the ransom. Han, pressed by events, had indulged him.

Now the pilot threw up his hands. ”Enough! I said I was sorry. I thought you were that vapor-brain Grigmin again. Now what?”

Han's giant copilot informed him that Fadoop had arrived. Fadoop stood nearby on her feet and knuckles, an unusually fat and outgoing native of the planet Saheelindeel. A short, bandy-legged, and densely green-furred primate, she was a local wheeler-dealer who flew an aircraft of sorts, an informal a.s.semblage of parts and components from various sc.r.a.pped fliers, a craft which she called Skybarge.

Pulling off his sweatband, Han walked toward Fadoop. ”You scrounged the parts? Good gal!”

Fadoop, scratching behind one ear with a big toe, removed a malodorous black cigar from her mouth and blew a smoke ring. ”Anything for Solo-my-friend. Are we not soulsealed buddies, you, me, and the Big One here, this Wookiee? But, ahh, there is a matter-”

Fadoop looked away somewhat embarra.s.sed. Working the quid of Chak-root that swelled her cheek, she spat a stream of red liquid into the dust. ”I trust Solo-my-friend, but not Grigmin-the-blowhard. I hate to bring up money.”

”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 s.p.a.ceport, when I picked up the parts, two new arrivals were looking for you and the Big One. I had room in my s.h.i.+p, 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 rea.s.suring. ”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 s.h.i.+p.

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 pa.s.sengers. Pa.s.sing 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 s.h.i.+p. Despite her rea.s.surances, 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 una.s.suming 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 Interinst.i.tutional a.s.sistance of the University of Rudrig. You've heard of our school?”