Star Wars - Han Solo and the Lost Legacy

by Brian Daley

  THE HAN SOLO ADVENTURES

  Han Solo drove his swoop into the weather station’s giant emission cylinder. The pursuing craft hung back a moment, then followed.

  “Stay gripped!” he called to the woman behind him, jockeying the swoop to face his enemies. They scattered, then dropped onto his tail again, ready to trap him at the cylinder’s far end.

  Han speeded up once more. The end of the emission cylinder was swinging, first revealing and then concealing meter-and-a-half-wide openings in the gridwork. The opening Han had selected expanded before him as he drove toward it. There was a terrible moment of doubt … then the gridwork passed him like a shadow, and they were in the open.

  He took a quick look behind. Pieces of wreckage were raining slowly toward the ground; one of his pursuers had tried to emulate him and failed …

  A Del Rey® Book

  Published by The Random House Publishing Group

  HAN SOLO AT STARS’ END copyright © 1979 by The Star

  Wars Corporation

  HAN SOLO’S REVENGE copyright © 1979 by Lucasfilm Ltd.

  (LFL)

  HAN SOLO AND THE LOST LEGACY copyright © 1980 by Lucasfilm Ltd. (LFL)

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Del Rey Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

  Del Rey is a registered trademark and the Del Rey colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

  www.delreybooks.com

  eISBN: 978-0-307-79548-9

  vKFRONE3.1

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  HAN SOLO AND THE LOST LEGACY

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Chapter XV

  Chapter XVI

  About the Author

  Also by this Author

  Introduction to the Star Wars Expanded Universe

  Excerpt from Star Wars: The Adventures of Lando Calrissian

  Introduction to the Old Republic Era

  Introduction to the Rise of the Empire Era

  Introduction to the Rebellion Era

  Introduction to the New Republic Era

  Introduction to the New Jedi Order Era

  Introduction to the Legacy Era

  Star Wars Novels Timeline

  HAN SOLO AND THE LOST LEGACY

  A book for Linda Kuehl

  and, with particular gratitude,

  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 showboat, 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 starship 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 shifty 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 starship, 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 Cluster; 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 space. 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 in
terrupted 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 shaggy 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 space. 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 assemblage of parts and components from various scrapped 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 embarrassed. 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 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.