by Troy Denning
The Arcona’s golden eyes remained fixed on the temperature readouts. “I thought you had experience at this sort of thing.” Because of the difficulty his compound eyes had making out distinct shapes, he was wearing a small optical scanner that read the display data and fed it into an earpiece in auditory form. “Every rookie smuggler in the galaxy knows you can’t outrun a ship in orbit. They’ll cut you off every time.”
“You don’t say?” Han tried to look surprised. “Because of the gravity drag?”
“And air friction and accumulated velocity and things like that.” The Arcona glanced over his shoulder at Leia. “This is Han Solo, isn’t it? The Han Solo?”
Han glanced over his shoulder and saw Leia shrug.
“You know, I’ve been wondering myself.” Her eyes drooped and Han thought she might be falling asleep, then she added, “But when I checked, that’s what his identichip read.”
“One of them, anyway,” Han said, glad to hear an echo—no matter how faint—of Leia’s sharp wit.
They reached the other side of the planet. Han pulled back on the yoke, nosing the Falcon straight up. The nacelle temperatures shot off the gauges as the ion drives struggled to maintain velocity, and the Arcona’s slanted mouth fell open.
“Y-you’re at a hundred and t-t-twenty percent spec,” he stammered.
“You don’t say,” Han replied. “Bring up the tactical display and let’s see how things look.”
The Arcona kept his scanner fixed on the temperature gauges. “One twenty-seven.”
“Military alloys,” Leia explained. “We can go to one forty, or so Han tells me.”
“Maybe more, if I wanted to push,” Han bragged.
“Don’t,” the Arcona said. “I’m impressed enough.”
The Arcona brought up the tactical display, revealing a drop-shaped swarm of blips streaming around the planet in pursuit. He plotted intercept vectors. A web of flashing lines appeared on-screen, all intersecting well behind the dotted outline showing the Falcon’s projected position.
“I guess rookie smugglers don’t know everything,” Han said with a smirk. “Plot a course for Commenor.”
He waited a few seconds to be certain none of the Falcon’s pursuers had any tricks up its own drive nacelles, then diverted power for the rear shields and kept an eye out for surprises. Though he had plenty of questions for his new copilot, he stayed quiet and watched him work. Han had certainly seen more gifted navigators, but the Arcona’s approach was sound, and he used redundant routines to avoid mistakes.
After a few moments, he transferred the coordinates to Han’s display. “Want to double-check?”
“No need,” Han said. “I trust you.”
“Yeah?” The high corner of the Arcona’s mouth rose a little more. “Same here.”
The Arcona validated the coordinates, and Han initiated the hyperdrive. There was the usual inexplicable hesitation—Han had been trying for the last year to run down the cause—and his alarmed copilot looked over. Han raised a finger to signal patience, then the stars stretched into lines.
They spent a few moments checking systems before settling in for the ride to Commenor, then Han had time to consider his temporary copilot. He had not missed the lightsaber hanging inside the Arcona’s ragged flight tabard, nor the significance of the mind game he had played on CorSec agents. Still, while there were now enough Jedi in the galaxy that Han no longer knew them all by name, he would have heard about an Arcona Jedi—especially a salt-addicted Arcona.
“So,” Han asked. “Who are you?”
“Izal Waz.” The Arcona turned and, smiling crookedly, extended his three-fingered hand. “Thanks for taking me aboard.”
“Waz? Izal Waz?” Han shook the hand. “Your name sounds familiar.”
Izal’s gaze flickered downward, and he released Han’s hand. “Anything’s possible, but we haven’t met.”
“But I do know the name,” Han said. “What about you, Leia?”
He turned to look and found her chin slumped against her chest. Though her eyes were closed, her brow was creased and her hands were twitching, and it made Han’s heart ache to see her suffer so even in her sleep.
“Looks like I better put our patient to bed.” Han unbuckled his crash webbing. “We’ll talk more in a few minutes.”
“Good,” Izal Waz said. “I’ve always been curious about your years in the Corporate Sector.”
That was hardly the discussion Han had in mind, but he left the pilot’s chair and took Leia back to the first-aid bay. She did not stir, even when he lifted her into the bunk and connected her to the medical data banks. He knew she needed her rest, but he wished she would open her eyes just for a minute and give him a smile, some indication that she would recover—that they would. He had needed to mourn Chewbacca’s death, he knew that, and maybe he had even needed to crisscross the galaxy helping Droma search for his clan. But only now was Han beginning to see how he had surrendered to his grief, or to understand that there had been a cost.
“Get well, Princess.” He kissed Leia on the brow. “Don’t give up on me yet.”
The monitors showed no indication that she heard.
Han buckled the last safety strap across her chest and magnoclamped the repulsor chair to the deck beside her bunk, then went aft to check on the other patient aboard the Falcon. Her gurney was clamped to the floor of the crew quarters, a pair of data umbilicals connecting the portable bacta tank to an auxiliary medical socket. C-3PO stood in a corner, his photoreceptors darkened and his metallic head canted slightly forward in his shutdown posture. The covers on the three bunks were rumpled.
Han did a quick check to make certain the bacta tank was still functioning, then reached behind C-3PO’s head and reset his primary circuit breaker.
The droid’s head rose. “… can’t leave her in the middle of …” The sentence trailed off as his photoreceptors blinked to life. “Captain Solo! What happened?”
“Good question.” Han glanced around. “I thought Izal turned you back on.”
“If you are referring to that salt-happy Arcona whom Mistress Leia asked you to bring aboard, absolutely not!” He gestured at the portable bacta tank. “I was instructing him where to secure the gurney when … well, someone must have tripped my breaker.”
“You didn’t cross the medical bank data feeds?”
“Captain Solo, you know I don’t relish memory wipes,” C-3PO said. “And I assure you, I know the proper way to access a data feed. I wasn’t even near it.”
“That’s what I was afraid of.”
Han stepped over to a bunk and found what looked like a large black toenail on the covers. There were similar flakes on the other bunks, and, on the third, a pair of disassembled transmitters—the really small kind, such as a CorSec agent might hide on a portable bacta tank. Han placed his hand in the center of the rumpled covers. The bed was still warm.
“Go to the first-aid bay and stay with Leia.” Han folded the flakes and transmitters into his hand, then started for the door. “Don’t let anyone near her.”
“Of course, Captain Solo.” C-3PO clanged into the ring corridor behind him. “But how am I to stop them?”
“Comm me.”
Han was already crossing the main hold toward the cockpit access tunnel. He was not at all surprised to discover that CorSec or the spy or maybe both had planted eavesdropping devices on the bacta tank—he had intended to check for them himself—but someone had disassembled the transmitters. That in itself did not mean Izal Waz had sneaked stowaways aboard, or even if he had, that they were Peace Brigade collaborators or bounty hunters or agents hired by whoever had sent Roxi Barl. But it did raise a few questions.
Doing his best to appear nonchalant, Han stepped onto the flight deck and paused to glance at the navicomputer. According to the display, they remained on course to Commenor, so any hidden diversions the Arcona might have sneaked past Han had not yet occurred.
Han slipped into the pilot’s chair. �
�Everything okay up here?”
“What could go wrong in ten minutes?” Izal continued to stare out the viewport, his color-hungry Arconan eyes mesmerized by the gray void of hyperspace. “You seem distressed.”
“Distressed?” Han checked their position, reached up, and disengaged the hyperdrive. Then, as the sudden dazzle of starlight disoriented Izal, he drew his blaster and swiveled around to face the Arcona. “I’m not distressed. I’m mad. Furious, even.”
Izal did not even seem all that surprised. He merely blinked the blindness from his eyes and gestured at the blaster. “That’s not necessary. I can explain.”
“You’d better hope so.” Han opened his other hand and laid the black flakes and disassembled transmitters on a console between their seats. “When it comes to protecting my wife, I have a short temper.”
Izal grinned and did not look at the items. “So I noticed in the isolation ward.”
“You were the one in the bacta parlor?”
Izal nodded eagerly. “I helped.”
When Han did not lower the blaster, a furrow appeared in Izal’s brow, and he flicked his hand almost casually. Had Han been just any freighter captain concerned he was about to be hijacked by a rogue Jedi and his stowaway partners, the trick might have worked. As it was, Han had fought at Luke Skywalker’s side often enough to anticipate such maneuvers, and his free hand was already clamped over the barrel, holding the weapon in his grasp.
“If it’s going to come down to using it or losing it,” Han warned, “I’ll use it.”
The blaster settled back into Han’s hand.
“You’re as short on gratitude as you are on temper,” the Arcona complained. “Or maybe you just don’t know how to trust.”
“I’ll trust you when I know who you are.” Han set the blaster to stun, less to spare Izal than to avoid burning a hole through a crucial circuit board. “You own a lightsaber and you know a few Force tricks, but so did Darth Vader. As far as I’m concerned, you still look more like a bounty hunter than a Jedi Knight.”
Izal sank into the copilot’s seat like he had been punched.
“It’s the salt habit, isn’t it?” he asked. “You think no real Jedi would let himself come to this.”
“If you’re looking for sympathy, you’re on the wrong ship,” Han said. The truth was he felt a certain empathy for the troubled Arcona, but now was not the time to share shortcomings. “You must know I’m no stranger to the Jedi. If you were a Jedi, I’d know you.”
“You do.” Izal’s gaze slipped away from Han’s, and his face darkened to charcoal. “There’s a reason you recognized my name, I had some trouble at the academy. One bite of Kenth’s nerfloaf—”
“Of course,” Han said, recalling the incident. A three-month supply of salt had vanished in the space of a few days, and then so had the student who choked it all down. “But you were only there a few months.”
Han cast a meaningful glance at Izal’s belt.
Izal nodded. “Hardly long enough to build my lightsaber,” he said. “Eventually, I found a Master who taught me to accept my weakness—and who helped me find my strength.”
Han raised his brow.
“And I’m sure you don’t know her,” Izal said.
“Your story is smelling more like a Gamorrean kitchen every minute,” Han warned. He gestured at the flakes and disassembled transmitters. “And you still haven’t explained these.”
“Oh … those.” Izal’s slanted smile might have been one of relief or anxiety. “That’s easy.”
“So explain.”
“First, I wasn’t keeping this a secret,” Izal said. “I was going to tell you when things settled down.”
“Quit stalling,” Han ordered.
Izal swallowed hard, which was quite a sight given the Arcona’s long neck. “All right.” He picked up one of the black flakes. “This scale—”
The proximity alarm broke into a shriek. Han glanced at his tactical display and found a wall of blips taking form behind the Falcon.
“Nice trick,” Han said. He hit the reset, but the alarm resumed its screeching half a second later. The tactical display returned with even more blips. “Now cut it out. You’re testing my patient nature.”
“You think this is a Force trick?” Izal’s eyes were fixed on the tactical display, and there was enough panic in his voice that Han almost believed him. “I’m not that good.”
“So they’re real?” Han was starting to worry. There were no transponder codes beneath the blips, and vessels without transponder codes tended to be pirates—or worse. “What are they doing here?”
“I don’t know.” Izal began the ion engine warm-start procedure. “I must have missed a homing beacon.”
“Or planted one,” Han said. Homing beacons could not be used to track a ship through hyperspace, only to locate it once it returned to realspace. For a flotilla to arrive so quickly, it had to have been lying somewhere outside the Corellian system, ready to depart as soon as it learned the Falcon’s position. “This seems way too handy.”
“Or desperate.” Izal brought the ion drives on-line. “I’m not the one trying to snatch your wife.”
“I’d like to believe you.” Han fired a stun bolt into the Arcona’s ribs. “But I just can’t take the chance.”
Leaving Izal to slump over the side of his chair, Han holstered his blaster and hit the throttles. The ambushers’ rate of closure began to slow. Some of the leaders started to fire, but Han did not even raise the Falcon’s power-hungry energy shields. The ship’s sensor array computer had identified the newcomers as a motley mix of Y-wings and old T-65 X-wings, and neither of those could fire effectively at such long range.
C-3PO’s voice came over the intercom. “Captain Solo?”
“Have the stowaways got Leia?” Han asked. There was a time when his thoughts wouldn’t have leapt instantly to the worst scenario, but a lot had changed in the galaxy since then—and in him. “If they’ve got Leia, you tell them—”
“Mistress Leia is well and quite alone,” C-3PO said. “Aside from me, of course.”
“Keep it that way.” Han activated the navicomputer and began to punch coordinates; though the course to Commenor remained the same, transit times would have to be recalculated from the new entry point. “And don’t bother me unless that changes.”
“Of course, Captain Solo.” A distant streak of red flashed above the cockpit canopy as a cannon bolt reached maximum range and faded away. “But—”
“Threepio, not now!”
The starfighters, especially the X-wings, were still closing. Han plotted a course projection and saw what he had known intuitively: they would reach effective firing range only a few seconds before the Falcon entered hyperspace.
Han slammed his palm against the yoke. “Sith spit!”
He changed the tactical display to a larger scale. Sitting dead ahead, well beyond the range of anything less sensitive than the Falcon’s reconnaissance-grade sensor suite, was a fast-freight of 250 meters. Not large, but large enough to carry a tractor beam that would prevent the Falcon from jumping to hyperspace.
Han cursed again and canceled the calculations. He brought the Falcon around hard, and the starfighters angled to cut him off. Daggers of light began to slice the darkness to his right. Han brought the energy shields up, then felt a shudder as both sets of the Falcon’s powerful quad laser cannons began to fire.
“Leia?” he gasped. “Threepio?”
“We’re still here, Captain Solo,” the droid replied. “In the first-aid bay as you instructed.”
Han glanced over the fire-control computer to see if Izal had left the quad lasers on automatic. He hadn’t. “Then who’s on the guns?”
“Captain Solo, that’s what I was—”
A rhythmic hissing sounded from the seat behind the pilot’s, and then all Han could hear was his own scream. Paying no attention as the first pirate shots blossomed against the energy shields, he leapt up and reached for his blaster
.
A clawed hand pushed him down. “Sit,” rasped a deep voice. “This one shall replace Jedi Waz.”
The claw removed itself, and Han glanced over to see a huge scaled figure in a brown Jedi robe. The newcomer lifted Izal Waz out of the copilot’s seat with one hand, then tossed him to the rear of the flight deck and slipped into his place. A thick tail flopped over the arm of the chair, and beneath the robe’s cowl, Han glimpsed a reptilian face with slit-pupiled eyes and upward-jutting fangs. An adult Barabel.
A sheet of crimson light flashed along the Falcon’s starboard side. Han’s attention remained fixed on the Barabel. With scales as black as space and a tail that forced him to perch on the edge of the seat, his jagged features made him look as dangerous as his robe did mysterious. Han only hoped the Jedi apparel was evidence of a more patient nature than most Barabels possessed.
The Barabel pointed a claw at Han’s hand, still resting on his holstered weapon. “This one will let you blast him later. For now, perhapz you fly the ship.”
“Whatever you want.” Aware that even without the Force, the Barabel could have taken the blaster—and probably the arm holding it—anytime he wanted, Han grabbed the yoke with both hands. “Where we going?”
“You are the pilot, Han Solo.” He waved a claw at the tactical display, which showed a flight of X-wings streaking in to cut them off. “Though this one thinkz we should turn burnerz and run.”
“Can’t.” Han pointed to the fast-freight’s symbol, now giving chase in the upper left corner of the tactical display. “She’ll snag us with a tractor beam. Old pirate trap.”
The Falcon’s cannons lashed out in rapid-fire sequence. The lead starfighter dissolved into static, mirrored in the darkness outside by a distant orange bloom. Han whistled, awed as much by the timing of the attack as by its accuracy. The other three X-wings swung into a front oblique attack. Again, the Falcon’s laser cannons flashed. Again, an X-wing burst into a ball of superheated gas.