Star Wars - Tatooine Ghost

by Tatooine Ghost (by Troy Denning)

  Chewbacca didn't ask why. He brought the Falcon around so sharply that Leia had to close her eyes against the starspin, and then Han began yelling for her to bring her guns to bear.

  Leia opened her eyes again and wished she hadn't. Space was flying past the canopy in a flashing whirl of stars and sand as Chewbacca spiraled toward Tatooine. She still had no idea what Han wanted her to be ready for, but she focused on the display and swung her cannons toward the assault shuttle.

  Half a dozen blips appeared at the edge of the tactical screen, and her heart had barely finished falling before the interceptor symbols confirmed what Han had realized two moments before.

  Another flight of TIEs was coming fast from the blind side of the planet.

  Leia forced her attention back to the firing display. With the Falcon gyrating so wildly, the turret broke into a nauseating whirring spin-dance as the servomotors struggled to keep the shuttle centered in the crosshairs.

  "I have a lock." Noticing that Han had not yet opened fire, she asked, "Should I-"

  "Not yet," Han said. "Chewie, see that sandstorm? The really big one?"

  An affirming grunt came over the intercom. Leia glanced out and saw only dizzying smears of yellow and stars whirling against a violet backdrop and felt instantly sick to her stomach. She fixed her gaze on the targeting display and hoped she was wrong about why Han had pointed out the sandstorm.

  The Falcon shuddered and slowed abruptly. Leia wondered if they could have reached the outer edge of the atmosphere so soon, but there was still too much darkness outside, then Han was cursing and asking no one in particular if all the Chimaera's pilots had a death wish. She saw the assault shuttle tumbling around the tactical display like a flitnat, connected to the Falcon by the invisible ribbon of a tractor beam that was pulling the two vessels slowly, steadily closer.

  "Now, Han?"

  "Not yet," Han said. "Chewie, launch the-"

  A soft thud reverberated through the Falcon as two concussion missiles shot from their tubes, riding the tractor beam toward the shuttle.

  "Now, sweetheart!"

  Leia squeezed the triggers. The turret shook as the quad lasers loosed their fury. The center of the targeting display erupted into a dazzling glow, and her canopy darkened to black as the shuttie returned fire. All nonessential systems diverted power to the shields, and an ominous silence fell over the Falcon. She tried to aim down the tractor beam, but with the Falcon reeling half out of control, Leia was doing well just to hit the thing.

  Then the missiles vanished into the glow. The tractor beam twinkled out of existence, and the brightness behind the crosshairs dissolved into a fading starburst.

  Chewbacca wrenched the Falcon out of her tumble and dived straight for Tatooine. The tactical display showed the interceptors closing, but they remained well out of range. Leia brought her turret around and finally found the sandstorm Han had pointed out to Chewbacca-a raging swirl of amber that covered a tenth of the planet's visible surface. Even from space, she could see clouds of turbulence eddying up far above the primary plane of the storm. Chewbacca sent the Falcon corkscrewing into a new helix of evasion. Leia checked her tactical display and found the TIEs still out of range and likely to stay that way. They could not cut off the Falcon without entering the atmosphere, a prospect even slower than taking the long route around the planet. Nor was the Chimaera, still sitting in a remote orbit, near enough to launch another boarding mission. There was only one thing the Star Destroyer could do to block the Falcon.

  A bright line of turbolaser strikes erupted ahead, trying not to hit the Falcon but to force her toward the approaching TIEs. Chewbacca flew directly at the nearest blossom. The shields crackled with sapphire energy as they passed through the dissipation turbulence; then the Falcon was plunging into Tatooine's atmosphere, bucking wildly and engulfed in entry flame.

  Han was instantly out of his seat, half tumbling and half climbing up the access corridor as Chewbacca struggled to control the ship at an air velocity approaching meteoric. The Chimaera did not fire into the atmosphere-no doubt because the captain believed the Falcon was about to crash anyway.

  "Stay put." Han started toward the main hold. "Pellaeon's got to be as mad as a rancor. Those TIEs may follow us down."

  "So where are you going?"

  "Flight deck," he said. "When we slip into that sandstorm-" "Into the sandstorm?" Leia started to object, but saw the TIEs dropping into the atmosphere and knew they had no choice.

  "Okay, Han. Just don't-"

  "Hit anything," Han finished. "I know."

  Chapter 2

  A yellow cloud of windborne sand howled through the streets of Mos Espa, etching goggle lenses with microscopic scratch marks and transforming the city into a warren of dome-shaped silhouettes. The squall was the dying remnant of the same sandstorm that had concealed the Falcon from Pellaeon's TIEs, so Leia should not have been surprised to see two stormtroopers standing in the haze ahead... but she was.

  After all, Han had spent half the night bumping the Falcon blindly through two thousand kilometers of storm-filled canyons so Pellaeon would not know whether the "Regina Galas" had survived its plunge into the sandstorm. They had hidden the ship in one of Han's former haunts, a huge but little-known smuggler's cave thirty kilometers out in the desert. They had strung an antenna and spent the morning eavesdropping on local comm channels, listening for anything that might suggest an Imperial search. Only then, after hearing no hint of unusual activity, had Han broken his speeder bike out of the Falcon's hold and gone into Mos Espa to arrange ground transport for everyone else.

  Leia should have known better. Pellaeon was an old-school officer, too careful and competent to make simple mistakes. Most Star Destroyer captains were, even in these days of strangled budgets and green crews.

  Han took her arm and guided her forward. "It's okay to hesitate. They expect that." A small synthesizer hidden inside his mouth gave his speech a raspy Devaronian quality. It also altered his vocal profile so it would be unidentifiable by anyone using voiceprint technology to search for Han Solo. "But don't gawk."

  She looped a hand through Han's elbow and did her best to fawn up at him as they approached the armored silhouettes. Though both she and Han were well hidden beneath the cowled cloaks and face coverings necessary to travel anywhere in even a mild sand squall, Leia felt as though she was parading past the Imperials in full Alder- aanian Princess regalia. She and Han were two of the most famous faces in the New Republic, and she had no doubt that capturing- or killing-either of them would mean a hefty promotion for all those involved.

  If Han was nervous, she did not sense it. He strode straight for the troopers, his goggled gaze rising to the flashing sign over the door behind them.

  "Mawbo's Performance Hall," he said. "This is it."

  "A dance house?" Leia gushed. "You take me to the nicest places."

  Han looked at the stormtroopers pointedly. They returned his glare impassively from behind their dark lenses, then finally stepped aside. One even pulled the door open. Leia did not thank him.

  They found themselves in a large sand-grimed foyer where a single Weequay guarded the entrance to a dingy cloakroom. His face was typical for his species, oval-eyed and so gnarled it resembled a mask of wrinkled leather. From the back of his head hung a long fan of two dozen seclusion braids, one for each year he had been away from his home planet. He was dressed-absurdly and obvi- ously uncomfortably-in a new shimmersilk cape and undersized tunic purchased, no doubt, for today's event. Though he carried no visible weapons, Leia assumed by the way he kept his back to the wall that he had a large blaster pistol tucked beneath the cape- perhaps two. He was a Weequay, after all.

  "Here for the art inspection?" he asked.

  "That's right." Han pulled up his goggles, and Leia thought she saw a glimmer of alarm as he met the Weequay's eyes. "Killik Twilight?"

  The Weequay shrugged. "Mawbo's got lots of stuff to auction in there." He extended a knobby-fingered ha
nd for their cloaks.

  "Leave your covers here. She don't want sand in the back."

  Leia and Han stuffed their goggles and face coverings into their pockets and passed their cloaks over. With her skin dyed pale blue and a pair of prosthetic lekku squirming down her back, Leia made a reasonably convincing Twi'lek consort to Han's bald, behorned, sinister-looking, and very red Devaronian. Both disguises were cour- tesy of New Republic Intelligence, complete with retina-concealing contact lenses and false prints affixed to the pads of their fingers. So when the Weequay sniffed the cloaks, then grinned and reached out to Han with his free hand, Leia was astounded.

  "Thought I recognized that jet juice you call cologne, Solo," the Weequay said.

  "Jaxal," Han quickly added. "Solo Jaxal, remember?"

  A cold lump began to form in Leia's stomach. Weequays used scent to communicate with members of their own clan, so they were especially good at remembering smells. Obviously, the Solos' disguise designer had not anticipated that Han would meet a Wee- he knew in a Mos Espa "performance hall." Neither had Leia.

  But the Weequay seemed to have no intention of betraying them. He merely nodded and tossed their cloaks on the pile behind him, then said, "Jaxal, that's right. Sorry I forgot."

  "Not a problem," Han said. "Good to see you again, Grunts. I didn't think you'd still be working Tatooine dives."

  Grunts shrugged. "Where am I going? Just 'cause Mawbo frees you don't mean she pays passage home. Got to earn that." He glanced in Leia's direction, clearly waiting for an introduction.

  When it did not come, he added, "I smell you're still with that fur- ball partner of yours. Where is he?"

  "He's around," Han said. Chewbacca and C-3PO were wait- ing at a local inn, in a rented room. "Funny place to hold an art auction."

  Grunts nodded. "Mawbo's doing a favor for the guy who came up with the big painting. He's one of her old lovers."

  "Isn't everybody?"

  "Now that you mention it." Grunts waved a hand toward a weapons locker at the back of the cloakroom. "You're supposed to check your weapons."

  "Already did," Han replied with a straight face. "They're work- ing fine."

  Grunts chuckled, then said, "Just keep them out of sight.

  Mawbo would whip me if she thought I'd missed them, and you know how she enjoys that."

  He turned to open the door, but Leia asked, "What are those stormtroopers doing out there, Grunts?" She suspected she already knew the answer-looking for the crew of the Regina Galas-but Leia wanted to hear what cover story the Imperials were using. "Did Mawbo hire extra security?"

  The Weequay looked vaguely insulted. "They're here with two officers. I made the stormtroopers wait outside."

  Grunts glanced at Han with a look that seemed to suggest he teach his Twi'lek some manners.

  Leia ignored the look and asked, "Officers? What are they doing here?"

  "Same as everybody else, I guess." Grunts pulled the door open. "They want to be sure the stuff is real before the auction starts."

  He waved them into a droning chamber that could be called a performance hall only in the sense that it had a stage-half a dozen stages, in fact. These platforms were scattered across the cavernous space, each one now supporting a small beverage or snack stand that did not seem to be drawing much attention from the rather sparse crowd. Here and there, the much-spilled-upon floor showed circles of cleanliness where the customary tables had been removed to make milling space. In the center of the chamber was a large main stage, and along the walls were dozens of private booths where the sellers were displaying the pieces they would offer at auc- tion that afternoon. Judging by appearances, the few buyers were offworld art lovers attracted by the prospect of owning-or at least viewing-the famous Killik Twilight, while most sellers were local residents chasing a windfall by offering whatever they could find that might be worth something.

  As Leia studied the crowd, she leaned close to Han. "Where do you know Grunts from?"

  "Long story, but he can be trusted."

  "With you, everything's a long story," Leia said. "How about the short version? I need to be persuaded."

  Han sighed and started toward the nearest stage, where a statuesque Codru-Ji female with four arms, pointed ears, and a lissome build was serving drinks. Though she was discreetly dressed in a shimmersilk blouse and mood-color vest-currently scarlet-she looked as uncomfortable in her new clothes as had Grunts, and the smile she flashed as they approached made Leia wonder how well she knew Han's smell. He ordered a pair of cometdusters, then, as the clamorous impassioning machine excited the molecules, leaned close to Leia's ear.

  "I know because I used to own him."

  "What?" Leia was beginning to wonder whether eight years fighting and working at Han's side had really been enough before agreeing to marry him. "You owned a slave? How could you?"

  "I won him from Lady Valarian in a sabacc game," Han said, as though that excused it. "I set him free."

  "After how long?" Leia demanded.

  "As soon as we left the Lucky Despot" Han said defensively. "I wanted to hire him to help with cargo, but he and Chewie took a big dislike to each other. Something about odors. He lost himself to Mawbo trying to win passage home, and you heard the rest."

  The drinks came, and the Codru-Ji accepted payment with a slow wink. Han's answering grin was truly lecherous, though in fairness that may have been due more to his Devaronian disguise than what was going through his mind.

  Leia waited until the Codru-Ji was gone, then asked, "So, when did you own her?"

  "Her?" Han began making his way across the floor toward the back wall, where a couple of dozen buyers were lined up outside a well-guarded booth, waiting to inspect Killik Twilight. "What makes you think I ever owned Celia?"

  Leia knew Han was baiting her. She was doing her best not to ask how he knew Celia's name when she noticed two Imperials near the end of the line. One was dressed in the white utilities of an Imperial technician, but the other wore the gray tunic and rank bar of a full bridge commander. The man was probably a direct subor- dinate to Pellaeon, and his presence told Leia all she needed to know about the Imperial mission on Tatooine. They would not have sent such a high-ranking officer to track down a group of smugglers. They had come for Killik Twilight.

  Leia angled toward the front of the chamber, pulling Han toward a flamboyant display of Tatooine glitterglass. "You saw?"

  "You don't overlook that insignia, not if you were at the Impe- rial Academy," Han whispered. "And those stormtroopers outside are just for show. No one sends a Star Destroyer watch commander into a place like this without plenty of protection."

  They circled a satellite stage where an Elomin female was offer- ing stems connected to a hookah reeking of stale water. Leia said,

  "They know. They must."

  Han did not contradict her.

  "I don't understand how they found out," Leia continued.

  "Only three of us knew, and the other two were on Alderaan when the Death Star destroyed the planet."

  "Your boss knows. Maybe she-"

  "No. If anyone understands the importance of keeping a secret, it's her." Leia paused, then said, "I'm sorry. If I had known this was going to get so complicated-"

  "You'd have come anyway. And so would I. You know I wouldn't let you do something like this without me."

  Leia squeezed his arm, silently thanking him for not belaboring her omission.

  "Still, I wish you'd told me."

  They reached the booth with the glitterglass and pretended to examine several garish panes in a flowing, organic style. A small signscreen claimed they had come from the palace of the famous

  Hutt crime lord, Jabba. The panes were not even close to Jabba's taste, at least what Leia had observed of it before she had used her slave chains to choke him to death; he preferred representational art, the lewder the better.

  A solitary Gran stepped toward the front of the booth, his three eyes gliding over Han's ostentatio
us robe, the mouth at the end of his long muzzle puckering into an eager grin. Leia pulled Han away, and they nearly tripped over the sellers running the next booth, a pair of furry waist-high bipeds with short muzzles and long tufted ears.

  "Hey, Redhorns!" the first one said, taking Han's wrist. "You look like a being who knows quality. Come see the real prize at this junk sale."

  The second grabbed Leia's hand. "This way." It pulled her toward their booth, where a third member of their group stood in front of a one-way mirrfield. "Just two credits. You miss out on this, and you'll be sorry."

  The third member reached into the booth and adjusted the mirrfield opacity, allowing Leia to glimpse a disparate collection of local handicrafts, twisted columns of plasteel, and what looked like the insipid planetscapes usually found in the corridors of tourist- class nebula cruisers.