Star Wars: The Truce at Bakura

by Kathy Tyers

  What was this? A second face appeared. “This follows the arrests of Prime Minister Captison and Senior Senator Orn Belden on suspicion of subversion, along with Rebel ringleader Leia Organa. Imperial leadership demands full cooperation. Ssi-ruuvi invaders could attack at any moment. Any collaboration with outside forces will be punished severely and immediately.”

  Leia, under arrest? Han ignored the rest of the disembodied heads’ messages about shortened business hours and prohibited districts. Obviously the Imperials were worried about causing an uproar.

  But he had an uproar of his own to start. He accelerated to full throttle, muttering, “I’ll get you for this, Nereus.”

  But how? He didn’t even know where Leia was.

  Although filtered through the speeder’s intake, the air smelled smoky. He streaked to a landing on the Bakur complex’s roof port, then took the nearest drop shaft down. As before, two stormtroopers stood guard outside his apartment. Their helmets swiveled as he strode inside past them. They probably didn’t mean to let him back out.

  Threepio stood inside, waiting with infinite mechanical patience. “General Solo,” he exclaimed. “Thank goodness you’ve come. Senator Captison returned me here, but she took Artoo to her office. His restraining bolt—”

  “Not now. Find Leia.”

  “But, General, the Ssi-ruuk are coming for Master Luke—and then attacking—immediately!”

  “We know that. He’ll be all right—” Han skidded to a halt halfway across the common room. “Wait, did you say, ‘attacking’?”

  “Within an hour. We must—”

  “How do you—no. It’ll keep. Where’s Leia?”

  The tall droid straightened. “She left us in Prime Minister Captison’s office, translating—”

  “I know where she left you.” Han paced across the lounge pit, bouncing off repulsor fields all the way. “She and Captison have been arrested. Have you warned Luke about the attack?”

  “I’ve been trying, sir—”

  “I left him at the cantina next to Pad Twelve. Tap into the central computer. Find out where they’ve got Leia—now!”

  “General Solo, Artoo is equipped for direct interfacing. I am not.”

  Han’s cheeks heated. “Then stand there and punch the panels like a human. That’s why they built you like one.”

  Threepio waddled to the main terminal. Han watched over his shoulder for a few moments, but Threepio worked too quickly to follow. Han checked the charge on each of his blasters and examined his vibroknife. He glanced out the window, then peered into Leia’s bedroom. No sign of disarray. She hadn’t been abducted from there.

  “General Solo.” Threepio’s call rang out across the common room.

  “What?” Han rushed the droid. “Did you find her? Did you find Luke?”

  “I left Master Luke a message with cantina staff, but they were quite rude, and I have doubts as to whether it will be delivered. But Mistress Leia—”

  “Which detention area? Where?”

  “It appears that she was flown to a small installation in nearby mountains. Some kind of private retreat, I believe.”

  “Where is it from here? Show me.”

  Threepio brought up a map. Han noted the location—about twenty minutes northwest of town, in a hot speeder. “Okay. Focus close now.” Threepio changed the display. A security fence surrounded one large T-shaped building with a long central hallway and a broad recreation area. Ten woodburning chimneys: Real nostalgia stuff, except for speeder parking near the northeast corner of the fenced grounds. “Yeah,” Han said. “Hunting lodge and party house, I’ll bet. Can you get me inside its security system?”

  Threepio tapped more keys. “I believe I have it.”

  “Shut it down.”

  Threepio posed with one hand touching his chin. “If I may say so, General Solo, shutting it down will put the entire establishment on alert.”

  “All right. Shut down anything that’ll let ’em see me coming from the air. And find out how many guards he’s got out there.”

  “Ten.” Threepio worked more keys. “It looks like rather minimal security. If I may be allowed to speculate, I would guess Governor Nereus is keeping most of his guards around himself for the duration of the crisis.”

  “Smells like another trap.” On the other hand, maybe Nereus simply didn’t want to bring the Alliance down his throat. Maybe he only wanted to space Captison, and he’d just as soon wash Leia off his hands. Off the planet, in fact.

  Or maybe Threepio was correct, and he was just scared. Sometimes it took a coward to spot a coward.

  He drew his blaster and stalked toward the door. “Let’s go, Goldenrod. We’ve got to get past two stormtroopers.”

  “Sir! Take a minute to plan, this once! Minimize your risks!”

  Han hesitated. “Minimize? How?”

  “Instead of blasting your way out, you might attempt a deception of some sort.”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  Threepio’s metal fingertips pinged against his waist. “I do not have the imaginative bent. Your creative faculties might be brought to bear on—”

  “All right, shut up. Let me think about this.”

  He counted his resources. Two blasters, a vibroknife, and Threepio.

  Yeah. Threepio. Assuming they got past the door guards, there was one thing Han really could use: a master coder, to override palmprint, retinal, and voice-ID security circuits. They were as illegal as Lowickan Firegems, and impossible to make on most worlds, because most worlds’ master circuits were encoded against droids. “You’re absolutely right,” he told Threepio. He hustled to the nearest repulsor couch, dug into its control circuit, and levered out its master chip. “Here,” he said. “Wipe that, then imprint it with an Imperial override code off the mainframe.”

  “Sir!” Threepio screeched like a horrified soprano. “They’ll melt us all down if I counterfeit …”

  “Do it,” Han growled. “This place doesn’t have droids, so they won’t have antidroid security. Should be a piece of cake.”

  Still, he stood tapping one foot until Threepio handed over the reimprinted chip. He fingered it. That smooth, six-centimeter strip of plastic and metal would get him into almost anything—including very deep soup, if they caught him with it. He slid it into his shirt pocket.

  “General Solo, shouldn’t we warn the populace about the imminent attack?”

  “You say Senator Captison brought you back here?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “You told her, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Then she’ll take care of it. Trust me.” Han set his blaster for “stun” (only out of respect for Leia’s wishes, he told himself). “Come on. Here’s the next step.”

  Less than a minute later, he sent the glide door open and stood back. Threepio fled into the lobby, screeching gibberish, waving both arms and swaying violently back and forth. Mentally Han counted to three, giving the stormtroopers time to wonder if they ought to shoot him down or hit him with their Owner. Then, he crouched low and crept to the door. He could only see one trooper, but that Imperial’s attention was riveted to the droid. Threepio spun in circles, babbling in yet another language. Han aimed carefully for a weak spot in the body armor, fired, then sprang to the other side of his doorway. The other trooper fired back at a sensible chest level, but the bolt zipped over Han’s head. He dropped the other trooper.

  “Okay, Threepio. Help, and hustle it.” Han seized one guard by the boots and dragged him into the apartment. Threepio grabbed both troopers’ blast rifles while Han maneuvered the second one just inside the door. “Hurry up.” He relieved one trooper of a utility cable and tied the pair together. “It’s a cinch we’re not coming back here,” he muttered. Bakurans or no Bakurans, he pried off Threepio’s restraining bolt. “There. It’s time to split up. I’ll get Leia. You make sure Luke got that message.”

  “But, sir—how will I get there? Even on Alliance worlds
, droids aren’t allowed to pilot speeders unaccompanied.”

  Han thought that over. Should he drop Threepio at the Falcon? Ask Chewie to abandon ship and come get him? Too much time. Too dangerous.

  Hah. “Okay, Sunshine, you’re about to play hero.” He untied one still-stunned trooper and yanked off his helmet. “Help me with the rest of this stuff.”

  Threepio shuffled closer. “Now, what—Oh, no. Sir, please don’t order me to—”

  “They won’t shoot at you wearing this. I want you back at the Falcon.”

  Soon Threepio stood arrayed in full stormtrooper gear, and his bewildered voice filtered through a lumpy white helmet. “But, sir, where am I to find a speeder?”

  “Follow me. And set that blast rifle just under ‘stun.’ You’re gonna be shooting at me.”

  “One more thing?” Threepio pleaded. “Please let me have your comlink. I must contact Master Luke.”

  Han tossed it. Threepio caught it. Then Han nodded. “Go,” he commanded.

  He dashed up the hall toward the nearest lift shaft. A backward glance showed Threepio struggling to keep up, firing stun bursts as he came. Han gave the droid time to close up, then sprang into the lift shaft.

  After he emerged on the rooftop, things moved faster. Smoke roiled up over one edge. The Bakurans were really riled about those arrests. Several harried-looking people, walking toward the nearest drop shaft, scattered as he leaped into an open speeder. He waved the code chip over its owner-recognition panel, and its engine came to life. Meanwhile, the clumsiest Imperial stormtrooper ever seen shuffled out of the lift shaft, firing his blast rifle at anything and missing everything. Bakurans dove and flattened.

  Han waited until Threepio levered himself into another speeder, then he took off headed north, glancing back only once to make sure Threepio didn’t crash on takeoff. Then he concentrated dead ahead, squinting while the wind whipped his hair.

  The cantina adjoining Pad 12 smelled like smoke and old grease. Everything inside looked cheap, from stippled black floor to ceiling panels. Several of those flickered as if their power supplies were giving out. No automation, nothing even remotely modern. Tour hawkers would no doubt call it “quaint.”

  Luke glanced down at an open commnet hookup that lay at a central table, then toward a corner table that hunkered behind a tottering divider. A hefty service-crew type sat back there, hunched over a more private commnet terminal. Luke had spotted only these two terminals in the building, and the outdoor comm booth, while it had visual capabilities, wouldn’t access an uplink to orbit.

  So he’d rather use the semiprivate hookup than sit out in the open at a greasy orange tabletop, even if that meant waiting a few minutes. He was stuck until the shuttle to orbit arrived, anyway. He wanted to check in with Wedge, and find out how the defense web was holding—and why his shuttle was overdue. More of Nereus’s maneuvering? He glanced out the cantina’s west window. The Falcon was only a quarter kilometer away, but he couldn’t see it for gantries and other parked ships.

  Something scraped the grubby floor behind him—not one of Bakura’s ubiquitous repulsor chairs, but a plain, cheap, metal-and-cushion affair. Luke turned around. The corner table stood empty.

  Luke sat down facing out into the room, pecked in his clearance code, and requested contact with Wedge Antilles: vocal/keyboard interface, if possible.

  Black letters appeared beneath the ones he’d punched in.

  Capt. Antilles unavailable, sir. This is Lieutenant Riemann. May I help?

  Luke recognized the name, a young artist of interplanetary stature who’d been forced by the Empire first into hiding and then into fighting back. “What’s the status of the defensive net?” he asked softly. “Have you monitored anything unusual during the last few hours?” This would’ve been so much more convenient with Artoo to relay. He wondered if the droids had finished translating for Prime Minister Captison.

  His answer appeared.

  The net’s still holding, everyone’s in his assigned orbit. We’ve monitored a lot of chatter on the Flutie bands in the last hour, but those close-in gunships and that cruiser haven’t shifted.

  Something was afoot, even if the Ssi-ruuk weren’t moving yet. He asked about that next shuttle up to orbit.

  On its way down, sir. Should land in about 30 minutes.

  Luke thanked the lieutenant and signed off.

  What could he accomplish in thirty minutes—here? At the back of his mind he heard Ben Kenobi telling Master Yoda, “He will learn patience.” Determined to prove Ben correct, he made himself calm down. Soon he’d be back aboard the Flurry, and once Han located Leia and picked up the droids, they’d join Chewbacca on the Falcon. He pushed away from the corner table.

  As he was about to pass a booth clustered with strangers, his comlink squeaked in his breast pocket. He spun around and headed back to the comer, where he pulled out the comlink. “What is it, Han?” he asked quietly.

  “Master Luke,” Threepio’s voice exclaimed, “I’m so glad that I reached you. Mistress Leia has been arrested. General Solo has gone to rescue her—”

  Luke slumped behind the booth divider and kept his voice low. By interrupting and repeating hasty questions, he found out where Han had headed. “And sir,” Threepio added, “the Ssi-ruuk mean to attack within less than an hour. You must hurry. Notify Chewbacca that I’m on my way to the Falcon, but I’m disguised as a stormtrooper. He mustn’t shoot me.”

  Less than an hour? With his shuttle overdue? “Where’s Artoo?”

  “Senator Captison took him, sir. We’ll have to return later for him. Sir, if you think I could be more useful here on the ground during the next few hours, instead of in space—”

  “Head for the Falcon. We’ll talk later.” Luke stuffed the comlink into his pocket, then reached for the commnet board. Should he send Chewie with the Falcon up into the hills to help Han? No, sometimes Han moved faster than anyone expected. They might miss him on their way back.

  But sometimes Han blundered into situations that were too complicated to handle with a blaster. Luke bit his lip. He had to help Han and Leia, but he had to alert the Flurry—to get aboard—before the aliens attacked. That was his responsibility, as commander.

  Abruptly he straightened in the shabby seat. Command? Wait a minute!

  He reopened the line to Lieutenant Riemann.

  For a city under curfew, Salis D’aar looked good and lively to Han. Small groups dashed from building to building, avoiding platoons of stormtroopers. A double-podded security craft swooped toward him. He dove out of the traffic lane, into a canyon between tall buildings and groundcar ramps. His pursuer followed, firing erratically. Han braked, swooped into a narrow alley, then jinked an Immelmann up-and-over back out into the canyon. Security sped into the alley, passing beneath him. Han didn’t see him fly back out.

  As soon as he regained his bearings, he streaked out of the city and dropped low over the western river. Keeping low enough to catch fish, and spitting distance from the huge white cliff on his right—hoping to evade surveillance—he waited until the foothills looked tall enough to offer some cover. Then he zipped across the river and up a small tributary stream.

  Once he located the right valley, it didn’t take him long to spot his target, an ancient T-shaped log building with a dark green stone roof, huddled inside a rock wall. Planning two minutes ahead—Threepio would be proud—he unlatched safety restraints and loosed his feet on the control surfaces, getting ready to go overboard. Nobody fired as he approached. He decelerated low over dark treetops. The instant that he judged he’d shed enough speed, he passed the outwall. He jumped for a clump of low bushes. The speeder exploded with a resounding boom and a roil of flaming smoke against the grounds’ opposite wall. By the time four naval troopers converged on it, Han was slinking through a temporarily unguarded door that hung from huge black hinges.

  Only one door stood closed on the main hallway, with a skinny security droid sitting beside it like an extra door
post. Obviously, the Imperials didn’t bother to humor Bakuran antidroid sentiments here at their private installation. Han leveled his blaster at the droid’s midsection and fired once. Blue lightning whipped around it and sparked off four rodlike appendages at the top. Han slunk closer. It spluttered and smoked.

  Minimum security, he observed, waving his chip key at the lock panel. A little too convenient. If this was another trap …

  They’d deal with it. Threepio ought to be back at the Falcon by now. He wished he had his comlink, but stray electronic signals would’ve brought down every trooper on the grounds.

  “Leia?” he called softly into the darkened suite. “It’s me.”

  Lights came on. “Hey,” said her voice high above him. She stood perched on the seat of a repulsor chair directly over the doorway. “Good thing you spoke up. I almost flattened you.” She landed the repulsor chair at the foot of an old-fashioned, nonrepulsor bed. He’d never seen a repulsor chair do that before. She must’ve somehow reprogrammed its circuitry.

  “Have they hurt you?” He muscled the burned-out droid inside before he slid the door shut. If nobody saw it, maybe they wouldn’t notice it was damaged.

  “Not really. As I understand it, Governor Nereus meant to make me a present to the next emperor. He has insisted that I will enjoy his hospitality. Lunch was delicious. I’ve even got a fireplace.” She swept one arm around the rustic bedroom. Rough, pale wood covered its walls and ceiling.

  “So you’re just the guest who’s not allowed to leave?”

  “I won’t be here long. Let’s get out of here.” She balled her fists on her hips. “You, ah, found your way in. I don’t suppose you’ve thought of a way of getting back out.”

  “Not yet.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Not again.”

  “Look, sweetheart,” he said thoughtfully, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “I jimmied the black box of a speeder and crashed it into their wall. As far as they can tell, I bailed out a long way back. Let’s lie low for an hour, let them check it out and look the grounds over—”