by James Luceno
“Direct hit.”
“Fire,” Graff repeated.
Again, torpedoes and coherent light streamed from the ship and explosions wreathed the enemy ship, vying with the stars for brilliance.
“Cease fire.” Graff glanced at his executive officer. “Let’s hope that softened things up. Commander, tell Gauntlet to begin their run.”
The XO relayed the order over the command net. On the bridge’s main display screen, magnified views showed T-65A3 X-wings and E2 B-wings commencing attack runs against the lapidary ship. Bursts of scarlet laser-fire spewed from the snubfighters’ wingtip cannons, and proton torpedoes loosed by the B-wings blazed radiant pink trails through space. But the enemy ship merely consumed the energy and answered the attack with geysers of molten rock. Resembling shards of mirrored glass, individual hull facets flared to life, then winked out, becoming black as the ship’s background.
“Soothfast, this thing’s going after our shields,” Gauntlet One reported a moment later.
“Gauntlet One, order your fighters to expand the field of the inertia! compensators and switch over to new scan and targeting protocols. And keep an eye out for coralskippers.”
“Already done, Soothfast. But shields can’t be expanded enough to compensate for the warship’s drawing power.”
“Shields down,” another voice said. “Breaking off.”
“Stay with your wingmates,” Gauntlet One shouted. “Keep your lasers quadded up on rapid cycle.”
“Compensator is in failure. Aborting attack run.”
“Watch your tail, Gauntlet Eight!”
“Captain, energy massing in the Yuuzhan Vong vessel.”
Graff swiveled to his XO. “Instruct Gauntlet to abort.”
“Enemy vessel is firing.”
On the main screen, real-time holo showed three starfighters vanish in fleeting explosions. A sense of urgency punctuated Gauntlet One’s words over the net.
“We’re taking casualties—Two, Four, and Five. Still can’t get a fix on dovin basal or weapons emplacements.”
“What’s he talking about?” Graff asked brusquely.
The Twi’lek enlisted-rating flipped his head-tails over his shoulders and studied console displays. “Battle analysis computer is working on it, sir. Enemy weapons and singularity projectors appear to be mobile. Sir, it’s like the entire hull is capable of delivering fire and creating gravitic anomalies.”
“Captain, module has drawn another bead on us.”
No sooner had the words left the comm officer’s mouth than the cruiser was jarred by a powerful strike. Bridge illumination diminished, then brightened, and blue electricity danced over one of the consoles. Vibrated free of its magnetic hold on the bulkhead, the R-series droid tipped forward to the deck. Fans clicked on, exhausting smoke from the area.
“Damage assessment coming in from forward technical station. Number-two power generator is down. Deflector shields are marginal.”
“Order Gauntlet to regroup and pull back,” Graff said quickly. “Alert crash and recovery crews to make ready. Fire control: stand by to coordinate forward turbolasers and ion cannons. I want a sustained burst to rake that ship pole to pole.” A glance at the display screen showed him what remained of Gauntlet squadron fleeing for their lives. “Fire!”
Once more, energy streaked from the ship, but no telltale flashes followed.
Graff studied the display screen. “Did we miss?” he asked in disbelief.
“Negative, sir. Enemy vessel appears to have absorbed the energy.”
“All guns,” Graff said. “Fire!”
Light painted local space with such intensity that everyone on the bridge had to turn from the viewports. It was as if the Soothfast had been clipped on the jaw by a heavy fist and was seeing stars.
“Enemy ship is altering course, taking evasive action.”
“All guns, fire!” Graff barked.
“Multiple direct hits. Evidence of debris. Enemy is altering course again, speed is diminishing.”
Graff twisted to the navigator. “Maintain pursuit. Stay on it!”
Then, without warning, an enormous explosion erupted in the distance, saturating the display screens with white light. When Graff could, he stared out the viewport, but could see no sign of the Yuuzhan Vong ship.
“Where did it go? Did it jump?”
“Negative, sir,” the enlisted-rating told him. “Debris is consistent with an all-out kill.”
A spontaneous cheer rose from the bridge crew.
“Quiet!” Graff shouted. “Did we just get lucky, or did we discover a weak spot?”
“Unknown, sir, but the vessel is completely destroyed. We must have overwhelmed it. The ship that generated the module is bearing away from Durren Orbital Station, all speed.”
Graff removed his hat and scratched his head. “I don’t get it.”
“Captain, Gauntlet leader reports that the destroyed vessel jettisoned an escape pod. The pod should come into visual range any moment.”
Graff turned to the display screen. “Full magnification.”
The navigator pointed to a fast-moving glimmer of light. “There it is, sir.”
Graff saw what looked like a cylindrical asteroid, far from home, a small portion of its aft surface faceted. “What’s its course?”
“Bearing for Exodo II.”
“Wouldn’t be my first choice,” Graff remarked.
“Present heading will bring it just in range of number-two tractor beam.”
Graff glanced at his XO.
“Could be a trap, sir. Some kind of sleeper bomb.”
Graff nodded grimly. “Engage the tractor beam, but only to hold that thing at bay. Commander, alert Gauntlet. Tell them to scan for any evidence of weapons, but to keep their distance. Even if it turns out to be harmless, I don’t want it anywhere near this ship. And patch me through to fleet office.”
A new voice crackled from the annunciator.
“Soothfast, this is Gauntlet Three. It’s definitely an escape pod, probably yorik coral. Negative for armaments, but registering life readings. No bigger than a landspeeder. Rudimentary dovin basal retros and attitude control. Faceted but transparent canopy. Like a sheet of mica. Request permission to investigate at close range.”
Graff mulled it over for a moment, then said, “Gauntlet Three, you are green to investigate. But stay sharp.”
“Affirmative, Soothfast, staying sharp.”
No one spoke for a long moment. Then the speaker crackled back to life.
“Soothfast, I got a peek at the interior. Looks to be two, repeat, two occupants. One appears to be female. The other. . . Well, sir, the other is anyone’s guess.”
SEVEN
On Coruscant, Han stepped apprehensively into Eastport’s Docking Bay 3733 and palmed the wall-mounted illuminator bar. A glow ring concentric to the interior rim of the docking bay’s iris dome powered up, washing the Millennium Falcon in harsh light. Umbilicaled to sundry diagnostic and monitoring devices, the ship looked as if it were a patient on life support. The glow ring hummed loudly, and the air smelled faintly of ozone. The floor was a canvas of lubricant spills, scorch marks, and paint overspray.
Bay 3733 was leased to one Vyyk Drago, but in spite of Han’s attempts to keep a low profile, almost everyone in Coruscant’s administrative district knew that the Falcon was berthed there. In setting the ship down a week earlier, Jaina had bull’s-eyed the permacrete’s faded red landing circle. After what had happened on Kashyyyk, it had taken Han that long to marshal the nerve to visit. Three days aboard a dilapidated freighter hadn’t helped any.
Approaching the Falcon head-on, her boxy mandibles aimed at him, he recalled his first glimpse of the ship on the Hutt world of Nar Shaddaa almost thirty years earlier. She had then been the property of Lando, who had won her—so the story went—in a sabacc game in Bespin’s Cloud City. Though he had seen countless Corellian YT-1300s, it was love at first sight for Han, for there was something singular abou
t the Falcon, Aside from promising amazing speed and maneuverability, the ship was built for adventure and proud of its obviously checkered past. Han had resolved that she would be his, one way or another.
Ironically, the chance came in Cloud City, during a four-day-long elimination-round sabacc tournament that ultimately found Lando and Han pitted against each other, with Han holding a pure sabacc hand to Lando’s bluff of a winning idiot’s array. Short on credits Lando had offered a marker—good for any ship on his lot—which Han had eagerly accepted. Dismayed by Han’s win, Lando had tried to maneuver him into selecting a newer-model light stock YT-2400, but Han had chosen the Falcon.
He still savored memories of his first moments in the pilot’s seat, awed by the power of her sublight engines and the response of her military-grade hyperdrive. She had speed, all right, but she needed muscle and stealth. So had begun a process of retrofitting and upgrading that would continue for twenty years. To Han the Falcon was a work in progress, a work of art, never to be completed. Throughout those years he had protected her with his life, worrying about her as only a parent would, missing her as only a spouse could. There was the time Egome Pass and J’uoch had made off with her on Dellah; the time the Falcon had clung to the aft command tower of the Star Destroyer Avenger; the time Lando and Nien Nunb had flown her against the second Death Star. . .
Mara’s tasking her cherished Jade’s Fire to crash into a fortress on Nirauan some years back was a decision he would never understand.
Circling the ship now, Han could still identify signs of some of the modifications he and others had made. At Shug Ninx’s spacebarn in the Corellian section of Nar Shaddaa, Han and Chewie had installed a military-grade rectenna, a ventral quad laser cannon, and concussion missile launchers between the mandibles. Shug had macrofused to the hull just aft of the starboard docking arm a small sheet of armor plating from the Star Destroyer Liquidator.
Thanks to a group of outlaw techs who operated in the Corporate Sector, the Falcon was soon sporting augmented defensive shields, heavy-duty acceleration compensators, oversize thruster ports, and a late-model sensor suite, as well. Back then, the ship had had the distinction of violating the Corporate Sector Authority’s performance-profile Waivers List in more ways than any ship of its class.
While the Falcon was on Kashyyyk during the Yevethan crisis, Jowdrrl had retrofit a quartet of transparent optical transducer panels to enhance port and aft visibility. Chewie’s cousin had also designed the cockpit’s auto-tracking fire controllers for the gun turrets.
More recently, as hostilities with remnant Imperial factions had begun to wane—and through no fault of Han’s—the Falcon had slowly become a kinder, gentler ship. Routine maintenance at the hands of a well-meaning but bumbling shipyard boss on Coruscant had resulted in a near restoration. Cables had been tagged and bundled, mechanicals shock-mounted, electricals grounded and pulse-shielded. A Sienar Systems augmenter had been added to the drive matrix, a Mark 7 generator to the tractor beam array, a Series 401 motivator to the hyperdrive. Sensor lenses had been replaced, dings hammered out, holds recarpeted. . . Han had nearly gone berserk.
He liked that the ship wore all the bumps and bruises that had shaped her, much as he might have worn, had it not been for bacta treatments and synthflesh. He sometimes wondered what he might look like if he’d let all the wounds scar like the one on his chin, the result of a knife slash received in another lifetime.
The ultimate damage to the Falcon had been done a mere six months ago, however, with Chewie’s death. What she lacked now, and what was likely to keep her grounded for an indeterminate time, no modification could offset.
Overcome by sudden grief, Han stood motionless below the starboard hexagonal docking ring, lost in time. The Falcon was so laden with memories, such a chronicle of his and Chewie’s adventures and misadventures, that he could scarcely bring himself to look at her, much less board her. But after a moment he entered an authorization code into a handheld remote, and the ship’s ramp lowered toward him, as if daring him to enter.
When he did so, he was like a man relearning to walk.
The ramp led directly to the ship’s circular ring corridor. Han stopped at the intersection and ran his hand over the corridor’s now unblemished padding. In the past five years, the Falcon had become such a spiffy ship. The floor grating had been replated, the interior lights worked, and there was always food in the galley and something fragrant in the air. Once utilized to conceal loads of spice or personnel, the shielded smuggling compartments just forward of the passageway to the ladder well had of late housed luggage for family outings, or pieces of folk art Leia had purchased for their home on Coruscant.
Han moved past the outrigger cockpit connector and deeper into the ship. A year back, thinking vaguely about returning the Falcon to stock, he had made a start on stripping her of many of the add-ons. The YT-1300 was a classic, after all, nearly as valuable a collector’s item as the J-type 327 Nubian. And for all her rattles, squeaks, and carbon-scoring, she was in fine shape—not to mention of considerable historical interest.
One of the first things to go had been the concussion missile launchers in the jaws, which had always interfered with the operation of the cargo-loading mandibles. But that, of course, was before the Yuuzhan Vong had appeared out of nowhere to present the galaxy with a terrible new threat. Who could say how many besides Chewie would have died in the Outer Rim had he removed the quad lasers.
Han stepped down into the main forward hold and sat dejectedly in the engineering console’s swivel chair. Flashy new carpeting covered both the smooth metal deck plates and portside grating—another accommodation to family travel. It was from here that he had watched Luke practice lightsaber technique against a stinging remote. He swiveled to face the dejarik hologame board, at which Chewie had spent countless hours, and around which—only a few years earlier—Leia, Admiral Pellaeon, and the late Elegos A’Kla had sat talking about peace.
Han drew his hand down his face, as if to erase the memories that came to mind unbidden, then he pushed himself up, crossed the hold, and stepped up into the circuitry/maintenance bay. Here, he and Leia had shared their first kiss, only to be rudely interrupted by C-3PO, announcing that he had located the reverse power flux coupling or some blasted thing.
A million years ago, Han told himself.
Worming his way aft, he emerged from the bay into the portside ring corridor, opposite the bunk room where Luke had recuperated after losing his hand to his father’s lightsaber.
The corridor passed under the power core ducting and exhaust vents into the main rear hold, which had seen more alterations than any other portion of the ship. Reduced in size to accommodate the hyperdrive, the hold had been partitioned in any number of arrangements. A would-be slaver named Zlarb had come to a grim end back here.
The location of the escape pods hadn’t changed since the Corporate Sector days, but the original capsule-shaped pods—entered by way of hinged grates—had been replaced by spherical ones equipped with snazzy iris hatches.
Entering the starboard aft corridor and moving forward, Han passed the bunk room he’d often used as his personal quarters, and within which he had nearly had a showdown with Gallandro, then the galaxy’s fastest gun.
Dead now, like so many others from the glory days.
Han spread his arms in a hatchway in the interior wall and leaned into the galley. Laughing to himself, he recalled preparing pudding in cora shells and spiced aric tongue for Leia, when he’d spirited her off to Dathomir during his very wrongheaded courtship of her.
A few more steps brought him full circle to the docking arm. But instead of exiting, Han continued on to the cockpit pod and reluctantly entered. Stepping between the pair of rear chairs, he leaned stiff-armed on the console and gazed through the fan-shaped viewport at the spare-parts shelves he and Chewie had erected on the docking bay wall only the year before.
Ultimately he dropped himself into the outsize copilot’s se
at and sat for a long while with his eyes closed and his thoughts shut down.
A month earlier, Chewie had still seemed so alive to him that he could almost hear the sound of the Wookiee’s angry yaups or happy foghorn laughs reverberating in the docking bay. Sitting in the pilot’s-seat, Han would glance to his right, and there Chewie would be, regarding him sardonically with arms folded across his chest or paws linked behind his head.
Chewie wasn’t the only alien he’d flown with—there’d been the Togorian Muuurgh in the Ylesia years—but the Wookiee had been his only real partner, and he couldn’t imagine piloting the Falcon with anyone else. So he could either mothball her, as he had his BlasTech side-arm, or donate her to the Alliance War Museum on Coruscant, as persistent curators had been urging him to do for fifteen years.
A museum was probably where he belonged, as well, Han told himself. Like the Falcon, he was part of the past and of little use to anyone now.
He sighed heavily. Life was like a game of sabacc: the cards could change at random, and what you were sure was a winning hand could end up losing you the pot.
Instinctively, he reached under the control console for the metallic flask of vacuum-distilled jet juice he and Chewie had often kept secreted there, but it was gone—placed elsewhere by one of the kids or swiped by some disreputable mechanic.
His minor disappointment quickly turned to bitter anger, and he slammed the edge of his right fist repeatedly on the console until his hand went numb. Then he lowered his head to his folded arms and let his tears flow.
“Ah, Chewie,” he said out loud.
Han was on his way to Eastport’s transport center when a voice behind him yelled, “Slick!”
Without slowing his pace, he glanced over his shoulder, then came to a dead stop on the beltway and spun around, grinning ear to ear. “Now that’s a name I haven’t heard in a long time,” he said to the stocky, gray-haired human who was hurrying to catch up with him.
The man grasped Han’s proffered hand and tugged him into a backslapping embrace. When they separated, Han was still smiling broadly.