Han shrugged.
“Well, he seemed nice enough,” Leia answered. “I guess. I plan to invite him to stay here on the ship while we go to the Roche system.”
“You what?”
“I’m going to invite him to stay here on the ship.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s only going to be here for a few weeks, then he’ll leave and I’ll never see him again. That’s why.”
Han began shaking his head. “I hope you didn’t fall for that line about how he fell in love with you from a distance,” he said a little loudly, “and how he begged his mother for the chance to marry you.”
“Does that bother you?”
“Of course it bothers me!” Han shouted. “Why shouldn’t it bother me?” His gaze turned inward, and he clenched his fist. “I’ll tell you, as soon as I saw that guy, I knew he was trouble. There’s something seriously wrong with him”—he glanced up, as if suddenly remembering that Leia was in the room—“Your Majesty. That guy is, uh—I don’t know—slime.”
“Slime?” Leia exclaimed. “You’re calling the prince of Hapes slime? Come off it, Han, you’re just jealous!”
“You’re right! Maybe I am jealous!” Han admitted. “But that doesn’t change my feelings. Something is wrong here. I can’t shake this feeling that something’s wrong.” Again he took on that same inward look. “Believe me, Your Highness. I’ve lived in the gutter most of my life. I’m slime. Most of my friends are slime. And when you’ve been among slime as long as I have, you learn to spot it at a distance!”
Leia didn’t understand how Han could say such things. First to insult her by saying that he found it suspicious that another man might find her attractive, then to call the man a slime—all of it ran against her most deeply ingrained beliefs about how people should act toward one another.
“I think,” Leia said, shaking with anger, “that maybe you ought to take your stupid plant and give it to the prince with your apologies! You know, someday your slow wit and quick tongue are really going to get you in trouble!”
“Ah, you’ve been listening to Threkin Horm too much! It’s obvious he’s trying to get you two cozy. Did you know that your precious prince offered to give me a new battle cruiser if I promised to fly away and leave you two alone? I tell you, the guy is slime!”
Leia glared at Han, stuck a finger in his face. “Maybe—just maybe—you should accept his offer while you can still get something out of this deal!”
Han stepped back a pace, wrinkled brow showing his frustration at the way the conversation was going. “Hey, look, Leia,” Han apologized. “I … I don’t know what’s going on here. I’m not trying to be difficult. I know Isolder seems like a nice guy, but … last night in the galley I listened to people talk. Everyone is talking. As far as they’re concerned, they’ve got you two married already. And I’m here trying to hold on to you, and the harder I hold, the more you slip through my fingers.”
Leia considered what to say. Han was trying to apologize, but he didn’t seem to realize that at this moment, she found his whole manner offensive. “Look, I don’t know why people would even begin to think that I’d marry the prince. I certainly haven’t given anyone that impression. So don’t listen to them. Listen to me. I love you for what you are—remember? A rebel, a scoundrel, a braggart. That won’t ever change. But I think I need some time to myself for a few days. All right?”
In the silence that followed, communicator tones sounded. Leia went to the little holo unit in the corner, flipped the switch.
“Yes?”
A small image of Threkin Horm expanded in the air in front of her. The old ambassador was resting his enormous weight on a daybed. Folds of fat nearly concealed his pale blue eyes. “Princess,” Threkin said jovially, “we are convening a special session of the Alderaanian Council tomorrow. I’ve already taken the liberty of calling the usual celebrities.”
“A special session of the council?” Leia asked. “But why? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong!” Threkin said. “Everyone has heard the good news of the Hapan’s proposal. Since the marriage of Alderaan’s princess into one of the wealthiest families in the galaxy will affect all of us refugees, we thought it best to convene the council so that we could discuss the details of your impending marriage.”
“Thank you,” Leia said angrily, “I’ll be sure to attend.” She punched the off button with disdain. Han gave her a knowing look, turned, and stormed from the room.
In the sterile white corridors of the Rebel Dream, Han leaned against a wall and considered his options. His attempt at an apology had failed miserably, and Leia was probably right about Isolder. He seemed like a nice enough guy, and Han’s concerns were probably bred out of jealousy.
Yet Han had seen the yearning in Leia’s eyes as she spoke of the peaceful worlds of Hapes. And Isolder was right. Even if Han won Leia’s hand, what could he really give her? Certainly not the kind of wealth the Hapans offered. If Han convinced Leia to marry him, Alderaan’s refugees would only lose in the end, and Threkin Horm stood at Leia’s shoulder, reminding her of that fact every step of the way. Leia was endlessly loyal to her people.
Han chuckled to himself. I think I just need some time to myself for a few days, Leia had said. He’d heard that line before. It’s the one that is always followed a few days later by, “Have a nice life.”
Han could see only one way to match Isolder’s wealth. Yet his heart hammered and his mouth went dry at the thought. He pulled a handheld communicator from his belt and thumbed a number, contacting an old acquaintance. The image of a huge, rubbery brown Hutt appeared on screen, looking out at Han with dark, drugged eyes.
“Dalla, you old thief,” Han said with false enthusiasm. “I need your help. I’d like to take out a loan on the Millennium Falcon, and I want you to get me into a card game tonight. A big one.”
Captain Astarta, the prince’s personal guard, woke Isolder in his room. She was a woman of rare beauty, with long, dark red hair and eyes as dark blue as the skies of her planet Terephon. “Flarett a rellaren?” (“Was dinner spiced well?”) she asked almost casually. As Isolder lay in bed, he watched her eyes scan the room more thoroughly than normal, her scrutiny moving from dresser to bed to closets. Her movements were fluid, catlike.
“Dinner was spiced well,” Isolder answered. “I found the princess to be charming, good company. What is wrong?”
“We picked up a coded message just an hour ago. It was beamed to all the ships in our fleet. We suspect it was an assassination order.”
“The signal came from Hapes?”
“No. It was beamed up to our fleet from Coruscant.”
“Who was to be assassinated?”
“The order did not name the target, or the time or place,” Captain Astarta answered. “The complete message reads, ‘The temptress seems too interested. Take action.’ I know it’s cryptic, but to me at least the meaning is clear.”
“Did you notify New Republic Security that Leia is in jeopardy?”
Astarta hesitated. “I’m not convinced that Princess Leia is the target.”
Isolder did not say anything. If he died, the royal line would fall to his aunt Secciah’s daughter. Someone had also killed Isolder’s betrothed once before, Lady Elliar. They had found her drowned in a reflecting pool. Isolder could not prove his beliefs, but he was sure that his aunt Secciah was behind the killing, just as he was sure that his aunt had hired the pirates who had assassinated his older brother after sacking the royal flagship. The pirates would have known that the Chume’da was worth a great deal to his mother, yet they had killed the boy without seeking a ransom. Isolder asked, “So you think I am to be the target this time?”
“I think so, my lord,” Astarta answered. “Your aunt could blame it on the outsiders—on factions within the New Republic, on some warlord who feared the marriage union, even on General Solo.”
Isolder sat up in bed, closed his eyes, thinking. His aunts and his mo
ther—all were vicious women, cunning and deceitful. He had hoped that by marrying outside the Hapes royal line he would find someone like Leia, someone untainted by the avarice that plagued the women of his family. It hurt him to think that someone had managed to plant assassins in his own fleet.
“You will notify New Republic Security of the threat. If my aunt has managed to plant an assassin on this ship, perhaps they can help uncover her identity. Beyond that, you will assign half of my personal guard to protect Leia.”
“And who will protect you?” Astarta asked. Isolder could see the sense of betrayal in her eyes. She loved him, could not neglect him. He had always known that. It was what made her so good at her job. Perhaps Astarta even hoped a little that Leia would die. Yet Isolder knew that Captain Astarta would follow his orders. Above all, Astarta was an excellent soldier.
He pulled a blaster from under the covers of his bed, saw the flicker of surprise in Astarta’s eyes at having missed the presence of a gun pointed at her chest. “As always,” Isolder said, “I will watch my own back.”
Chapter
5
That evening Han found himself in a seamy dive in Coruscant’s underworld—a casino that literally had not seen sunlight in more than ninety thousand years because layer upon layer of buildings and streets had been constructed over it, until the casino became wedged like a fossil in its layer of sediment. The moist air down here smelled of decay, yet for many races in the galaxy, those bred for life beneath ground, the underworld provided a habitat that they could thrive in. Deep within the gloomy shadows of the casino, Han could make out many pairs of large eyes, furtively watching.
Han had asked to get into a high-stakes card game and had worked his way up through three lesser games, but he had never been prepared for anything like this. To his left sat a Columi counselor in an antigrav harness, with a head so large that the blue, throbbing, wormlike veins around his cerebrum were far longer than his scrawny, useless legs. The Columi’s vast intellect had made him one of the most feared gambling opponents in the galaxy. Across from Han sat Omogg, a Drackmarian warlord known for her incredible wealth. Her pale blue scales were polished to a high gloss, and green clouds of methane inside her helmet hid her vicious teeth and snout. To his left sat the ambassador from Gotal that Han had seen the day before, a gray-skinned, gray-bearded creature who played with his eyes closed, relying on the two huge sensory horns atop his head to probe the other players’ emotions, hoping to read their minds.
Han had never played sabacc among such company. In fact, Han had not played sabacc in years, and now sweat poured down his body, moistening his uniform. They played a variation on the game that hailed back millennia, a variation called Force sabacc. In normal sabacc, a randomizer built into the table periodically altered the values of cards, giving the game an intensity and excitement that had kept it alive for generations. But under the rules of Force sabacc, no randomizer was used. Instead, the randomness of the game was provided by the other players. After drawing the first card for a hand, each player had to call out if his or her hand would be light or dark. The player who played the strongest light or dark hand would win, but only if the combined strength of his or her chosen side won. For example, if Han chose to play a dark hand while all others played light, he would surely lose. Han stared at his cards, mixed cards—the two of sabers, the Evil One, and the Idiot. Altogether, a weak hand in the dark suit, and he didn’t think it would be good enough. Han had won the last several pots by playing cards from the light arcana. Perhaps it was just superstition, but he felt that it wasn’t a good time to be switching to the dark suit. Still, Han could only take the cards he had been dealt.
“I will call your bet,” the Gotal whispered to Han, not opening his red-rimmed eyes, “and I’ll raise you forty million credits.”
Behind Han, Chewbacca whined, and Threepio bent close and whispered in Han’s ear, “May I remind you, sir, that the odds are sixty-five thousand five hundred and thirty-six to one against anyone winning eight hands in a row?”
He didn’t have to say it aloud, but Han finished for him: And they are significantly less when the hand looks like this. “I’ll call,” Han said, pushing forward the deed to the mineral rights of a dead star system whose name only the Columi could pronounce. “And I’ll raise you eighty million.” He pushed over a stock chip that held a large percentage interest in the spice mines of Kessel. Han’s nervousness must have overwhelmed the Gotal, for the ambassador suddenly shielded his left sensory horn with his hand.
The others saw how the Gotal registered Han’s sheer desperation and eagerly called the bet. “Would anyone like to call the game now?” Han asked. He hoped they would wait until another round had been dealt.
“I’ll call the game,” the Gotal said. Each player laid his cards on the table. The Gotal was playing a dark suit, but for the moment his was weaker than Han’s. The two others were playing light suits and could potentially beat Han. They waited for the dealer droid, which was bolted to the ceiling above the table, to give each of them a last card.
Overhead, gears squeaked as the arms of the ancient dealer rotated to place one in front of the Columi. The Columi touched it. The heat from his body activated the microcircuits in the card so that it displayed its picture and Han’s heart nearly stopped: The commander of coins, the commander of flasks, and the queen of air and darkness. At twenty-two points it was nearly an unbeatable hand. Han only hoped that the combined strength of the dark hands might outweigh it.
The dealer dealt the final card to the Drackmarian. A picture of a Jedi Knight blossomed under her touch—Moderation, upside down. The fact that Moderation had been dealt upside down reversed the Drackmarian’s light hand, twisted it so that power was added to the dark hands of Han and the Gotal. Han’s heart leaped. This could turn it, this could turn the whole game. But under the rules, the Drackmarian could choose to discard one card. She pushed the upside-down Moderation card away, keeping her light hand at only sixteen points.
The mechanical arms shifted over to the Gotal, dropping a seven of staves onto his deck. It was a minor card, but it served to strengthen the dark hand. The Gotal held the queen of air and darkness, Balance, and Demise. He came in at negative nineteen points. Han felt a surge of elation, realizing that the dark hands would probably win. The Gotal must have sensed Han’s elation and mistaken it to mean that Han believed he personally had won. The Gotal looked at Han’s winnings jealously, then discarded his seven of staves. Since his dark hand now totaled below negative twenty-three points, the hand was declared a bust, meaning that the dark arcana would automatically lose—unless Han could hit a natural twenty-three, either positive or negative.
Han studied his cards again. The Idiot was worth nothing, the two of sabers was worth two points, while the Evil One was worth negative fifteen. Han’s best chance to win would be an idiot’s array—he could keep his Idiot card, plus the two of sabers, plus a three of any suit—thus making a literal twenty-three. He figured the odds of getting a three were pretty bad—about one in fifteen, but it was the only shot in town.
The mechanical hands rotated over Han, squeaking suddenly loud. The metal hands pulled out the top card from the deck, set it on the table, and Han reached out hesitantly, touched it. The second Endurance card blossomed under his fingers. Negative eight points. Han looked at his cards in disbelief, discarded the two. At negative twenty-three, he had a natural sabacc.
“You’ve won!” Threepio shouted, and the Gotal ambassador collapsed and began making small barking noises that Han guessed could only be sobs. The Columi regarded Han coldly from enormous black eyes.
“Congratulations, General Solo,” the Columi said in a clipped tone. “I regret that this game has become too expensive for my tastes.” The engines on his antigrav unit fired, and he began to maneuver carefully from the room, taking care that his enlarged brain did not collide with any of the furnishings.
The Gotal ambassador pushed himself from the table, lunged
away into the shadows of the underworld.
“You arrre verrry rrrich, hhoooman,” the Drackmarian warlord hissed through the speakers of her helmet. She set two gigantic paws on the table, scraping her talons over the ancient black metal. “Toooo rrrich. Youuuu mmmay nottt mmake ittt outtt of the underrrworld alllive.”
“I’ll take my chances,” Han said, slapping his hand against the blaster holstered at his side and gazing into the warlord’s helmet. He could make out dark eyes, gleaming like wet stones through the green clouds of gas. Han pulled all of the credit chips, stock certificates, and deeds into a single enormous pile. Over eight hundred million credits. More credits than he had ever dreamed of owning. Yet still not enough.
The Drackmarian reached across the table, and her claws dug into his wrist. “Sssstop,” she hissed. “Annnotherrr hhhannnd.”
Han considered, trying to appear calm. His mouth and tongue felt dry, but rather than lick his lips, he downed a mug of Corellian spiced ale. “Double or nothing?” he asked.
The Drackmarian nodded, and the methane tubes leading to her helmet jiggled. Among the opponents that Han had been playing, she alone might possess what he wanted. A world. With so much money on the table, Omogg could offer nothing less than a habitable world.
Omogg whispered to a security droid in the shadows at her back, and the droid swiveled guns toward Han, then popped open a vault in its belly. The Drackmarian pulled out a holo cube. “Thisss hasss been in fammmily forrr mmmany generrrationsss,” the Drackmarian said. “It issss worth two poinnnt four billion creditssss. I will ssssell you onnne-third interesssst in it nnnow. If you winnn the next gammme, you will ownnnn the plannnnet. If I winnnn, I will ownnn both the plannnnet annnd the creditssss.” She clawed a button on the cube, and the image of a planet appeared in the air. Class M, nitrogen and oxygen atmosphere. Three continents in a vast ocean. The holo began rotating through a series of shots of two-legged herd beasts squatting to graze on a wide purple plain, a bluish sun setting over a tropical jungle, a flight of dazzling birds sweeping over the ocean like colored glass spilling across a blue tile floor. Perfect.
Star Wars: The Courtship of Princess Leia Page 5