Leia felt something, something in his words more than mere conviction—she felt something powerful in Luke, just under the surface, as if he were a raging fire. A new hope burned in her. “I’ll wake you,” Leia promised, and she stepped back, looked at Luke’s battered form lying on the stretcher. She realized that she couldn’t delude herself. Perhaps in a few days, a week, he really might be ready to battle Gethzerion.
Isolder put a blanket over Luke. “Teneniel and I can get him to a bunk.”
Leia nodded. “Is the sensor array window back on?”
“Yes,” Isolder said, “but I’m still having trouble with the long-range scanners.”
Leia thought desperately. Everything in her cried out that she should go to rescue Han, but they didn’t have enough time. If she used rancors, it would be a two-day trip. If they tried to fly the Falcon, even at top speed, they’d have a tough time making it more than halfway before the destroyers above homed in on their electronics and torpedoed the Falcon out of the sky. A thought struck her.
“Artoo, Threepio, come out here,” Leia called into the ship.
Threepio hurried out. “Yes, Princess—how may I be of service?” Artoo rolled out, watching the edges of the gangplank with his electronic eye.
“Artoo,” Leia asked, “can you get a count of the Star Destroyers up there for me?”
Artoo hesitated a moment, then a hatch flipped open and the droid extended his sensor dish. Artoo played the dish across the skies, then began emitting a series of electronic clicks and bleeps.
“Artoo reports that he cannot get a fix on any extraorbital objects through any of his sensors other than radio waves. Apparently, the orbital nightcloak is blocking light at most wavelengths even through the ultraviolet and infrared ranges. However, he can verify twenty-six sources of radio emissions, and he suspects from previous counts that forty Star Destroyers are in orbit.”
Isolder looked at Leia thoughtfully. “No wonder I can’t fix the long-range scanners. There’s nothing wrong with them.”
“Right,” Leia said.
“So as long as we fly under the orbital nightcloak and maintain radio silence, we’re effectively a cloaked ship.”
“Right!” Leia said.
Isolder nodded, glanced up at the Falcon’s array of conventional and proton torpedoes. “Let’s go blast the hell out of those witches and see if we can rescue Han.”
“No!” Leia said, glancing down at Luke, lying unconscious on his pallet. “Luke wants us to wait for him.”
Han stood silently among the Nightsisters as the hover car dodged between the boles of giant trees lit only by its headlights. A full twenty Nightsisters were packed in the hover car, a solid, stinking mass in their dark robes.
They had tied his hands in front of him with a rope of whuffa hide, not even bothering to search him, they were so confident that he could not harm them.
The hover car shot over a hill, dropped with a stomach-wrenching thud and suddenly they were out of the forest, racing over the clear desert toward the city lights.
Han closed his eyes, contemplated what he must do. He had to wait. He could blow the detonator at any time—but he wanted to get Gethzerion, had to get Gethzerion.
They drove into the city, and the Nightsisters jumped from the hover car, hurried toward their towers. Two stayed with Han, walked him to the abandoned airfield, took him into an old spaceport hangar whose roof had been blown away so that the dome walls rose around him like an impossible fence. “Wait by the back wall,” one of the women said, dismissing him. The two stood by the door, talking quietly.
Han found his heart hammering, and he sat in the shadows on a hunk of rubble, waiting for Gethzerion to appear. He rested his thumbs in his belt buckle, palmed the thermal detonator.
She never came. Over the next several hours, the temperature dropped continually, until a light frost clung to the ground. Han kept checking his watch. Zsinj’s four-hour appointment came and went. The shuttles never arrived, and Han began to wonder if Gethzerion was playing some kind of game with the warlord, perhaps trying to barter for a better deal.
As if to prove his worries true, Gethzerion’s hover car made two more trips afield, each taking nearly two hours—just enough time to gather personnel from Singing Mountain.
After the third trip, a pair of stars appeared in the black sky, swept down toward the prison. The carriers extended their wings, then sledded in smoothly on antigrav, halted outside the tower. Han could see the ships’ big stabilizer fins over the broken wall.
One Nightsister hissed, “Come on, General Solo. It’s time.”
Han swallowed, got to his feet, and walked to the exit. Lights from the carriers played over him, blinding him. Han walked slowly toward the lights, flanked by the two Nightsisters. He could not see the towers well. The ground was covered with Zsinj’s stormtroopers, dressed in old Imperial armor. Han squinted, trying to see beyond them into the shadows on the other side of the carriers. If he detonated the bomb now, he would certainly take out the stormtroopers, and would probably damage one of the carriers—but he couldn’t see for sure if the witches were there, unprotected.
“That’s far enough!” a stormtrooper shouted, and the witches held Han’s arm, halted.
An officer descended from the ship—a tall general with glittering platinum fingernails. General Melvar. He came within arm’s reach, studied Han’s face momentarily. He placed one platinum fingernail under Han’s eye, as if to pluck it out, then raked a gash down Han’s cheek.
He spoke into a microphone at his shoulder. “I’ve made visual identification. Han Solo is here.”
Melvar listened momentarily, and only then did Han notice the microphone jacks behind his ears.
“Yes, sir,” Melvar said. “I’ll bring him aboard immediately.”
The general grabbed Han roughly, digging his platinum nails into Han’s biceps. “Hey, pal,” Han said. “Don’t be so hard on the merchandise. You might regret it.”
“Oh, I don’t think I’ll regret it,” Melvar said. “You see, causing others pain is, well, more than just a pastime for me. In my work for Zsinj it has become a cherished responsibility.” He dug the claw of his pinky into a nerve center on Han’s shoulder, then twisted. Fire blossomed all along Han’s arm from the wrist up to the center of his back, and he gasped in pain.
“Hey, uh, that’s some talent you’ve developed,” Han admitted.
“Well,” Melvar smiled, “I’m sure that I can convince Warlord Zsinj to let me demonstrate my talents more fully and at greater leisure. But come, we mustn’t keep Zsinj waiting.” He hurried Han toward the gangplank for the carrier, between a crowd of stormtroopers, and for one moment Han wondered if he would ever see Gethzerion.
He was halfway up the gangplank when the witch shouted, “Wait!”
General Melvar halted, glanced over his back. Gethzerion stood in the shadows at the base of her tower, a hundred meters off, flanked by a dozen Nightsisters. The old witch drew her robes up tight, stalked up to the carrier. Han surveyed the field. He’d surely take out the armed carrier with his detonator, along with General Melvar and Gethzerion, and at least the few Nightsisters outside the building. He’d hoped for better, but knew this was about all he’d get.
It felt odd, knowing that he was about to die. He’d expected to feel butterflies in his stomach, a tightness in his throat. But nothing came. He felt only numb, disheartened, regretful. After the life he’d lived, it seemed anticlimactic.
Gethzerion stopped at the foot of the gangplank, only an arm’s length away. She looked up at Han, her leathery face still concealed by her hood. Han could smell heavy spices on her breath, and the scent of vinegary wine.
“So, General Solo,” she said. “You led me a merry chase. I hope you enjoyed your stay.”
Han looked at the old woman, said smugly, “I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist coming to gloat.” He hooked his thumbs under his belt. “Why don’t you gloat about this!”
He
whipped out the thermal detonator and pushed the button. General Melvar lurched away, as did his guards. Melvar tripped over a stormtrooper behind him and both men went down in a tangle.
The detonator didn’t go off. Han looked at it. The firing pin was broken.
“Having trouble with your explosive device?” Gethzerion opened her eyes wide and smiled. “Sister Shabell detected it before you ever boarded the hover craft, and she dismantled it with a word. You self-congratulating, strutting oaf! You never posed a threat to me or my Nightsisters! How dare you!” She reached out and made a grasping gesture, and the detonator flew from Han’s fingers, landed in her palm. She offered it to Melvar. “I’ll let you dispose of this, General. It still presents some danger. I thought it best to retrieve it before you depart.”
Melvar got up, tried to recover his dignity, and took the detonator. “Thank you,” he grunted.
“Ah, and allow me to do you one more favor!” Gethzerion whispered, stepping forward. “By giving you this—” Her eyes opened wide, blazing, and she made a raking motion with her index finger. Beside Han the general gasped, reached up to hold his temple, then staggered forward a pace. “A simple death!” Gethzerion cackled.
All around Han, a hundred stormtroopers crumpled simultaneously, some of them staggering a step or two, some firing blaster rifles in the air so that Han instinctively ducked. Within three seconds the stormtroopers lay on the ground like drugged birds, unmoving. Han looked up at the carrier, waiting for the gunners in the ship to open fire.
Nothing happened. The ship remained deathly still.
Several Nightsisters rushed from their tower, pushed past Han, made their way up to the carrier bringing dozens of Imperial prisoners with them to fly the ships. One Nightsister shoved Han aside, knocking him off the ramp. Han heard screams inside the ship, so that even though the gunner had never fired, he could tell that the crew was waging some kind of battle. Han figured the gunner must have died with the other stormtroopers. He found that he wasn’t really surprised that the witches would attack this ship. Gethzerion wouldn’t have been so stupid as to try to fly off this planet in a ship that had no armaments, no shielding—not with Zsinj’s Star Destroyers in range.
Han waited beside the ramp, watching as Gethzerion approached. She pointed a finger at him and smiled. He glanced at a blaster lying near his hand, knowing that even if he managed to grab it, he would still die.
“Now, General Solo, what shall I do with you?” Gethzerion asked.
“Hey,” Han said, raising his hands. “I have no quarrel with you. In fact, if you’ll remember, I spent most of the last several days trying to avoid you. Why don’t you and I shake hands and just go our separate ways?”
Gethzerion stopped at the foot of the ramp, looked in his eyes and laughed. “What? Don’t you think it only fair now that I treat you as badly as you would have treated me?”
“Well, I—”
Gethzerion twitched her finger, and Han jerked upright, found himself with his feet dangling in the air, held by an invisible cord around his throat. Gethzerion watched him intently, began to sing, swaying from side to side. He felt the noose around his neck tightening.
Han choked, kicked, fought to break free.
“I wonder what your thermal detonator would have done to me,” Gethzerion reflected, still swaying. “I suspect it would have blasted my flesh into scraps, and broken my bones, and fried me all at once. So I think I shall do all of these things to you—but not so hastily. Not all at once. I think we shall work from the inside out. First I’ll snap your bones, one by one. Do you know how many bones there are in the human body, General Solo? If you do, just triple the number, and you’ll know how many bones you’ll have when I finish with you.
“We’ll begin with your leg,” Gethzerion said. “Listen carefully!” She twitched her finger, and the tibia in his right leg made crackling sounds. A painful spasm made its way up to his hip.
“Aaaghh,” he cried—and saw something over the desert. There about two kilometers off he saw the running lights of the Millennium Falcon speeding toward them, only meters above ground.
Gethzerion smiled in satisfaction. “There now, you have three bones where you had but one.”
Han tried to stall her, tried to think of anything that would slow her for a moment. “Listen,” he strained to speak. “You aren’t going to do this to, to, to my teeth, are you?” he said, unable to think of anything else. “I mean, uh, anything but the teeth!” He glanced around the compound. Several Nightsisters were coming out the bottom of the towers.
“Oh, yes, the teeth,” Gethzerion said, and she twitched her forefinger.
Han’s right upper rear molar exploded with a popping sound, and the stabbing pain shot through his ear and upper face, until it felt as if Gethzerion had grabbed his eye at the socket and were intent on pulling it through the roof of his mouth. Han silently cursed himself for giving her nifty ideas. The Falcon wasn’t getting here fast enough, and Han shook his head.
“Wait!” he cried. “Let’s talk about this!” and Gethzerion wiggled her forefinger again. The upper left rear molar snapped, and suddenly there was a whooshing sound as the Falcon fired its missiles. The bottom of the tower exploded, tossing black-robed witches into the air. The tower began to lean as it collapsed.
Gethzerion turned, and Han dropped to the ground, released. Pain tore through his broken leg. A volley of blaster fire shot from the dorsal turrets with pinpoint accuracy. Gethzerion crouched as the bolt ripped through the air where her head had been. She leaped away from the ship, jumped and twisted just as another volley tore beneath her.
Han got a spooky feeling about this. Nobody could fire a ship’s blasters with such accuracy. He rolled under the gangplank to take cover from flying debris. The heavily armored guard droids on all six prison towers spun on their turrets and opened fire on the Falcon, blasting with their cannons.
The Falcon rocketed over the prison, flipping in a complex quadruple spin that somehow managed to avoid all the incoming fire. Han had never seen anyone fly like that—not Chewie, not himself. Whoever was at the controls was an ace fighter pilot the likes of no one he’d ever seen, and he guessed it must be Isolder. The Falcon made a nearly impossibly tight roll a kilometer out, and shot back over the prison, upside down, all guns blazing.
Guard droids flared into mushroom clouds at the touch of the blaster cannons. The unarmed carrier took a hit and crumpled, began to burn. The Falcon whizzed overhead, banked for another pass.
Gethzerion must have recognized that staying on the ground to fight was futile, for she leaped up the gangplank of the Imperial ship faster than Han would have believed possible. The carrier’s turbines whirred to life before the gangplank even raised, and the air around the ship took on a blue sheen as shields activated. This was an Imperial personnel carrier—fully armed and shielded, nothing for the Falcon to toy with.
If Han remained under the carrier as it took off, he would get fried. Yet even if his leg weren’t broken, by running he would have risked the Falcon’s blaster fire. He crawled for it, moving across the yard as fast as he could with a broken leg, then fell more than jumped over a bit of rubble from the tower, hoping the Nightsisters wouldn’t shoot at him in their haste to leave.
The Falcon fired with its ion cannons, and blue lightning flickered around the carrier’s hull, but the shields held. The carrier thundered into the air, white flames screaming from its exhaust nacelles.
The Falcon twisted around a hill, blasted a hole in the prison walls and skidded to a halt six yards from Han. The bottom hatch flew open, and Leia shouted, “Come on! Come on!”
Augwynne rushed down the hatch with two of her clan sisters, all three dressed in full helms and robes, and from the looks in their eyes, Han pitied the prison guards.
He crawled for the Falcon, and Isolder ran out, grabbed his shoulder and half-carried Han into the ship. Han looked at Isolder, confused. “Who, who’s flying?”
“Luke,
” Leia said.
“Luke?” Han asked. “Luke’s not that good!”
“Nobody’s this good,” Isolder said, slapping Han on the back. “I’ve got to see this!” He ran back down the access tube to the control room.
Leia stared hard into Han’s eyes, grabbed his face and kissed him. Pain flared from the broken molars and Han nearly screamed, but instead held Leia and closed his eyes, just enjoying it.
The ship jostled and swerved as Luke pulled maneuvers that even the accelerator compensators couldn’t neutralize, and Chewbacca gave a terrified roar from the cockpit. Han limped in, holding onto Leia for support. He strapped himself into a seat, reached up and grabbed the emergency medkit from the compartment above his head, and slapped a painkiller patch on his arm. The dorsal quadruple blaster cannons fired, and Han looked around. Chewbacca, Isolder, Teneniel, and the droids were all in the cockpit, watching Luke.
“Who’s up there firing the blaster cannons?” Han asked.
“Luke,” Leia said, and Han looked down the hallway, confused. You could fire the blasters from the cockpit, but only with greatly reduced accuracy. Yet Luke had nearly taken Gethzerion’s head off, with Han less than a meter away, while piloting this hunk of junk at full attack speed. The whole thing was too darned spooky.
Luke sweated from the effort of flying the Falcon. Levers and buttons on Chewie’s control panel seemed to take on a life of their own as Luke manipulated them with the Force. The Jedi was doing the work of three—pilot, copilot, gunner. Luke fired a missile barrage without lowering the particle shields, and Chewie roared in terror and threw his hands in front of his face.
But as the missiles hit the fifty-meter mark, Luke dropped the shields and restarted them, so that they flickered for less than the blink of an eye. Han had never seen anyone with reflexes so sharply honed.
The carrier’s rear shields erupted in a dazzling display of lights, and the witches finally managed to fire a barrage of blaster cannons on their own. Luke hit the thrusters and the Falcon leaped up, dodging. He fired his proton torpedoes, and the torpedoes accelerated toward the carrier in a white blur.
Star Wars: The Courtship of Princess Leia Page 32