by Greg Rucka
The group made their way up the ramp, the droid leading. They had weapons in hand, though not raised. The few patrons at the tables carefully picked up their drinks and moved out of the way. The WA-7, Bobbie, swiveled in place, tray perfectly balanced on her hand, and watched them pass.
“Get you fellas a drink?” Bobbie asked, voice modulator flashing as she spoke.
The four ignored her and approached the bar.
“I’m afraid we’re not equipped to serve droids,” Delia said. She was still smiling.
The droid rotated in place, its head, then torso spinning twice quickly to take in the bar before stopping as quickly as it had begun. One of its optical sensors came to life, glowing blue, and an instant later a beam of the same color lanced out, scanning Delia from head to toe.
“That’s a little rude,” Delia said. Her smile never faltered.
“There was a Wookiee here,” the droid said. “Analysis of the local atmosphere detects dander. Optical analysis detects the presence of three Wookiee hairs on your clothes. You had close contact with him.”
She tightened her grip on the shotgun beneath the bar, but kept the smile in place.
“Who’s asking?” she said.
“The Wookiee traveled with a human, a Corellian. Name Solo, Han. Verify.”
“Who’s asking?” Delia said a second time.
The weapons came up, and came up quickly, and suddenly Delia was looking at the wrong end of five blasters. The Gran at the droid’s right slammed his fist on the bar. “We’re asking!”
“If your hand’s on a weapon, little lady, I’d let it go and take a step back,” the human said.
“Verify,” the droid repeated.
Curtis had come off the ramp and was now approaching slowly and quietly from behind the group. Delia tried to catch his eye, to warn him off, but either he didn’t see her or he didn’t listen. From his belt he pulled the grip of his shockstaff, the one he used when customers sometimes got out of hand, and moved a clawed thumb over the activation stud. The weapon extended in both directions instantly, locking into position as a quarterstaff, a glow of energy surging at either end.
The droid’s torso spun. Delia moved to free the shotgun, but the Gran and the human both leapt forward, grabbing her by each arm. Curtis got as far as midleap, the staff raised to come down on the droid, and then there was a single shot.
Delia Leighton lost her smile. “No!”
Curtis hit the deck hard, growling. He tried to get up, and the droid shot him again. This time the stun bolt took, and Delia watched, her arms now gripped by the human and the Gran, as her friend collapsed, the staff rolling from his hand.
“Get him,” the droid said.
The last of the four, the Kubaz, bent and yanked Curtis to his feet, wrapping one arm beneath the Shistavanen’s neck.
“Put your blaster to his head,” Captivator said.
The Kubaz looked at the droid, gurgled at him.
“If we do not complete this bounty within the allotted time, there will be further complications.” The droid’s head swiveled, primary optics focusing on the Kubaz. “We do not want to compete with Boba Fett.”
The Kubaz gurgled again in agreement and with his free hand put his blaster to Curtis’s jaw.
“My colleague will kill the Shistavanen if you do not verify.” The droid’s torso swiveled back, weapons again pointed at Delia. “Verify.”
“They were here,” Delia said. “Let him go!”
“Insufficient. Time since present.”
“Not long, less than an hour.” She watched as the Kubaz pushed the barrel of his blaster harder into the side of Curtis’s neck, crushing the fur there. “Please, let him go.”
“Where are they now?”
Delia hesitated. Curtis whined softly in the back of his throat, eyes opening. He was staring at her.
“They went into the city,” Delia said. “They were going shopping.”
The droid hummed to itself for a moment. “This unit is equipped with a biomedical sensor array and voice analysis suite that will accurately detect falsehoods. You are lying.”
“I’m not, I’m—”
The droid’s head swiveled to face the Kubaz, acting as if it was looking at him. “In five seconds, kill the Shistavanen.”
Delia strained against the hands holding her, heart racing near to panic. “No! No, I’m telling the truth!”
“Four seconds.”
“Please—”
“Three.”
“Please, listen—”
“Two.”
“They went to meet someone!” she blurted, desperation making her shout. “They had to meet someone!”
The droid’s head swiveled back to look at her.
“Location.”
She felt like she wanted to cry, suddenly, could feel the ache behind her eyes. She sagged in the grip on her arms. Curtis was looking at her, yellow eyes wide, begging her not to betray the rebels.
She didn’t have a choice.
She told them everything.
THE ONLY THING that made Motok different from a thousand other cities in the Outer Rim that Han Solo had visited at one time or another was, as far as he could tell, the presence of the dome. And even that wasn’t unique. It was just another city, founded by colonists who’d ventured out from the Core Worlds in search of opportunity and a better life. It had grown, it had flourished, it had faced setbacks, it had built a dome, and life had gone on and ever on, as it did. There were people in Motok who were born, lived, and would die without ever leaving the dome, without ever knowing what it was to breathe fresh air or feel natural weather, rain or snow or the kiln-dry heat of a desert world. Solo felt a little sorry for those people. The galaxy was a big place, the universe a bigger one; it seemed a waste of a life not to try to taste at least some of the feast that was out there.
They’d rented a speeder—one of the new V-40s—at the port, and Chewie didn’t approve of the choice, mostly because the vehicle hadn’t been built with Wookiees in mind. It was a little on the flashy side, a slate gray with black flarings and a convertible top, but Solo hadn’t picked it for those features. It would be fast, and he knew the Imperials would be after them soon enough, if not already. Speed, as it had been so many times before for him, was a crucial ally. It wasn’t cheap, either, but he figured they had the credits to burn, and anyway, he’d bill Her Royal Annoyance and the Rebel Alliance for it once they’d made the rendezvous.
Solo programmed the in-dash navicomp and set a destination near the location Delia had given them. He was still a little annoyed at her reluctance to believe he was working with the rebels, then found himself wondering why he cared what she thought of him, anyway. It irked him only slightly more that she’d looked to Chewie for confirmation, that his word hadn’t been good enough. Sure, there were times when Solo lied, there were times when he cheated, there were times when he played fast and loose—but never with his friends.
“I’m a trustworthy guy,” he said to Chewbacca, out of the blue. “I mean, you can trust me, right?”
The Wookiee shifted in the seat beside him, his knees nearly tucked beneath his chin, still trying to get comfortable. He let out a low collection of rumbles, punctuated with a bark.
“That’s different,” Solo said. “You know that’s different. Dealing with people like Jabba, you’ve got to stay on your toes. Those types, they’re always looking to put one over on us. It’s a question of doing it to them before they do it to us.”
Chewbacca growled, barked softly again.
“Name one time. Name one.”
The Wookiee rumbled and began speaking. After thirty seconds or so, Solo cut him off.
“You’ve made your point.”
Chewie chuckled.
“We came back to help the kid.”
A snort.
“That was not all about a reward.”
Another snort.
“The princess trusted me enough to ask us to do this.”
“Okay, fine, she trusted us both. So did Delia.”
Chewie just shook his head and growled gently. Solo guided the speeder off the main drag and down a narrowing side street. Buildings were getting shorter, the neighborhood clearly turning more downscale, with faulty lighting and fewer pedestrians.
“Yeah,” Solo said, more to himself than his friend. “Yeah, they trust you, not me—you’re right.”
The navicomp chimed, and Solo pulled the landspeeder over, parking it around the corner from the address Delia had provided. He and Chewie took a moment to check the street and saw it was all but deserted, with the exception of a municipal service droid vainly fighting a losing battle against litter. Solo pulled himself up and swung his legs over the edge of the speeder. Chewie took longer, snarling to himself.
“Stop complaining,” Solo said. “Next time I’ll pick something bigger, okay?”
They rounded the corner, headed down the block. A sign ahead of them flickered with faulty wiring, alternately telling them that there was vacancy or not, depending on when the circuits cut out. The doors to the hotel slid apart as they approached, one of them sticking, forcing Chewbacca not only to bend his head to clear the top of the doorframe but also to turn sideways. Solo led the way through the lobby, ignoring the droid clerk behind the counter. It wasn’t the lowest rent hotel Solo had visited, but he wouldn’t recommend it to his friends. An old human was asleep on a bench beside the elevators, but he woke up enough to yawn and stare at them as they waited for the car.
“Your friend needs a shave,” the man said.
“Never heard that one before.” Solo reached into a pocket, pulled a couple of credits, and held them out. “You want to make a little change?”
“Depends what I have to do.”
“You see anyone coming through here who looks like they don’t belong, you hit the environment alert. You do that for me?”
“You mean anyone aside from him?” The man indicated Chewbacca.
“You know what I mean.”
The old man eyed the chits in Solo’s palm. “I can do that.”
“You’re a credit to our species,” Solo told him.
They came off the elevator and into a dimly lit hall, the scent of old food and sweat strong in the air. Chewie eased the strap for his bowcaster off his shoulder and moved the weapon into his hands, checking in both directions as Solo moved forward, reading the numbers on the doors. Solo’s right hand dropped to his holster and unsnapped the strap holding his blaster in place. The Wookiee made an almost inaudible woof.
“Yeah, pal,” Solo said. “Me too.”
They reached the door to the room Delia had given them. There was a doorbell, but Solo ignored it; Delia had told him to knock. He rapped his knuckles once beneath the eye slit. “Here for a pickup,” he said. “Package from Alderaan.”
There was silence. Behind him, Solo could sense Chewie checking the hall, covering his back.
“I remember Alderaan,” a voice said from the other side of the door.
“Never forget,” Solo said.
The magnetic locks on the door slid back with a solid thunk.
“Come in,” the voice said.
Solo shared a look with Chewie, then tabbed the open button on the panel above the doorbell. The door slid open immediately, revealing a room narrower than the hall itself and even more poorly lit. A single fixture, recessed into the wall on the left, guttered, then flared bright for a moment, and in it Solo could see a man, dressed in refugee attire, tears in his tunic and poncho. He looked to be in his mid-twenties at most, and like a man who was living on a cocktail of suspicion, fatigue, and worry. His hands were out of sight beneath the poncho, and Solo had a very good idea what they were holding.
“Close it behind you,” the man said.
Solo stepped inside far enough to allow Chewie to enter behind him. The door closed with a whine, and the one ceiling light flicked on, dropping a blue-white glare onto all of them.
“Who’re you?”
“Han Solo. I’m captain of the Millennium Falcon.” Solo jerked a thumb back toward Chewbacca, looming over his shoulder. “This is Chewbacca, my partner.”
The man looked at them, then brought his hands out, empty, from where they’d been hidden. “Ematt. You’re my ride?”
“We’re your ride. Sooner we’re out of here the better.”
“No argument.”
The lights suddenly changed hue, flashing red. An instant later, a klaxon started blaring. Ematt started, one hand again vanishing beneath the poncho, this time emerging with a blaster carbine, its barrel cut down, presumably for ease of concealment. He stared at them accusingly.
“You bring the Empire with you?”
“Not on purpose.” Solo swore, turning and drawing his pistol.
Chewie had opened the door and was sticking his head out, bowcaster at the ready. The Wookiee growled back at Solo over his shoulder.
“Chewie says it’s clear. We should move.”
“Stairs at the end of the hall,” Ematt said. “Safer than the lift.”
“You heard the man,” Solo said.
Chewie led, long legs taking him down the hall quickly enough that Solo and Ematt had to run to keep up. They reached the door to the stairs and the Wookiee hit the panel, but the door refused to open. Chewie slapped a hand against the panel a second time, and there was a whining noise. On the display above it, Solo could read the words EMERGENCY LOCKOUT.
“Environmental emergency,” Solo muttered. Of course the building sealed itself off.
“Elevator,” Ematt hissed.
“Get it open!” Solo told Chewbacca, turning back toward the elevators and pressing his side against the wall. Ematt, on the opposite side of the hall, was mirroring the maneuver, bringing up his carbine. Behind him came the sound of metal tearing as Chewie tore the door panel’s access plate free from the wall and began yanking at wires.
“Don’t hotwire it! Open it!”
Chewie snarled, and Solo thought it better not to respond—all the more so since that was the moment the elevator chimed and its doors opened to reveal the same droid from the port. It whirled into view, planting itself squarely and bringing up both its guns. From the corner of his eye, Solo could see Ematt glaring at him.
“On the bright side,” Solo said, “they’re not Imperials.”
“Then who are they?” Ematt demanded.
“Bounty hunters.”
The droid opened fire, ripping plaster chunks off the wall over Solo’s head.
“Bounty hunters?” Ematt sounded incredulous. “You let bounty hunters follow you?”
“I didn’t let them do anything!” Solo snapped off two shots, both hits. Neither seemed to bother the droid much at all, because it immediately returned fire. “Delia sold us out! It’s not my fault!”
Behind him, Chewie roared in fury, and Solo twisted around in time to see that the Wookiee had abandoned trying to rewire the panel and now had both hands wedged in the seam of the door to the stairwell. He roared again, louder, and the door suddenly broke apart with a gratifying sound of rending metal. Chewie looked at him, satisfied.
“Yes, you’re very strong—go!” Solo gestured to Ematt. “Go!”
Ematt loosed three shots of suppressing fire from his carbine in quick succession, and Solo followed those with another four from his pistol. With a lunge, Ematt was off the wall and through the door, Chewie after him. Solo laid down another salvo, then followed the others into the stairwell. Chewie was somehow again in the lead, leaping from landing to landing ahead of them, bowcaster gripped in one fist. Ematt clambered down the steps after him, with Solo on his tail, checking over his shoulder. For a handful of seconds there was nothing but the sound of their movement as they descended as quickly as possible, and then a blaster shot rang out from above and shattered the concrete a bare centimeter from Solo’s left foot. He fired b
ack, up the stairwell, without looking.
The sound of a Wookiee’s snarl filled the space, echoing, and Solo looked down, past Ematt. Chewie had reached the bottom of the stairs. The Kubaz bounty hunter had anticipated this escape route and was trying to cut them off. Solo pushed past Ematt and raised his blaster, trying to find a shot, but the angle was horrible. Chewie and the Kubaz were too close to each other for Han to risk it. The Wookiee roared again and with one hand lifted the Kubaz by the front of his shirt and smashed him against the wall. Then Chewbacca tossed him through the now-open doors into the lobby.
“Okay,” Ematt said. “He’s strong.”
“Move,” Solo said.
They emerged into the lobby, the old man still on his bench. “I did what you asked.” He held out a palm.
Solo flipped some credits at the old man and ran through the lobby, Ematt beside him. Chewie was now behind them, and Solo once again heard the distinctive snap of the bowcaster firing, the bass thud of the shot smashing into a wall. Higher-pitched blaster fire chased them out into the street, and Solo turned to head for the speeder, catching movement off to his right. The human had taken position behind what Solo intuited was the bounty-hunting team’s own speeder. Solo lashed a hand back to grab Ematt’s poncho and pulled him down as he dove. The human’s shot sizzled overhead and punched a dent in the facade of the hotel.
“They’re not using stun,” Solo said. Then, more indignantly, “They’re trying to kill us!”
The Wookiee reached down and yanked Solo back to his feet, Solo in turn pulling Ematt up after him. Chewie whuffed.
“Alive,” Solo said. “We’re worth more alive!”
“Less talk, more run,” Ematt said.
They made the corner and turned it as another shot narrowly skimmed past Solo’s shoulder. A swoop bike was parked a half-dozen meters short of where Solo had left the speeder. It hadn’t been there before, and he nearly smashed into it. He twisted and kept running for the V-40. Solo vaulted into the speeder’s front seat, thankful he’d left the top down, and Ematt similarly tumbled into the passenger seat beside him. The vehicle sagged on its repulsors as Chewie dove into the back. Solo kicked the engine to life, slammed the throttle forward, and wrenched the yoke, and the speeder shot forward and slewed into a one-eighty. Ahead of them, now, the human was standing in the open and raising his rifle to his shoulder. The weapon was scoped, and Solo could swear he felt the reticle on him, the crosshairs settling between his eyes. The speeder howled, launching toward the man.