by Greg Rucka
“Money lane shot,” Solo said. “Do it!”
Ematt worked the Falcon’s turbolasers, the two turrets mounted atop and beneath the ship. Normally—ideally—Solo would man one of the guns and either Chewie or another warm body the other, but their current situation clearly didn’t allow for that. Solo and Chewie were both required in the cockpit. It wasn’t the first time Solo had found himself in this situation, and he and Chewbacca had accounted for it by running auxiliary fire control through the cockpit. It wasn’t as accurate as manning the guns individually, and it relied heavily on computer assist, but if Ematt knew what he was doing, he’d be able to down at least one of the TIEs. Solo had handed him the shot on a plate.
Ematt knew what he was doing. A flare of light burst off to Solo’s left as the dorsal turbolasers fired, and one of the approaching TIEs bloomed into a cascade of fire and debris. The remaining fighters tried to split, two to port, one to starboard; Ematt opened up with the ventral turret, and a second TIE exploded into nothingness, vaporized by a direct hit.
“Okay,” Solo said. “That wasn’t bad.”
“Han! One-four mark six!”
Solo put the Falcon into another roll, this time swooping around to eyeball the coordinates Delia had given. The Vehement was looming closer, much closer than it had been before.
“They’re moving to tractor beam range,” Solo said.
One of the computers at the navigation station chirped, then chortled.
“We’ve got the jump,” Ematt said. “Let’s get out of here!”
“Delia, we’re good to go.” Solo banked, the two remaining TIEs still pursuing them and skimming past to port, firing as they came. The Falcon rocked again, the shield display flashing, the green disappearing into a wash of yellow. They were losing their shields.
Miss Fortune came into view through the cockpit, the little yacht looping in an attempt to shake the three TIE fighters still relentlessly attacking. As he watched, one of the TIEs fired a salvo that raked along Miss Fortune’s hull, shots flashing and dissipating along its shields. There was a flare of light, then a burst of debris from atop the yacht.
“Delia—”
There was static over the comms, harsh white noise for an instant, then Delia Leighton’s voice, threaded with barely restrained panic.
“We just lost our navicomputer! We don’t have a jump!”
“You still have auxiliary?”
Curtis’s voice came over the speakers for the first time. “It’s gonna be another minute before we can run the bypass.”
“We take another hit like that, we’re dead in space!” The edges of panic in Delia’s voice were clearer.
Chewbacca barked and looked at Solo.
It wasn’t good. A quick check of the sensors showed that the Star Destroyer would be in tractor beam range inside twenty seconds. They had their coordinates plotted, and the hyperdrive was ready; all it would take was a turn to the proper heading and kicking into lightspeed and Solo, Chewbacca, Ematt, the Falcon, all of them would be instantly and safely away from the Empire’s grip. They could leave right now—mission accomplished.
But it would leave Miss Fortune behind, exposed, vulnerable. It would mean that Delia and Curtis would be captured, brought aboard Vehement. They would be interrogated and tortured. At best, the crew of Miss Fortune would spend the rest of their lives on some Imperial penal world.
At worst, they’d never leave the Vehement alive.
Chewie was still looking at Solo. He could feel Ematt behind him, doing the same.
“You better clear my tab at the bar after this,” Solo muttered.
He pushed the throttles forward, feeling the Falcon surge, and slapped the illegal SLAM activator he’d installed to give the ship an additional burst of speed. Miss Fortune zoomed closer, the TIEs on its tail still swirling around it like angry insects eager to feast. Ematt opened fire and clipped one of the TIEs, sending it twirling away toward the nimbus glow of Cyrkon’s atmosphere, fired again and caught another with a graze along the cockpit ball. Atmosphere immediately erupted from the perforated cabin in a cloud of white and gray vapor as the TIE splintered into jagged pieces of metal.
“Han, go.” Delia suddenly sounded much calmer. “That Star Destroyer’s unbeatable. We’re done here. We’re not going to have the jump in time.”
The Falcon jolted, shields fading from yellow to red. Three TIE fighters and a Star Destroyer. Delia was correct—there was no way to win that particular fight.
“We’re covering you,” Solo said.
“Han—”
“Delia, shut up. I’m trying to be noble.”
He heard her laugh over the speakers.
Aboard Vehement, Beck watched as the number of TIE fighters steadily diminished, what had been eight now reduced to three. Something was wrong with the yacht, though; she’d seen it take a hit, seen the debris fly. The Falcon was another matter. TIEs had scored direct hits on its aft section above the engines, twice along the dorsal line, and once near the mandibles that jutted at the front of the freighter, but not one of the shots had seemed to have any appreciable effect.
It didn’t matter. They were in range.
“Captain Hove.”
Hove half turned and gestured with his right hand toward the pit. “At maximum power,” he ordered.
“Target locked,” came the reply. “Tractor beam at maximum power.”
There was no visible response from the emitters at the fore of the Star Destroyer. Unlike turbolasers, the energy field for the tractor beam was outside the visible spectrum, but through her cybernetic eye Beck could see it. She could see it all: the conelike ray slowly flowing away from them, a semitransparent wave of gold that spread inexorably toward the five ships.
It first struck one of the TIEs pursuing the Falcon and yanked it back as if on a leash, taking the fighter’s velocity and suddenly, even cruelly, stealing it away. The stress was too much for the little fighter; the twin solar panels on either side tore apart like it was a child’s toy broken in an angry tantrum. The ball of the cockpit hung motionless, suspended, then crushed in on itself.
Beside Beck, Hove turned away.
The beam continued its advance.
“No escape,” Beck said.
“They catch us in that tractor beam, we’re done,” Ematt said. “I can’t let them take me alive, you understand that?”
“They’re not taking any of us,” Solo said with far more conviction than he was feeling.
Chewie whuffed, quickly rebalancing power from the engines to the shields again. For the second time, he pulled the cord of wiring and plugged it into yet another socket.
“I’m working on it,” Han replied. He clicked on the comms again. “Delia, you and Curtis make a run for the atmosphere and we’ll cover you. How long until you’ve got your jump?”
“Another fifteen seconds,” Curtis said.
Miss Fortune broke suddenly to its starboard, banking tightly, and Solo twisted the Falcon around to follow, closing the distance between it and the TIE fighter between them. The last of the TIEs pursuing them, behind the Falcon, pulled up abruptly, and on the rear monitor Solo watched as it met the fate of its partner, the tractor beam from the Star Destroyer tearing it to shreds. He felt something sickening and hard forming in his stomach; he had no love for the Empire, but the willing sacrifice of their own pilots, their own ships, in pursuit of the Falcon and Miss Fortune was a level of brutality beyond what he had ever seen. Whoever was giving orders on Vehement would stop at nothing to catch them.
A mournful, soft woof came from Chewie. Solo didn’t bother saying anything. He and the Wookiee were thinking the same thing.
Miss Fortune was accelerating, now pulled tighter by Cyrkon’s gravity, the remaining TIE still gamely following and the Falcon closing in behind. Solo heard Ematt lining up his shot and brought the yoke up just a fraction to allow both turrets a clear field of fire. The targeting computer beeped slowly, then more and more rapidly as the TIE
came into range, then trilled loudly, signifying a lock. The Falcon vibrated slightly as both turrets fired together, turbolaser bolts converging on the fighter, tracking onto the center ball. The fighter burst like a punctured balloon, shards of metal spraying in all directions.
“Shut down the weapons,” Solo said over his shoulder. “Chewie, reroute all power to the engines, stand by to cut off on my order.”
“Full power won’t be enough to get away from that tractor beam,” Ematt said.
“I know what I’m doing.”
The Falcon jerked, engines suddenly shrieking in protest as the whole ship shuddered, slowing rapidly.
“Cut them,” Solo said.
Chewbacca moved without hesitation, long arms rising to strike the rows of engine cutoff switches overhead. The Falcon went suddenly silent, its engines guttering out. They were still moving forward, momentum and Cyrkon’s gravity each working on the ship, but they were slowing, and slowing quickly. It was going to be very close.
“Delia?”
“Five seconds.”
Solo eyed the sensors again and nudged the yoke, adjusting the Falcon’s approach to the planet. They were in the outer atmosphere; he could see the faint shimmer beginning to surround the cockpit.
“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Ematt said.
“I always know what I’m doing,” Solo lied.
“What are they doing?” Beck demanded.
“I’m not certain, Commander.” Hove checked over his shoulder. “We have the ship?”
“We’re having trouble establishing the lock,” the officer at the tractor beam control said. The reluctance in his voice was unmistakable. “Interference from the planet’s gravity. The beam keeps slipping.”
“Then bring us in closer,” Beck said.
Hove hesitated, then nodded. The second ship, Miss Fortune, was still out of range, but Beck could live with that. Ematt was aboard the Millennium Falcon, and that was the ship she wanted. That was the ship she was going to take. Miss Fortune and her crew could be tracked down and punished later, but their capture was, at this moment, incidental. The prize was the Millennium Falcon. The prize was that ship, and its crew.
The Star Destroyer continued its pursuit, Cyrkon now filling the view, a haze of polluted atmosphere. Miss Fortune was pulling up, using the planet’s gravity to help slingshot back into space, but the Falcon was now on what appeared to be a dive, as if its captain intended to bury the ship in the planet’s surface. The stress on the hull of the little freighter must have been enormous, certainly more than it should be able to endure, from the looks of it; yet it was holding together. And while it was coming closer, it was not, Beck felt, doing so nearly quickly enough.
“Where are they heading?” Hove asked.
Caught between free fall and the slackening grip of the Vehement’s tractor beam, the Millennium Falcon trembled and hopped, the atmosphere around the ship growing thicker and thicker. The distant, faint outline of the domed capital began to resolve below. Solo nudged the yoke and risked using the landing jets, separate from the now-cooling engines, to adjust the ship’s angle.
“Delia…”
“Coming up.…We’ve got it, we’re ready!”
“Then what are you waiting for? Go!”
“Han…”
“Delia, you’re still talking! Go!”
“The next one’s on the house,” Delia Leighton said.
The comms went dead—no static, just the heavy presence of empty air. Chewie chuffed and adjusted his grip on his own yoke. On the sensors, Miss Fortune vanished, launched into hyperspace.
There was silence in the cockpit for several seconds.
“So, your plan is to crash into Motok?” Ematt asked. It sounded very conversational.
“Ideally, no,” Solo said.
“Telemetry puts them on approach to the capital,” someone answered.
“Pull them back,” Beck said.
“We’re trying, Commander,” the beam officer said. He looked up at her from the command pit, helpless. “Our lock won’t maintain. This is the best we can do at this range.”
“Then bring us closer!”
“You want us to follow them into the atmosphere?” Hove asked.
“If that’s what it takes.”
“Commander, if we attempt to tractor beam them within the atmosphere, without a precise lock…the beam will splash. There will be overlap. Collateral damage to the planet could be immense.”
“If that’s what it takes,” Beck repeated.
“We’ll destroy the dome,” Hove said. “We’ll shred the protection around Motok, Commander. We’ll destroy the city.”
Beck saw it, then, saw what Han Solo and the Wookiee were doing with their ship, the gamble they had made. Yes, Vehement could follow them down, could stop them, could pull them back with its tractor beam. But in so doing, it would render Motok inhospitable. It would decimate the city, and do it before millions and millions of witnesses on the ground who would see the Star Destroyer overhead and not see the tiny YT-1300 stock freighter they were pursuing. Those who didn’t die from exposure to the planet’s toxic atmosphere would know only that the Empire had destroyed their home. They would remember. They would share. Even with the Empire’s control over the media, the word would spread and people would hear. Some of those people would demand an explanation, and more would demand vengeance. And among those, some would take action.
Some would become rebels.
Hove was waiting for her order. The entirety of the bridge, the whole of Vehement was waiting for her order. She thought about the freighter, the Millennium Falcon, and its crew—three people against the might of the Empire. A ship that looked as though it could barely fly, that had shrugged off TIE fighters, that had maneuvered itself into a dead-engine glide, that was daring her—daring her—to catch it, at the price of turning an entire world against the Galactic Empire.
Without a word, she turned on her toe and began the long walk past the command and control pits, to the elevator.
The failure, she knew, was hers and hers alone.
The Falcon shuddered, and suddenly they weren’t gliding as much as plummeting, Motok rising rapidly before them.
“Engines, Chewie!” Solo yanked the yoke with one hand and brought both feet down hard on the pedals for the landing jets. His free hand flailed, caught the master switch for the repulsorlift generators, and threw them to life. The ship groaned, creaking as multiple stresses played all at once across its hull.
“We’re still falling,” Ematt observed.
“Chewie, the engines!”
The Wookiee howled, then smashed a fist into the console. A grinding noise rose from the back of the ship, then faded, then rose, then faded again, this time with a pathetic cough.
“Still falling.”
“I know!” Motok was coming closer. Very quickly. “Open the manifold on the primary thrust!”
The Wookiee punched the console again, this time leaving a visible dent, then reached past Solo and twisted one of the larger handles fixed to the wall. The engines gasped, the grinding noise returning.
“Still—”
“Say it again and you’re getting out and walking.” Solo lunged out of his seat, almost splaying himself across Chewbacca as the Wookiee did something similar in the opposite direction. “On three, Chewie, manual restart. One…two…three—”
Each of them yanked on separate levers simultaneously. The engines coughed, protested, and suddenly roared. Pilot and copilot scrambled upright, took hold of their respective yokes, and pulled. Motok, frighteningly close below and growing closer, seemed to spread out before them as the Falcon’s nose came up, and Solo could swear the belly of the ship kissed the top of the dome as they leveled off, then began to climb. He pushed the throttles forward, felt the Falcon’s engines singing to him, and they were looking at stars again, the Star Destroyer now well out of tractor beam range on their sensors. The proximity alarm warned of more TIE fighters
being launched, twelve of them this time, but it didn’t matter.
Solo grinned, reaching with one hand for the hyperspace engage. With his other, he stroked the side of the console nearest him.
“Don’t ever scare me like that again, baby,” Han Solo said, and he gently pushed the lever forward.
The Falcon’s response was to leap them into hyperspace—and to safety.
“AND…?” THE WOMAN SAID.
The old man tilted his head, glanced past the three around the table who’d listened to his tale, and then settled his gaze on the woman once more. He rubbed the scar on his chin with an index finger.
“And what?” he said. “They got away. Ematt made it to the rendezvous and the Rebellion continued to grow. You heard of the Battle of Hoth, right? This was a few years before that. There was still a long way to go before Endor and everything that came after.”
“That is the biggest load of poodoo I have ever heard,” Strater said. His frustration brought color to his head and made the Twi’lek woman tattooed along his scalp look as if she’d suddenly had too much sun.
The old man shrugged. “Thing about the galaxy, there’s as many versions of the truth as there are stars. Got an old friend who’s fond of saying that truth is greatly dependent on your point of view. Truth ain’t the same as fact, kid. You believe what you want to believe.”
“I’ve never even heard of Cyrkon.” The woman folded her arms, looking annoyed.
The old man shrugged again. His glass was empty, and he slid it away from himself across the tabletop. When he brought his eyes back up, he found the burly one staring at him. He was their leader, the old man had determined, and he hadn’t spoken once throughout the entirety of the tale. About the time the old man had begun describing the escape from Motok, the burly one’s attention had seemed to wander, moving to the bar, the patrons, the bartender, even the bouncer. His hands had been out of sight since then, below the level of the table. But now the old man had his attention again.
“That’s a very conveniently told story,” the burly one said. “That’s a story full of some very nice coincidences.”