Star Wars - Han Solo at Star's End

by Brian Daley

  “Automated fighting is combat at its purest, don’t you agree?” Hirken said chattily. “No living creature, no matter how savage, is free of the taint of self-preservation. But automata, ah! They are without regard for themselves, existing only to follow orders and destroy. My own combat-automaton is a Mark-X Executioner; there aren’t many of them around. Has your gladiator ’droid ever fought one?”

  Han’s nerves were screaming; he was trying to figure out whom to jump for a weapon if, as he feared, Atuarre bobbled her reply. Any show of hesitation or ignorance now would surely tip their hand to Hirken and his men.

  But she improvised smoothly. “No, Viceprex, not the Mark X.”

  Han was struggling with the jarring revelation. Gladiator ’droid? So that was what Hirken assumed Bollux was. Han had known, naturally, that matching ’droids and other automata in combat was a fad among the wealthy and jaded, but it hadn’t occurred to him that Hirken would be among those. He put his brain into overdrive, looking for a way out.

  As they walked, a woman joined them, coming from what was evidently a private lift tube. She was short, extremely fat, and trying to hide it with expensive, well-tailored robes. Han thought she looked as if somebody had draped a drogue parachute over an escape pod.

  She took Hirken’s hand. The Viceprex endured the gesture with ill humor. She fluttered a fat, beautifully maintained hand and chortled, “Oh, darling, do we have company?”

  Hirken turned upon the woman a stare that, Han calculated, was enough to dissolve covalent bonding. The chubby birdbrain ignored it: The Viceprex gritted his teeth. “No, dearest. These people have brought a new competitor for my Mark X. Madame Atuarre and Company, I present my lovely bride, Neera. By the way, Madam Atuarre, what did you say your ’droid’s designation is?”

  Han jumped in. “He’s one of a kind, um, Viceprex. We designed him ourselves and call him Annihilator.” He turned to Bollux.

  Bollux looked from Han to Hirken, then bowed. “Annihilator, at your service. To destroy is to serve, exalted sir.”

  “But our troupe has other acts to offer,” Atuarre was quick to tell Hirken’s wife. “Tumbling, dancing, trick shooting, and more.”

  “Ooh, dearest!” the obese woman exclaimed, clapping her hands, sliding up against her husband. “Let’s see that first! I grow so tired of watching that old Mark X demolish other machinery. How boring and uncouth and crude, really! And live performers would be such a relief from those dreadful holotapes and recorded music. And we have company here so seldom.” She made puckering noises which, Han took it, were intended to be kisses to her husband. Han thought they sounded more like the attack of some invertebrate.

  He saw a chance to solve two problems at once: how to get Bollux out of the match and how to get a look around Stars’ End on his own. “Uh, honored Viceprex, I’m also gaffer for the troupe. I have to tell you, our gladiator ’droid, Annihilator there, was damaged in his last match. His auxiliary management circuitry needs to be checked. If I could use your shop, it’d only take a few minutes. You and your wife could enjoy the other performances in the meantime.”

  Hirken looked up at the stars through the dome and sighed, while his wife giggled and seconded the proposal. “Very well. But make these repairs quickly, Marksman. I’m not much taken with acrobats or dancing.”

  “Sure, right.”

  The Viceprex summoned a tech supervisor who had been checking the amphitheater’s systems and explained to the man what was needed. Then he offered his arm, unwillingly, to his wife. They went to find seats in the amphitheater, with the Espo major and his men ranging themselves around in a loose guard formation. Uul-Rha-Shan, with a last, menacing look at Han, followed along, again positioning himself near Hirken’s right.

  Since Pakka’s acrobatics and Atuarre’s dancing would pose no danger to the audience, Hirken hit a control on his belt unit, and the transparisteel slabs forming the arena’s walls slid away into floor slots. The Viceprex and his wife settled into luxurious conform-loungers. Pakka readied his props.

  Han turned to the supervisor tech who’d been placed at his disposal. “Wait for me by the elevator; I’ll get the circuit box out, be with you in a second.”

  The man left. Han, loosening his cape and sliding it from his shoulders, turned to Bollux. “Okay, open up just enough for me to get Max.”

  The plastron opened partway. Han leaned close, shielded by the plastron halves. As he freed the computer-probe, he warned, “Not a sound, Max. You’re supposed to be a combat-control component, so no funny stuff. You’re deaf and dumb as of now.” As a signal that he understood, Blue Max’s photoreceptor went dim. “Good boy, Maxie.”

  Han straightened, slinging the computer’s shoulder strap over his arm. As Bollux closed his chest up, Han handed his cape and gunbelt over and patted the ’droid’s freshly painted head. “Hold these for me and stay loose, Bollux. This shouldn’t take long.”

  As Han joined the tech supervisor at the elevator, Pakka was just beginning a marvelous exhibition of tumbling and gymnastics. The cub was a competition-class acrobat and covered the amphitheater floor in a series of flips, twists, and cartwheels, somersaulting through a hoop he held and, perching on the balance-ball, moving himself around the arena with both hands and feet. Then Atuarre came in to act as thrower as Pakka became a flyer.

  Hirken’s wife thought it all charming, oohing at the cub’s prowess. Subordinate Authority execs began to show up and take seats, a handful of the privileged who had been invited to see the performance. They muttered approval of Pakka’s agility, but stifled it when they saw their boss’s deadly look of discontent.

  Hirken thumbed his belt unit. A voice answered instantly. “Have the Mark X readied at once.” He ignored the crisp acknowledgment from the duty tech, eyed the waiting Bollux, and turned his attention back to the acrobatics. Authority Viceprex Hirken could be very, very patient when he wished, but wasn’t in the mood now.

  IX

  RIDING down in the elevator, Han concentrated furiously on his predicament.

  He’d led the others into this jam thinking that, if nothing else, he’d at least get an idea of what he was up against. At worst, he’d thought, they’d be told they weren’t welcome. But this was an unanticipated twist.

  That Bollux was committed to a match against a killer robot of some sort shouldn’t bother him, Han reminded himself. Bollux was, after all, only a ’droid. It wasn’t as if a living entity would die. Han had to keep repeating that because he was having a hard time selling it to himself. Anyway, he had no intention of giving Viceprex Hirken the enjoyment of seeing the superannuated ’droid taken apart.

  Times like this, he wished he were the slow, careful type. But his style was the product of Han himself, defying consequences, jumping in with both feet, heedless of what he might land in. His plan, as revised in the elevator, was to do all the scouting he could. If nothing more could be accomplished, he and the others would have to wing it, withdraw from the performance and, it was to be hoped, Stars’ End, on the plea that Bollux was irreparable.

  He watched floor numbers flash and kept himself from asking questions of the tech supervisor beside him. Any outsider, particularly an entertainer, would be scrupulously uncurious about an Authority installation. For Han to be otherwise would be a matter causing instant suspicion.

  A few other passengers entered and left the car. Only one was an exec; all the rest were Espos and techs. Han looked them over for keys, restraint-binders, or anything else that might indicate detention-block guard duties, but saw nothing. Again he noticed that the tower seemed very lightly manned, contrary to what he’d expect if there really was a prison here.

  He followed the tech supervisor out of the elevator, alighting at the general maintenance section, nearly back at ground level. Only a few techs were there, moving among gleaming machinery and dangling hoisting gear. Disassembled ’droids, robo-haulers, and other light equipment, as well as commo and computer apparatus, were to be seen everywher
e.

  He resettled Max’s carrying strap at his shoulder. “Do you guys have a circuit scanner?”

  The tech led him to a side room with rows of booths, all of them vacant. Han set Max on a podium in one of them and lowered a scanner hood, hoping the tech would go off and take care of his normal duties. But the man remained there, and so Han found himself staring into the computer-probe’s labyrinthine interior.

  The tech, watching over his shoulder, commented, “Hey, that looks like a lot more than just an auxiliary component.”

  “It’s something I worked up, pretty sophisticated,” Han said. “By the way, the Viceprex said when I’m done here I could take it up to your central computer section to recalibrate it. That’s one level down, right?”

  The supervisor was frowning now, trying for a better look at Blue Max’s guts. “No, computers are two levels up. But they won’t let you in unless Hirken verifies it. You’re not cleared, and you can’t go into a restricted area if you’re un-badged.” He leaned closer to the scanner. “Listen, that really looks like some kind of computer module to me.”

  Han chuckled casually. “Here, look for yourself.”

  He stepped aside. The tech supervisor moved closer to the scanner, reaching down to work its focus controls. Then his own focus went completely dark.

  Han, rubbing the edge of his hand, stood over the unconscious tech and looked around for a place to stow him. He had noticed a supply closet at the end of the scanner room. Han fastened the man’s hands behind him with his own belt, gagged him with a dust cover off a scanner, and lugged the limp form into the closet. He paused to take the man’s security badge, then closed the door.

  He went back to the little computer-probe. “All right, Max; perk up.”

  Blue Max’s photoreceptor lit up. Han removed his own sash and stripped the gaudy homemade medals and braid off his outfit. He yanked the epaulets and piping away, too, and what remained was a black body suit, a fair approximation of a tech’s uniform. He placed the supervisor’s security badge prominently on his chest, took Max up again, and set out. Of course, if anyone were to stop him or compare the miniature holoshot on his badge to his real face, he’d be tubed. But he was counting on his own luck, a convincing briskness of stride, and an air of purpose.

  He went up two levels without mishap. Three Espos lounging in the guard booth near the elevator bank waved him on, seeing he was badged. He fought the impulse to smile. Stars’ End was probably an uneventful tour of duty; no wonder the guards had gotten lax. After all, what could possibly happen here?

  At the amphitheater, Pakka’s amazing deftness hadn’t even drawn an approving look from Viceprex Hirken. The cub had been using a hoop while rolling a balance-ball with his feet, doing flips.

  “Enough of this,” Hirken proclaimed, his well-tended hand flying up. Pakka stopped, glaring at the Viceprex. “Isn’t that incompetent Marksman back yet?” The other execs, conferring among themselves, managed to reach a group decision that Han was still gone. Hirken’s breath rasped.

  He pointed to Atuarre. “Very well, Madam, you may dance. But be brief, and if your sharpshooting gaffer isn’t back soon, I may dispense with him altogether.”

  Pakka had removed his props from the arena floor. Now Atuarre handed him the small whistle-flute Han had machined up for him. While the cub blew a few practice runs on it, Atuarre slipped on the finger-cymbals Han had fashioned for her and clinked them experimentally. The improvised instruments, even her anklet-chimes, all lacked the musical quality of Trianii authentics, she decided. But they would suffice, and might even convince the onlookers that they were seeing the real thing.

  Pakka began playing a traditional air. Atuarre moved out onto the arena floor, following the music with a sinuous ease no human performer could quite match. Her streamers blew behind her, many-colored fans flickering from arms and legs, forehead and throat, as her finger-cymbals sounded and her anklets rang, precisely as they should.

  Some of the preoccupation left Hirken’s face and the faces of the other onlookers. Trianni ritual dancing had often been touted as a primitive, uninhibited art, but the truth was that it was high artistry. Its forms were ancient, exacting, demanding all a dancer’s concentration. It required perfectionism, and a deep love of the dance itself. In spite of themselves, Hirken, his subordinates, and his wife were drawn into Atuarre’s spinning, stalking, pouncing dance. And as she performed, she wondered how long she could hold her audience, and what would happen if she couldn’t hold-them long enough.

  Han, having found a computer terminal in an unoccupied room, set Max down next to it. While Max extended his adapter and entered the system, Han took a cautious look in the hall and closed the door.

  He drew up a workstool by a readout screen. “You in, kid?”

  “Just about, Captain. The techniques Rekkon taught me work here, too. There!” The screen lit up, flooded with symbols, diagrams, computer models, and columns of data.

  “Way to go, Max. Now spot up the holding pens, or cells, or detention levels or whatever.”

  Blue Max flashed layout after layout on the screen, while his search moved many times faster, skimming huge amounts of data; this was the sort of thing he’d been built for. But at last he admitted, “I can’t, Captain.”

  “What d’you mean, can’t? They’re here, they’ve gotta be. Look again, you little moron!”

  “There’re no cells,” Max answered indignantly. “If there were, I’d have seen them. The only living arrangements in the whole base are the employees’ housing, the Espo barracks, and the exec suites, all on the other side of the complex—and Hirken’s apartments here in the tower.”

  “All right,” Han ordered, “put a floor plan of this joint up, level by level, on the screen, starting with Hirken’s amusement park.”

  A floor plan of the dome, complete with the garden and amphitheater, lit the readout. The next two levels below it proved to be filled with the Viceprex’s ostentatious personal quarters. The one after that confused Han. “Max, what’re those subdivisions? Offices?”

  “It doesn’t say here,” the computer answered. “The property books list medical equipment, holo-recording gear, surgical servos, operating tables, things like that.”

  A thought struck Han. “Max, what’s Hirken’s title? His official corporate job-slot, I mean.”

  “Vice-President in charge of Corporate Security, it says.”

  Han nodded grimly. “Keep digging; we’re in the right place. That’s no clinic up there, it’s an interrogation center, probably Hirken’s idea of a rec room. What’s on the next floor down?”

  “Nothing for humans. The next level is three floors high, Captain. Just heavy machinery; there’s an industrial-capacity power hookup there, and an air lock. See, here’s the floor plan and a power-routing schematic.”

  Max showed it. Han leaned closer to the screen, studying the myriad lines. One, marked in a different color and located near the elevators, attracted his attention, He asked the computer what it was.

  “It’s a security viewer, Captain. There’s a surveillance system in parts of the tower. I’ll patch in.”

  The screen flickered, then resolved into the brightness of a visual image. Han stared. He’d found the lost ones.

  The room was filled, stack upon stack, with stasis booths. Inside each, a prisoner was frozen in time, stopped between one instant and the next by the booth’s level-entropy field. That explained why there were no prisoner facilities, no arrangements for handling crowds of captive entities, and only a minimal guard complement on duty. Hirken had all his victims suspended in time; they’d require little in the way of formal accommodations. The Security Viceprex need take prisoners out only when he chose to question them, then pop them back into stasis when he was done. So he robbed his prisoners of their very lives, taking away every part of their existence except interrogation.

  “There must be thousands of them,” Han breathed. “Hirken can move them in and out of that air lock like
freight. Power consumption up there must be terrific. Max, where’s their plant?”

  “We’re sitting on it,” Max answered, though that anthropomorphism couldn’t really apply to him. He filled the screen with a basic diagram of the tower. Han whistled softly. Beneath Stars’ End was a power-generating plant large enough to service a battle fortress, or a capital-class warship.

  “And here are the primary defense designs,” Max added. There were force fields on all sides of the tower, and one overhead, ready to spring into existence instantly. Stars’ End itself was, as Han had already noticed, made of enhanced-bonding armor plate. According to specs, it was equipped with an anticoncussion field as well, so that no amount of high explosives could damage its occupants. The Authority had spared no expense to make its security arrangements complete.

  But that helped only if the enemy were outside, and Han was as inside as he could get. “Is there a prisoner roster?”

  “Got it! They had it filed: Transient Persons.”

  Han swore under his breath at bureaucratic euphemisms. “Okay, is Chewie’s name on it?”

  There was the briefest of pauses. “No, Captain. But I found Atuarre’s mate! And Jessa’s father!” He flashed two more images on the screen, arrest mugshots. Atuarre’s mate’s coloring was redder than hers, it turned out, and Doc’s grizzled features hadn’t changed. “And here’s Rekkon’s nephew,” Max added. The mug was of a young black face with broad, strong lines that promised a resemblance to the boy’s uncle.

  “Jackpot!” Max squealed a moment later, a very uncomputerish exclamation. Chewbacca’s big hairy face flashed on the readout. He hadn’t been in a very good mood for the mugshot; he was disheveled, but his snarl promised death to the photographer. The Wookiee’s eyes looked glassy, and Han assumed that the Espos had tranquilized him as soon as they’d taken him.

  “Is he okay?” Han demanded. Max put up the arrest record. No, Chewbacca hadn’t been badly injured, but three officers had been killed in apprehending him, the forms said. He hadn’t given a name, which explained why it had been difficult for Max to locate him. The list of charges nearly ran off the screen, with a final, ominous, handwritten notation at the bottom listing time of scheduled interrogation. Han glanced at a wall clock; it was no more than hours before Chewbacca was due to enter Viceprex Hirken’s torture mill.