Star Wars: The Han Solo Trilogy I: The Paradise Snare

by A. C. Crispin

  CRASH LANDING

  They were now only a kilometer above the surface of the planet, coming in with a rush. Too fast! Han slowed them, using the brake thrusters roughly. G-forces seized him, and he felt as though something were squeezing his chest in a giant vise. He was gasping steadily now, and he dared to look down at his air pak.

  Empty! The status indicator was solidly in the red zone.

  Hold together, Han, he counseled himself. Just keep breathing. There’s got to be enough air in your suit to support you for a couple of minutes—at least.

  He shook his head, feeling light-headed and dizzy. His breath began to burn in his chest.

  He braked again, lightly, and the ship bucked suddenly.

  I’ve lost my forward stabilizer!

  SW: PARADISE SNARE

  A Bantam Spectra Book/July 1997

  SPECTRA and the portrayal of a boxed “s” are trademarks of Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc.

  All rights reserved.

  ®, TM, ©, 1997 by Lucasfilm Ltd. All rights reserved.

  Used under authorization.

  Cover art by Drew Struzan. Cover art copyright © 1997 by Lucasfilm Ltd.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  For information address: Bantam Books.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-79636-3

  Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words “Bantam Books” and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, New York, New York.

  v3.1

  This book is dedicated to my friend, Thia Rose. When we were twelve, we swore we’d always be best friends …

  … and, more years later than we like to count, we still are.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One: Trader’s Luck

  Chapter Two: Ylesian Dreams

  Chapter Three: Crash Landing

  Chapter Four: Muuurgh

  Chapter Five: Spice Wars

  Chapter Six: Alderaan and Back Again

  Chapter Seven: Bria

  Chapter Eight: Revelations

  Chapter Nine: Lost and Found

  Chapter Ten: Farewell to Paradise?

  Chapter Eleven: Escape Velocity

  Chapter Twelve: Togoria

  Chapter Thirteen: Return to Corellia

  Chapter Fourteen: Down and Out on Coruscant

  Chapter Fifteen: Out of the Fire

  Epilogue: Rebirth

  About the Author

  Also by this Author

  Introduction to the Star Wars Expanded Universe

  Excerpt from Star Wars: The Han Solo Trilogy: The Hutt Gambit

  Introduction to the Old Republic Era

  Introduction to the Rise of the Empire Era

  Introduction to the Rebellion Era

  Introduction to the New Republic Era

  Introduction to the New Jedi Order Era

  Introduction to the Legacy Era

  Star Wars Novels Timeline

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Writing in the Star Wars universe is like becoming a part of a community—or, even, a family. The writers are encouraged to read each other’s books, and there are dozens of nonfiction and technical books devoted to the characters, hardware, planets, and so forth. Writers trade information and tips back and forth, and generally help each other out.

  Thus, many, many people helped me with this book. With the caveat that any mistakes readers may find are my own, I would like to thank the following:

  Kevin Anderson, who gave me my first chance to write in the Star Wars universe. Kevin and Rebecca Moesta also helped with information about the Star Wars background and characters, as well as hand-holding, encouragement, and sage advice.

  Michael Capobianco, fellow writer and significant other, for brainstorming, research help, intelligent advice, and fixing dinner when I was too busy writing to even realize I was hungry. Thanks, dear.

  Bill Smith and Peter Schweighofer of West End Games for helping me figure out answers to such odd and esoteric questions as, “What does Han wear for underwear?” They “unstuck” me from quandaries more times than I can count.

  Tom Dupree and Evelyn Cainto of Bantam Books for assistance, advice, and encouragement.

  Sue Rostoni and Lucy Autrey Wilson of Lucasfilm for the “true facts.”

  Michael A. Stackpole, for help figuring out how to break a tractor beam, and other advice relating to ships and piloting.

  Steve Osmanski, for reading the manuscript and giving sage advice on “techie” stuff.

  As always, Kathy O’Malley, friend and writing buddy, for hand-holding and an occasional, well-deserved kick in the pants.

  And, of course, George Lucas, who started it all. Star Wars blew me away the first time I saw it, and it’s been an honor to contribute to the saga in a small way.

  Thanks again, and may the Force be with you all.

  The ancient troopship, a relic of the Clone Wars, hung in orbit over the planet Corellia, silent and seemingly derelict. Looks were deceiving, however. The old Liberator-class vessel, once called Guardian of the Republic, now had a new life as Trader’s Luck. The interior had been gutted and refitted with a motley assortment of living environments, and now contained nearly one hundred sentient beings, many of them humanoid. At the moment, however, only a few of them were awake, since it was the middle of the sleep cycle.

  There was a watch on the bridge, of course. Trader’s Luck spent much of its time in orbit, but it was still capable of hyperspace travel, even though it was slow by modern standards. Garris Shrike, the leader of the loosely allied trading “clan” that lived aboard the Luck, was a strict task-master, who followed formal ship’s protocols. So there was always a watch on the bridge.

  Shrike’s orders aboard the Luck were always obeyed; he was not a man to cross without a good reason and a fully charged blaster. He ruled the clan of traders as a less-than-benevolent despot. A slender man of medium height, Garris was handsome in a hard-edged way. Streaks of silver-white above his temples accentuated his black hair and ice-blue eyes. His mouth was thin-lipped; he seldom smiled—and never with good humor. Garris Shrike was an expert shot and had spent his early years as a professional bounty hunter. He’d given it up, though, due to bad “luck”—meaning that his lack of patience had caused him to lose the richest bounties reserved for live delivery. Dead bodies were frequently worth far less.

  Shrike did possess a warped sense of humor, especially if the pain of others was involved. When he was gambling and winning, he was subject to bouts of manic gaiety, especially if he was also drunk.

  As he was at the moment. Sitting around the table in the former wardroom of the enlisted officers, Shrike was playing sabacc and drinking tankards of potent Alderaanian ale, his favorite beverage.

  Shrike peered at his card-chips, mentally calculating. Should he hold pat and hope to complete a pure sabacc? At any moment the dealer could push a button and the values of all the card-chips would shift. If that happened, he’d be busted, unless he took an additional two and tossed most of his hand into the interference field in the center of the table.

  One of his fellow players, a hulking Elomin suddenly turned his tusked head to glance behind him. A light on one of
the auxiliary “status” panels was blinking. The huge, shaggy-furred Elomin grunted, then said in guttural Basic, “Something funny about the lockout sensor on the weapons cache, Captain.”

  Shrike insisted on “proper” protocol and chain of command, especially as it applied to himself. Unless engaged in some planetside caper, he always wore a military uniform while aboard the Luck—one he’d designed himself, patterned on the dress uniform of a high-ranking Moff. It was hung about with “medals” and “decorations” Shrike had picked up in pawnshops across the galaxy.

  Now, hearing the Elomin’s warning, he glanced up a little blearily, rubbed his eyes, then straightened up and dropped his card-chips onto the tabletop. “What is it, Brafid?”

  The giant being wrinkled his tusked snout. “Not sure, Captain. It’s reading normal now, but something flickered, as though the lock shorted out for a second. Probably just a momentary power flux.”

  Moving with such unusual grace and coordination that even the foppish “uniform” couldn’t detract from his presence, the captain rose and walked around the table to study the readouts himself. All signs of intoxication had vanished.

  “Not a power flux,” he decided after a moment. “Something else.”

  Turning his head, he addressed the tall, heavyset human on his left. “Larrad, look at this. Somebody shorted out the lock and is running a sim to fool us into thinking it’s just a power flux. We’ve got a thief aboard. Is everyone armed?”

  The man addressed, who happened to be Shrike’s brother, Larrad Shrike, nodded, patting the holster that hung on the outside of his thigh. Brafid the Elomin fingered his “tingler”—an electric prod that was his weapon of choice—though the hairy alien was large enough to pick up most humanoids and break them over his knee.

  The other person present, a female Sullustan who was the Luck’s navigator, stood up, patting the scaled-down blaster she wore. “Ready for action, Captain!” she squeaked. Despite her diminutive height, flapping jowls, and large, appealing bright eyes, Nooni Dalvo appeared almost as dangerous as the hulking Elomin who was her closest shipboard friend.

  “Good,” Shrike grunted. “Nooni, go post a guard over the weapons locker, just in case he comes back. Larrad, activate the biosensors, see if you can ID the thief and where he’s heading.”

  Shrike’s brother nodded and bent over the auxiliary control board. “Corellian human,” he announced after a moment. “Male. Young. Height, 1.8 meters. Dark hair and eyes. Slender build. The bioscanner says it recognizes him. He’s heading aft, toward the galley.”

  Shrike’s expression hardened until his eyes were as cold and blue as the glaciers on Hoth. “The Solo kid,” he said. “He’s the only one cocky enough to try something like this.” He flexed his fingers, then hardened them into a fist. The ring he wore, made from a single gem of Devaronian blood-poison, flashed dull silver in the bulkhead lights. “Well, I’ve gone easy on him so far, ’cause he’s a good swoop pilot, and I never lost when I bet on him, but enough is enough. Tonight, I’m going to teach him to respect authority, and he’s going to wish he’d never been born.”

  Shrike’s teeth flashed, much brighter than the gem in his ring. “Or that I’d never ‘found’ him seventeen years ago and brought his sniveling, pants-wetting little behind home to the Luck. I’m a patient, tolerant man …” he sighed theatrically, “as the galaxy knows, but even I have my limits.”

  He glanced over at his brother, who was looking rather uncomfortable. Garris wondered if Larrad was remembering the Solo kid’s last punishment session a year ago. The youth hadn’t been able to walk for two days.

  Shrike’s mouth tightened. He wouldn’t tolerate any softness among his subordinates. “Right, Larrad?” he said too softly.

  “Right, Captain!”

  Han Solo gripped the stolen blaster as he tiptoed along the narrow metal corridor. When he’d wired into the sim and jimmied the lock into the weapons cache, he’d only had a moment to reach in and grab the first weapon that came to hand. There’d been no time to pick and choose.

  Nervously, he pushed strands of damp brown hair back from his forehead, realizing he was sweating. The blaster felt heavy and awkward in his hand as he examined it. Han had seldom held one before, and he only knew how to check the charge from the reading he’d done. He’d never actually fired a weapon. Garris Shrike didn’t permit anyone but his officers to walk around armed. Squinting in the dim light, the young swoop pilot flipped open a small panel in the thickest part of the barrel and peered down at the readouts. Good. Fully charged. Shrike may be a bully and a fool, but he runs a taut ship.

  Not even to himself would the youth admit how much he actually feared and hated the captain of Trader’s Luck. He’d learned long ago that showing fear of any sort was a swift guarantee of a beating—or worse. The only thing bullies and fools respected was courage—or, at least, bravado. So Han Solo had learned never to allow fear to surface in his mind or heart. There were times when he was dimly aware that it was there, deep down, buried under layers of street toughness, but anytime he recognized it for what it was, Han resolutely buried it even deeper.

  Experimentally, he swung the blaster up to eye level and awkwardly closed one brown eye as he sighted along the barrel. The muzzle of the weapon wavered slightly, and Han cursed softly under his breath as he realized his hand was trembling. Come on, he told himself, show some backbone, Solo. Getting off this ship and away from Shrike is worth a little risk.

  Reflexively, he glanced over his shoulder, then turned back just in time to duck under a low-hanging power coupling. He’d chosen this route because it avoided all the living quarters and recreation areas, but it was so narrow and low-ceilinged that he was beginning to feel claustrophobic as he tiptoed forward, resisting the urge to turn and look back over his shoulder.

  Ahead of him, the near tunnel widened out, and Han realized he was almost at his destination. Only a few more minutes, he told himself, continuing to move with a stealthy grace that made his progress as soundless as that of a wonat’s furred toe-pads. He was skirting the hyperdrive modules now, and then a larger corridor intersected. Han turned right, relieved that he could now walk without stooping.

  He crept up to the door of the big galley and hesitated outside, his ears and nose busy. Sounds … yes, only the ones he’d been expecting to hear. The soft clatter of metal pans, the splooooch of dough being punched, and then the faint sounds of it being kneaded.

  He could smell the dough, now. Wastril bread, his favorite. Han’s mouth tightened. With any luck, he wouldn’t be here to eat any of this particular batch.

  Sticking the blaster into his belt, he opened the door and stepped into the galley. “Hey … Dewlanna …” he said softly. “It’s me. I’ve come to say good-bye.”

  The tall, furred being who had been vigorously kneading the wastril dough swung around to face him with a soft, inquiring growl.

  Dewlanna’s real name was Dewlannamapia, and she had been Han’s closest friend since she’d come to live aboard Trader’s Luck nearly ten years ago, when Han had been about nine. (The young swoop pilot had no idea of when he’d been born, of course. Or who his parents had been. If it hadn’t been for Dewlanna, he wouldn’t even have known that his last name was “Solo.”)

  Han couldn’t speak Wookiee—trying to reproduce the growls, barks, roars, and rumbling grunts made his throat sore, and he knew he sounded ridiculous—but he understood it very well. For her part, Dewlanna couldn’t speak Basic, but she understood it as well as she did her own language. So communication between the human youth and the elderly Wookiee widow was fluent, but … different.

  Han had gotten used to it years ago and never thought about it anymore. He and Dewlanna just … talked. They understood each other perfectly. Now he hefted the stolen blaster, careful not to point it at his friend. “Yes,” he repiled in responce to Dewlanna’s comment, “tonight’s the night. I’m getting off Trader’s Luck and I’m never coming back.”

  Dewlanna
rumbled at him worriedly as she automatically resumed kneading her dough. Han shook his head, giving her a lopsided grin. “You worry too much, Dewlanna. Of course I’ve got it all planned. I’ve got a spacesuit stashed in a locker near the robot freighter docks, and there’s a ship docked there now that will be departing as soon as it’s unloaded and refueled. A robot freighter, and it’s headed where I want to go.”

  Dewlanna punched her dough, then growled a soft interrogatory.

  “I’m heading for Ylesia,” Han told her. “Remember I told you all about it? It’s a religious colony near Hutt space, and they offer pilgrims sanctuary from the outside universe. I’ll be safe from Shrike there. And”—he held up a small holodisk where the Wookiee cook could see it—“look at this! They’re advertising for a pilot! I already used up the last of my payout credits from that job we pulled, to send a message, telling them I’m coming to interview for the job.”

  Dewlanna roared softly.

  “Hey, I can’t let you do that,” Han protested, watching the cook set the loaves into pans and slide them into the thermal grid to bake. “I’ll be okay. I’ll lift some credits on my way to the robot ship. Don’t worry, Dewlanna.”

  The Wookiee ignored him as she shuffled quickly across the galley, her hairy, slightly stooped form moving rapidly despite her advanced age. Dewlanna was nearly six hundred years old, Han knew. Old even for a Wookiee.

  She disappeared into the door of her private living quarters, and then, a moment later, reappeared, clutching a pouch woven of some silky material that might even, from the look of it, be Wookiee fur.

  She held it out to him with a soft, insistent whine.

  Han shook his head again, and childishly put his hands behind his back. “No,” he said firmly. “I’m not taking your savings, Dewlanna. You’ll need those credits to buy passage to join me.”

  The Wookiee cocked her head and made a short, questioning sound.

  “Of course you’re going to join me!” Han said. “You don’t think I’m going to leave you here to rot on this hulk, do you? Shrike gets crazier every year. Nobody’s safe aboard the Luck. When I get to Ylesia and get settled in, I’m going to send for you to join me. Ylesia’s a religious retreat, and they offer their pilgrims sanctuary. Shrike won’t be able to touch us there.”