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

by A. C. Crispin

  “Huh …” Thrackan was still staring. “Well, I guess you must be one of the family …”

  “Looks like it,” Han agreed, not realizing until he spoke that it was a pun. But Thrackan didn’t appear to notice. He seemed mesmerized by Han and, releasing his grip on the other’s arm, walked around him, studying him from every angle.

  “Where did you run away from?” Thrackan asked. “Will anyone come looking for you?”

  “No,” Han said shortly. He wasn’t about to trust Thrackan with anything that could come back to haunt him. “Listen,” he said, “we look alike, so we must be related, right? Could we … could we be brothers?” Funny, but after all his dreaming about finding a family that would rescue him from Trader’s Luck, Han found himself hoping that wasn’t the case.

  “Not a chance,” Thrackan said with a curl of his lip. “My dad died a year after I was born, and my mom shut herself up here ever since. She’s kind of … a loner.”

  That fit with what Han had read about the Sal-Solo family. Tiion Solo had married a man named Randil Sal, some twenty years ago. The public records had carried his obituary.

  “Maybe she’d know something about me,” Han said. “Could I see her?” He took a deep breath. “Please?”

  Thrackan seemed to consider. “Okay,” he said finally, “but if she gets … upset, you’ve got to leave, okay? Mom doesn’t like people. She’s like her grandfather, won’t have human servants, just droids. She says humans betray and kill each other and droids never do.”

  Han followed Thrackan into the huge house, through rooms full of shrouded furniture and paintings draped against dust. The family, Thrackan explained, used only a few rooms, to save the cleaning droids time and effort.

  Finally, they came to Thrackan’s mother’s sitting room. Tiion Solo was a pale, dark-haired woman, plump and unhealthy-looking. She was far from attractive. But, looking at her, studying her face, seeing the bones beneath the puffy flab, Han thought that once, long ago, she might have been beautiful. Seeing her features, a memory stirred within him, so faint …

  Once, he’d seen features similar to hers, Han thought. Long ago, far away. The “memory,” if memory it was, was as fleeting and elusive as a drift of smoke.

  “Mother,” Thrackan said, “this is Han Solo. He’s related to us, isn’t he?”

  Tiion Sal-Solo’s gaze traveled to Han’s face, and her eyes widened in distress. She stared at the boy in horror. Her mouth worked, and a thin, shrill mewling sound emerged. “No … no!” she cried. Tears gathered in her brown eyes, coursed down the flabby cheeks. “No, it isn’t possible! He’s gone! They’re both gone!”

  Burying her face in her hands, she began to weep hysterically.

  Thrackan grabbed Han by the arm and dragged him out of the house. “Now look what you did, you little idiot,” the youth said, glancing uneasily up at his mother’s window. “She’ll be a mess for days, she always is when she gets like that.”

  Han shrugged. “I didn’t do anything. She just looked at me, that’s all. What’s wrong with her?”

  With a muffled curse, Thrackan backhanded Han across the face so hard it split the younger boy’s lip. “Shut up!” he snarled. “You’ve got no right to talk about her! There’s nothing wrong with her, hear me? Nothing!”

  The blow stung, but Han had been hit often, by experts, and one thing he knew was how to take a punch and stay on his feet. For a moment he was tempted to fly at the older boy’s throat, but he made himself relax. There had been genuine pain in Thrackan’s eyes as he defended his mother. Han figured he might have done the same thing, if he’d ever had a mother. I have to stay here, he reminded himself. Anything is better than Shrike …

  “Sorry,” he managed to say.

  Thrackan looked a little abashed. “Just watch what you say about my mom, okay?”

  The next six weeks were some of the strangest of Han’s life. Thrackan allowed Han to stay with him in his rooms (Tiion almost never came into Thrackan’s part of the house), and the two of them spent time talking and getting to know each other.

  Thrackan was a demanding host, Han soon learned. Han had to agree with him completely, and rush to do his bidding, or he lost his temper and cuffed the younger boy. Thrackan made Han pilot him around the countryside in an aging landspeeder, and the two of them even went on a few expeditions to vacant estates Thrackan knew about, whose inhabitants were away on vacation. Thrackan would demand that Han pick the locks and disable the security systems, and then the older boy would steal whatever took his fancy.

  Han began to wonder whether he’d done himself any favor by running away from Trader’s Luck. Two things kept him at the Solo estate: his fear that if he displeased Thrackan, the older boy would turn him over to the authorities—thus allowing Shrike to locate him; and his hope that Thrackan would break down and tell Han everything he knew about who Han really was. He kept hinting that he knew how they might be related.

  “All in good time,” Thrackan would say when Han tried to pry information out of him. “All in good time, Han. Let’s go flying. I want you to teach me to pilot the speeder.”

  Han tried, but Thrackan wasn’t very good at it. The older boy nearly crashed them several times before he mastered even the rudiments of flying the small craft.

  I have to get out of here, Han kept telling himself. I’ll run away to some other world, where they’ll never find me. Maybe I can get adopted or get a job or something. There’s got to be some way …

  But he couldn’t think of any way to get free of Thrackan. The older boy was vindictive, sadistic, and just plain mean. Several times Han saw him torture insects or animals, and when he realized that his actions disturbed the younger boy, he did it frequently. Han had never had a pet, but he tended to like furred creatures because of Dewlanna.

  He missed her every day.

  The situation became more and more explosive, until one day Thrackan really lost his temper with Han. Grabbing the younger boy by the hair, he dragged him to the kitchen, picked up a knife, and held it before Han’s eyes. “See this?” he snarled. “If you don’t apologize, and don’t do exactly what I say, I’m going to cut your ears off. Now apologize!” He shook Han hard. “And you’d better make me believe it!”

  Han stared at the shining blade of the knife, and wet his lips. He tried to force out words of apology, but a huge burst of red rage welled up in him. All the insults, all the cuffs and blows and beatings—Shrike’s as well as Thrackan’s—seemed to come to a head.

  With a bellow as loud as a Wookiee’s, Han went berserk. He slammed his fist against Thrackan’s arm, sending the knife flying, and slammed his other elbow into Thrackan’s stomach. The breath whooshed out of the older boy, and before Thrackan could recover himself, Han was all over him.

  Kicking, biting, punching, gouging—Han used every dirty trick he’d learned on the streets to beat up Thrackan. Stunned and reeling from Han’s fury, Thrackan never did recover, until the fight ended with Han sitting astride Thrackan, holding the knife to the older boy’s throat.

  “Hey …” Thrackan’s eyes glittered like a trapped vrelt’s. “Hey, Han, stop kidding around. This isn’t funny.”

  “Neither is cutting off my ears,” Han said. “Listen, I’ve had it. You tell me what you know, and you tell me right now, or I swear I’ll cut your throat wide open. And then I’m leaving here. I’ve had it with you.”

  Thrackan’s dark eyes were wide with fear. Something he’d seen on Han’s face must have convinced the older boy that Han was so angry he would be wise not to push him. “Okay, okay!”

  “Now,” Han said. “Talk.”

  Stammering with fear, Thrackan told the story.

  Years ago, Thrackan’s grandfather, Denn Solo, and his grandmother, Tira Gama Solo, had lived on the fifth inhabited planet in the Corellian system, a colony world called Tralus. Those were perilous times, and roving bands of raiders and pirates threatened many outlying worlds. The raiders never reached Corellia, but they reached Tr
alus. A fleet of them landed and devastated the entire colony.

  “Grandma Solo was pregnant,” Thrackan gasped, because it was hard to breathe with Han sitting on his chest. “And the night their town was attacked, she had her babies. Twins. One of them was later named Tiion. Grandma Solo took her and ran away from the raiders. She managed to hide in a cave in the hills.”

  “Tiion,” Han said. “Your mother.”

  “Right. The other baby was a boy, Grandma Solo said. Her husband took him. There hadn’t even been time to name them. Grandma said it was terrible. Fires everywhere, and people running and screaming. She and Grandpa Denn got separated in the rush to escape.”

  “And?” Han flexed his hand slightly, and the blade moved against Thrackan’s throat.

  “Like I said, Grandma Solo and Tiion escaped. But Grandpa Solo and the baby boy vanished. They were never heard from again.”

  “So who does that make me?” Han said, completely baffled.

  “I don’t know,” Thrackan said. “But if I had to guess, I’d guess that you’re my cousin. That somehow Grandpa Solo and his son got away, and that you’re the son of his son.”

  “Doesn’t anybody know anything but that?” Han demanded, feeling desperate. This was a total dead end—the disappointment was crushing. “Servants?”

  “Grandpa Solo didn’t like human servants. He always had droids. And when Grandma Solo made it back to her family on Corellia, Great-grandpa Gama had all the droids’ memories erased. He thought it would be easier on her that way. He wanted her to get married again, start a new life.” Thrackan struggled to take a deep breath. “But she never did.”

  “So what happened to your mom?”

  “I don’t know. She’s always been afraid to trust people, and she hates crowds. After my dad died, she just wanted to shut herself away. So she did.”

  Han’s knife hand drooped, and he shook his head. “Okay,” he said. “I’m go—”

  With a sudden heave, Thrackan threw him off, and then, before Han could counter the move, their positions were reversed. Han gazed up at his cousin, knowing that he’d be lucky to live through this. Thrackan’s dark eyes blazed with hate, rage, and sadistic pleasure. “You’re going to be very, very sorry, Han,” he said quietly.

  And Han was.

  Thrackan locked him in a bare storeroom for three days, giving him only bread and water. On the afternoon of the third day, as Han was sitting listlessly in a corner, Thrackan unlocked the door. “I’m afraid this is good-bye, coz,” he said cheerfully. “Someone’s here to take you home.”

  Han looked around desperately as Garris and Larrad Shrike followed Thrackan into the room, but as he already knew, there was nowhere to run …

  Han shook his head and refused to let himself think about the days that had followed. Shrike had been held back in his punishment only by the fact that he hadn’t wanted to “damage” Han permanently because of his growing reputation as an expert speeder and swoop pilot. But there had been lots of things he could do that wouldn’t cause permanent damage, and he had done most of them …

  The only time Han had been beaten more severely was after the debacle on Jubilar, when he was seventeen. Han had already been bruised and sore from the gladitorial Free-For-All he’d been forced to fight in, after being caught cheating at cards. That time, Shrike hadn’t bothered with a strap, he’d just used his fists—battering the boy’s face and body until Larrad and several others had pulled him off Han’s unconscious form.

  And now he’s killed Dewlanna, Han thought bitterly. If anyone ever needed killing, it’s Garris Shrike.

  For a moment he wondered why it had never occurred to him to kill the unconscious Shrike before he’d made his getaway aboard the Ylesian Dream. He’d have been doing the inhabitants of Trader’s Luck a favor. Why hadn’t he? He’d had the blaster in his hand …

  Han shook his head. He’d never shot anyone before yesterday, and killing an unconscious man just wasn’t his style.

  But Han knew, without being told, that if Garris Shrike ever caught up with him in the future, he was a dead man. The captain never forgot and he never forgave. He specialized in carrying grudges against anyone who had ever wronged him.

  Han got up again to check their course, and his air pak. Only a few hours worth of air left, now. He did some mental calculations, while staring at the display. Close. It’s going to be close. I’d better be ready to pop the cargo door on this crate as soon as we land … It’s going to be very, very close …

  Although he’d flown hundreds of hours in swoops and speeders, Han’s experience with piloting larger vessels was confined to the times Garris Shrike had permitted him to pilot the Luck’s shuttle on easy runs. He’d taken off and landed, but he’d never before tried to land anything as large as the robot freighter. Han hoped he’d be able to handle it. He had confidence in his ability as a pilot—after all, hadn’t he been the junior speeder champion of all Corellia three years running? And, last year, hadn’t he won the swoop racing championship of the entire Corellian system?

  Still, compared to the Luck’s shuttle, this freighter was huge …

  Han dozed again, then when he awoke, roved restlessly around the cabin, knowing he should be conserving his energy and his air, but unable to stop himself.

  “Sir?” The R2 unit that had been so quiet for so many hours suddenly came back to life. “I must advise you that we have reached the orbit of Ylesia. You must stand ready to make your descent and landing.”

  “Thanks for telling me,” Han said. Going over to the control banks, he scanned the instruments, mentally calculating their descent. This wasn’t going to be easy. He had no way to interface with the navicomputer, except via the R2 unit. A pilot had to make split-second decisions, at times, and in cases like that, Han wouldn’t be able to wait for the R2 unit to reply.

  The ship suddenly shivered, then rocked slightly.

  They were hitting atmosphere, Han realized.

  He took a deep breath and glanced at his air pak reading, realizing it was going to be close … very, very close.

  Here we go, he thought, switching to manual control of the Ylesian Dream. “Hey, R2,” he said tightly, adjusting his course slightly.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Wish me luck.”

  “I-beg-your-pardon, sir, this unit is not—”

  Han swore, and the Ylesian Dream headed down, for the surface of a planet he couldn’t even see. He could see the sensor readouts and the infrared scanners, though, and he realized that Ylesia was a world of tempestuous air currents, even in the upper layers of the atmosphere. Mapping sensors created a global portrait of the planet: shallow seas studded with islands, and three small continents. One lay nearly at the north pole, but the other two, the eastern and western continents, lay nearer the equator, in what must be temperate zones.

  “Great,” he muttered to himself, locating the ship’s home-in beacon. He could use it as a guide to plan his landing. The landing field was on the eastern continent. That must be where the Ylesian colony of priests and religious pilgrims was located.

  The Dream rocked wildly, swooping through the swirling air currents like a child on a rope swing. Han’s suit gloves were clumsy on the undersized diagnostic controls as he used his stabilizers to steady their descent. Trying to get the feel of the controls, Han yawed them to port, then overcompensated, sending them skittering to starboard.

  On the infrared image, a huge blob of red suddenly loomed up. That’s a huge storm! Han thought, using his laterals to even out their descent. He allowed the Dream to drift a few degrees north, figuring that he’d miss the storm, then swing back south later, when he was beneath the maelstrom.

  The ionized particles left in the wake of all that lightning were playing havoc with his instruments, Han realized. He gulped air, felt his chest tighten, and had to fight back panic. Good pilots couldn’t afford to let their emotions get in the way, or they’d wind up dead and that would end their trip real quick, wouldn’t
it?

  “R2,” Han said tightly, “see if you can chart me those storm areas so I can avoid the ion trails that lightning is leaving. Concentrate on the direct flight path between our present location and the landing field on that eastern continent.”

  “Yes, sir,” the R2 unit said.

  Moments later the electrical storm sites appeared before him. “Give me a scaled-down version of that chart in the corner of this screen, R2,” Han ordered. Usually it would be the navicomputer’s job to “merge” the intended flight path with the geographical features and the storm cells, and to suggest an intended course, which the pilot could then implement and modify as needed.

  Han had never missed having a navicomputer at his disposal more than he did at this moment.

  He slowed their headlong rush fractionally, then was forced to kick in their thrusters to get them out of the way of yet another wind shear from a storm cell.

  Sweat was dripping down his face now as he fought the tiny controls, forcing Ylesian Dream into maneuvers only a swoop or a military fighter could reasonably be expected to tackle. Han realized he was still gasping, and wondered for a split second whether it was from stress and adrenaline or whether his air was running out.

  He couldn’t spare the second it would take to check the air pak.

  They were now only a kilometer above the surface of the planet, coming in with a rush. Too fast! Han slowed them, using the braking thrusters roughly. Gee 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.