"Ann Crispin "Han Solo. The Hutt Gambit"" - читать интересную книгу автора

Ann Crispin "Han Solo. The Hutt Gambit"
(STARWARS. Han Solo Trilogy #2)

Han Solo, former Imperial officer, sat despondently at a sticky table in a dingy bar on Devaron, sipping an infe-rior Alderaanian Сale and wishing he were Сalone. Not that he minded the other denizens of the bar horned Devish males and furry Devish females, plus a smattering of nonhumans from other worlds. Han was used to Сaliens; he'd grown up with them aboard Trader~ Luck, a large trading ship that wandered the spacelanes of the galaxy. By the time he was ten, Han had been able to speak and un-derstand half a dozen nonhuman languages.
No, it wasn't the aliens around him. It was the Сalien beside him. Han took a swig of his Сale, grimaced at the sour taste, then glanced sidelong at the cause of all his troubles. The huge, hairy being gazed back at him with concerned blue eyes. Han sighed heavily. If onhj he'd go home! But the Wookiee---Chew-something-utterly refused to go home to Kashyyyk, despite Han's repeated urging. The · alien claimed he owed something called a "life debt" to former Imperial Lieutenant Han Solo.
Life debt . . . great. Just what I need, Han thought bit-terly. A big furry nursemaid trailing after me, giving me advice, fussing over me if I drink too much, telling me he~ gonna take care of me. Great. Just great.
Han scowled into his Сale, and the pale, watery brew reflected his countenance back at him, distorting his fea-tures until he appeared nearly as alien as the Wookiee. What was his name? Chew-something. The Wookiee had told him, but Han wasn't good at pronouncing Wookiee, even though he understood it perfectly.
Besides, he didn't want to learn this particular Wookiee's name. If he learned his name, he'd likely never get rid of his hairy shadow.
Hah rubbed a hand over his face blearily, feeling several days' stubble. Ever since he'd been kicked out of the ser-vice, he kept forgetting to shave. When he'd been a cadet, then a junior lieutenant, then a full lieutenant, he'd been meticulous with his grooming, the way an officer and a gentleman should be . . . but now . . . what difference did it make?
Han raised his glass in a slightly unsteady hand and gulped the sour ale. He put the empty tankard down, and glanced around the bar for the server. Need another drink. One more, and I'll feel much better. Just one more . . .
The Wookiee moaned quietly. Han's scowl deepened. "Keep your opinions to yourself, hairball," he snarled. "I'll know when I've had enough. Th' las' thing I need is a Wookiee playin' nursemaid for me."
The Wookiee-Chewbacca, that was it-growled softly, his blue eyes shadowed with concern. Han's lip curled. "I'm perfectly capable of lookin' after myself, and don't you forget it. Just Сcause I saved your furry butt from being vaporized doesn't mean you owe me a thing. I tol' you before-I owed a Wookiee, long ago. Owed her my life, coupla times over. So I saved you, Сcause I owed her."
Chewbacca made a sound halfway between a moan and a snarl. Han shook his head. "No, that means you don't owe me a thing, don't you get it? I owed her, but I couldn't repay her. So I helped you out, which makes us even . . . square. So will you please take those credits I gave you, and go back to Kashyyyk? You ain't doin' me any favors staying here, hairball. I need you like I need a blaster burn on my butt."
Affronted, Chewbacca drew himself up to his full Wookiee height. He growled low in his throat.
"Yeah, I know I tossed away my career and my livin' that day on Coruscant when I stopped Commander Nyklas from shootin' you. I hate slavery, and watchin' Nyklas use a force whip ain't a particularly appetizing sight. I know Wookiees, you see. When I was growin' up, a Wookiee was my best friend. I knew you were gonna turn on Nyklas before you did it-just like I knew Nyklas would go for his blaster. I couldn't just stand there and watch him blast you. But don't go tryin' to make me out as some kinda hero, Chewie. I don't need a partner, and I don't want a friend. My name says it all, pal. Solo."
Han jerked a thumb at his chest. "Solo. In my language, that means me, alone, by myself. Get it? That's the way it is, and that's the way I like it. So . . . no offense, Chewie, but why don't you just scram. As in, go away. Perma-nently."
Chewie stared at Han for a long moment, then he snorted disdainfully, turned, and strode out of the bar. Hah wondered disinterestedly if he'd actually managed to convince the big hairy oaf to leave for good. If he had, that was reason for celebration. For another drink . . .
As he glanced around the bar, he saw that over in the corner several patrons were gathering around a table. A sabacx~ game was forming. Han wondered whether he ought to try to get in on it. Mentally he reviewed the con-tents of his credit pouch, and decided that might not be a bad idea. He usually had very good luck at sabace, and every credit counted, these days. These days . . .
Han sighed. How long had it been since that fateful day when he'd been sent to assist Commander Nyklas with the crew of Wookiee laborers assigned to complete a new wing on the Imperial Hall of Heroes? He counted, grimacing as he realized that he'd lost days on end in there . . . days probably spent in a dark haze of ale and bitter recrimina-tion. In two days it would be two months.
Han's mouth tightened and he ran an unsteady hand through his unruly brown hair. For the past five years he'd kept it cut short in approved military fashion, but now it was growing out, getting almost shaggy. He had a sudden, sharp mental image of himself as he'd been then-immacu-lately groomed, insignia polished, boots shining-and glanced down at himself.
What a contrast between then and now. He was wearing a stained, grayish shirt that had Once been white, a stained, gray neo-leather jacket he'd purchased secondhand, and dark blue military-style trousers with his Corellian blood-stripe running down the outside seam. Only the boots were the same. They were custom-fitted when each cadet was commissioned, so the Empire hadn't wanted them back. Han had been commissioned just a little over eight months ago, and no junior lieutenant had ever been prouder of his rank-or of those shining boots.
The boots were scuffed now, and worn. Han's lip curled as he regarded them. Scuffed and worn by life, Сall the spit and polish gone . . . that about described him these days, tOO.
In a moment of painful honesty, Han admitted that he probably wouldn't have been able to stay in the Imperial Navy even if he hadn't gotten himself cashiered for rescu-ing and freeing Chewbacca. He'd started his career with high hopes, but disillusionment had quickly set in. The prejudice against nonhumans had been hard to take for someone raised the way Han had been, but he'd bitten his tongue and remained silent. But the endless, silly bureau-cratic regs, the blind stupidity of so many of the officers-
Hah had already begun to wonder how long he'd be able to take it.
But he'd never figured on a dishonorable discharge, loss of pension and back pay, and worst of all-being black-listed as a pilot. They hadn't taken his license, but Han had quickly discovered that no legitimate company would hire him. He'd tramped the permacrete of Coruscant for weeks, in between alcoholic binges, looking for work and found all respectable doors closed to him.
Then, one night, as he'd taveru-hopped in a section of the planet-wide city near the alien ghetto, a huge, furred shadow had flowed out of the deeper shadows of an alley and confronted Han.
For long moments Han's ale-fogged brain hadn't even recognized the Wookiee as the one he'd saved. It was only when Chewbacca began speaking, thanking Han for saving his life and freeing him from slavery, that Han had realized who he was. Chewie had been quite direct his people didn't mince words. He, Chewbacca, had sworn a life debt to Han Solo. Where Han went, from that day forward, he would go, too.
And he had.
When Han had finally' gotten them passage off Corus-cant, piloting a ship with a load of contraband to Tralus (the cargo had been magnetically sealed into the hold-Han hadn't had the equipment or the energy to break in and find out exactly what it was he was smuggling), Chewbacca had gone with him. On the week-long voyage, Han began teaching the Wookiee the rudiments of piloting. Space travel was boring, and at least that gave him something to do besides brood over lost futures . . .
Once on Tralus, he turned over his ship and cargo, then went looking for another assignment. He wound up at Truthful Toryl's Used Spaceship l~t, asking the Duros for work. Toryl was an old acquaintance, and he knew Hah was a reliable and expert pilot.
The Empire was tightening its grip Сall the time, taking away the rights of its worlds as well as its citizens. Duro had a shipbuilding industry nearly equal to that of CoreIlia, but they had recently been prohibited by Imperial direetive from placing weapons systems in their ships. Han's clandes-tine cargo proved to be a shipment of components useful in outfitting ships with weapons.
By the time they reached Duro, Chewie was becoming a fair copilot and gunner. Han hoped that teaching the Wookiee these skills would make it easier to get rid of him on some world. If he knew the Wookiee could hire on as a skilled pilot or copilot, he wouldn't hesitate to dump him in some port and then lift ship-or so Han told himself.
Once on Duro, Han drank up some of the profits from his mission, while waiting to be contacted for another pilot-ing job. His patience was rewarded one day when a Sullus-tan approached him and offered him good pay to take a ship from Duro, avoiding any Imperial ports of call, a third of the way across the galaxy to Kothlis, a Bothan colony wodd.
Of course the sleek, swift little craft was "hot"-stolen from some wealthy owner's landing pad. Han had to re-mind himself that he was no longer in the business of keep-ing the law he was in the business of breaking it.
So he set his jaw and piloted the stolen vessel to her new home on Kothlis. Then he went looking for another assign-ment, and eventually found one. On the surface, this job seemed legit. Hah was to ferry a large halargon from Koth-lis to Devaron.
Han had never heard of a nalargon before, which wasn't surprising, as his exposure to music had been limited. A nalargon proved to be a very large instrument that was operated by a keyboard and foot pedals. Pipes and sub-harmonic resonance generators produced sound on many wave bands. The instruments were in demand for the jizz craze that was sweeping the galaxy.
Accordingly, the huge instrument was brought aboard the ship Han had been assigned, bolted to the deck, then left sealed in the cargo compartment.
Han investigated the instrument once he and Chewie were safely in hyperspace. He tapped it, poked and nudged it, turned it on, then tried pressing the keys and pedals. No sound, except the sound he made trying to make it work.
But his tappings proved it wasn't hollow. Han sat back on his heels, gazing at the huge instrument. The thing was obviously a dummy-a shell, with something inside. What?
Han knew from his stint in the Imperial Navy that Devaron was a world in turmoil. Not long ago a group of rebels had risen against the Imperial governor, demanding independence from the Empire. Han's lip curled disdain-fully. Stupid fools, thinking they had a chance against the Empire. Seven hundred of the rebels had been captured when the ancient holy city of Montellian Serat had been overrun by Imperial troops a few months ago. They'd been summarily executed without trial, killed without mercy. The remaining rebels were still hiding out in the hills, hold-ing out, attacking commando fashion, but Han knew it was only a matter of time before they, too, would be ground beneath Palpatine's heel, their world rigidly controlled by the Empire, as so many other worlds had been.
Eyeing the nalargon, Hah made some mental calcula-tions based on the instrument being hollow. Yeah . . . a short-bore mobile laser cannon would just about fit inside that shell. The weapon could be mounted on the back of a landskimmer, and was capable of blowing small targets-a building, or a short-range Imperial fighter-into very small pieces.
It could also be blast rifles, of course. Ten or fifteen would fit inside there, if they were cleverly packed.
Whatever was inside the nalargon, Han had a bad feel-ing about the assignment he'd taken on. He resolved to land the ship, then walk away from it and not go back. He had fake landing codes, provided by the Bothans. He'd use them, and then get away as quickly as he could . . .
He'd landed yesterday, and for Сall Han knew, the ship was still sitting on the field with the nalargon in her cargo hold. But he had a hunch that the rebels on Devaron hadn't wasted any time . . .
Han shook his head a little blearily, half wishing he hadn't had that last ale. The sour taste was still in his mouth, and his head bused. Han looked from side to side, testingly, and the room stayed still. Good. He wasn't too drunk to play sabacc and win. Let~ get on with it, Solo. Every little credit helps . . .
The smuggler rose to his feet and strolled quite steadily across the room to the table. "Greetings, gentles," he said, in Basic. "Got room for another player?"
The dealer, a Devaronian male, turned his head with its waxed, polished horus to regard Hah questioningly. He must have decided that the newcomer looked okay, be-cause he shrugged and gestured at the vacant seat. "Wel-come, Pilot. As long as your credits hold out, so does your welcome." He grinned, showing sharp, feral teeth. Han nodded, then slid into the seat.
He'd first learned to play sabacc when he was about fourteen. Han anted credits into the high-stakes pot, the "sabacc pot," then picked up the two cards he'd been dealt and scanned them, all the while covertly studying his oppo-nents. When the bet for the "hand pot" came round to him, he tossed the requisite number of credit disks into that pot, too.
Han had the six of staves and the Queen of Air and Darkness, but at any moment the dealer could push a but-ton, and all the card-values would change. Han eyed his opponents: a tiny Sullustan, a furry Devaronian female, the Devaronian male dealer, and a huge female Barabel, a rep-tiloid being from Barab One. This was the first time Han had seen a Barabel up close, and she was an impressive sight. Over two meters tall, covered with tough black scales that would repel even a stun blast, the Barabel had a mouthful of daggedike teeth and a clublike tail that report-edly made them nasty customers in a fight. This one, who had introduced herself as Shallamar, seemed peaceful enough, though. She picked up the newest card-chip she'd been dealt and studied her hand intently through narrowed slit-pupiled eyes.
The object of sabacc was to get cards to equal, but not exceed, the number twenty-three-either positive or nega-tive. In case of a tie, positive totals beat negatives.