Hero's Trial: Agents of Chaos I (10 page)

Entering the starboard aft corridor and moving forward, Han passed the bunk room he’d often used as his personal quarters, and within which he had nearly had a showdown with Gallandro, then the galaxy’s fastest gun.

Dead now, like so many others from the glory days.

Han spread his arms in a hatchway in the interior wall and leaned into the galley. Laughing to himself, he recalled preparing pudding in cora shells and spiced aric tongue for Leia, when he’d spirited her off to Dathomir during his very wrongheaded courtship of her.

A few more steps brought him full circle to the docking arm. But instead of exiting, Han continued on to the cockpit pod and reluctantly entered. Stepping between the pair of rear chairs, he leaned stiff-armed on the console and gazed through the fan-shaped viewport at the spare-parts shelves he and Chewie had erected on the docking bay wall only the year before.

Ultimately he dropped himself into the outsize copilot’s seat and sat for a long while with his eyes closed and his thoughts shut down.

A month earlier, Chewie had still seemed so alive to him that he could almost hear the sound of the Wookiee’s angry yaups or happy foghorn laughs reverberating in the docking bay. Sitting in the pilot’s seat, Han would glance to his right, and there Chewie would be, regarding him sardonically with arms folded across his chest or paws linked behind his head.

Chewie wasn’t the only alien he’d flown with—there’d been the Togorian Muuurgh in the Ylesia years—but the Wookiee had been his only real partner, and he couldn’t imagine piloting the
Falcon
with anyone else. So he could either mothball her, as he had his BlasTech side-arm, or donate her to the Alliance War Museum on Coruscant, as persistent curators had been urging him to do for fifteen years.

A museum was probably where he belonged, as well,
Han told himself. Like the
Falcon
, he was part of the past and of little use to anyone now.

He sighed heavily. Life was like a game of sabacc: the cards could change at random, and what you were sure was a winning hand could end up losing you the pot.

Instinctively, he reached under the control console for the metallic flask of vacuum-distilled jet juice he and Chewie had often kept secreted there, but it was gone—placed elsewhere by one of the kids or swiped by some disreputable mechanic.

His minor disappointment quickly turned to bitter anger, and he slammed the edge of his right fist repeatedly on the console until his hand went numb. Then he lowered his head to his folded arms and let his tears flow.

“Ah, Chewie,” he said out loud.

Han was on his way to Eastport’s transport center when a voice behind him yelled, “Slick!”

Without slowing his pace, he glanced over his shoulder, then came to a dead stop on the beltway and spun around, grinning ear to ear. “Now that’s a name I haven’t heard in a long time,” he said to the stocky, gray-haired human who was hurrying to catch up with him.

The man grasped Han’s proffered hand and tugged him into a backslapping embrace. When they separated, Han was still smiling broadly.

“What’s it been, Roa—thirty years?”

“I couldn’t tell you exactly when, but I can tell you where. Departure terminal of Roonadan Spaceport in the Corporate Sector. You and a lovely, dark-haired young woman were waiting to board the
Lady of Mindor
to Ammuud, I believe.”

“Fiolla of Lorrd,” Han said, as if snatching the name from thin air. He gestured with his chin toward Roa. “You had on a white business suit, with some kind of rainbow sash …”

“And you, my young friend, were wearing an especially wary look.” Roa’s rheumy blue eyes glinted. “You told me you were out of the business, running a collection agency. Han Solo Associated, wasn’t it? The next thing I hear, you’ve won the Battle of Yavin single-handed.”

“Not true,” Han said, “I had help.”

Roa stroked his clean-shaven jaw. “Let’s see, then I heard that you’d had yourself encased in carbonite—for posterity, I assumed at the time.”

Han narrowed his eyes. “Actually, I was thinking of marketing molds of myself.”

Roa laughed, then showed him a look of mild rebuke. “I warned you about working with the Hutts.”

“You should have warned Jabba about working with me.”

Han appraised Roa’s Askajian suit, chromasheath ankle boots, and the rings that sparkled on the pinkies of his plump hands. Roa was already the grand old man of the smuggling trade when the late Mako Spince had introduced Han to him on Nar Shaddaa. Honorable, good-natured, and generous to a fault, Roa had launched many a young outlaw into the business, including Han, whom Roa had brought through his first Kessel Run. Han had even worked for him for a time, and along with Chewie, Lando, Salla Zend, and a couple of the other Nar Shaddaa regulars, had attended Roa’s wedding, after which the old man had retired from smuggling, at his wife’s insistence.

“So, you still in import-export?”

“Sold everything—almost ten years ago now.”

Han studied him some more. “Roa, you don’t look like you’ve aged a day since Roonadan.”

“Nor do you,” Roa said, almost convincingly.

Han smiled lopsidedly and tapped his forefinger against his front teeth. “Regrown.” He touched his nose. “Broken and repaired so many times there’s hardly any original tissue left. Plus, my face is all out of whack. This eye’s higher than the other one.”

“And you think I come by my youthful appearance naturally?” Roa asked theatrically.

“Don’t tell me, you’re a clone, right?”

Roa laughed. “Next best thing: rejuvenation therapy, coupled with some daily myostim.” He displayed a noble profile. “I instructed the cosmeds to leave just enough age to keep me looking distinguished.”

“And you do, you old scoundrel.”

“Besides, the treatments were Lwyll’s idea—mostly.”

Han had an image of Roa’s rich-voiced, blond-haired, elegant wife. “How is she?”

Roa smiled weakly. “She died a few months back.”

Han’s lips became a thin line. “I’m sorry to hear that, Roa.”

Roa didn’t respond immediately. “And I was sorry to hear about Chewbacca, Han. I actually tried to obtain authorization to visit Kashyyyk for the memorial, but you know how Wookiees can be about granting permission to humans.”

Han nodded. “They’ve got a long memory for what the Empire did to them.”

“Who doesn’t.”

Han was quiet for a moment. “So what brings you to Coruscant? I thought you liked wide open space.”

Roa’s eyes darted. “To tell you the truth, Han—you. You’re the reason I’m here.”

Han felt a shiver pass through him. Because of a series of unexpected encounters with Roa over the years, in out-of-the-way places like Nar Shaddaa and Roonadan, the old man had become one of those people who made Han wonder if the galaxy wasn’t a lot smaller than he’d been led to believe, regardless of his own far-ranging journeys.

“Somehow I expected you to say that,” he said at last.

Roa put his hands on Han’s shoulders. “What do you say we go someplace where we can talk?”

Han nodded. “There’s a restaurant in the transport center.”

They rode the beltway indoors, talking about old friends—Vonzel, Tregga, Sonniod, the Briil twins—and familiar places, though Han was clearly preoccupied. All these years later he could still recite Roa’s Rules—never ignore a call for help; take only from those who are richer than yourself; don’t play sabacc unless you’re prepared to lose; don’t pilot a ship under the influence; and always be prepared to make a quick getaway—but that didn’t mean he trusted Roa unconditionally.

At the Spacer’s Lounge, a courtesy droid showed them to a table on the patio, where a group of Duros and Gotals were watching a shock-ball match on the HoloNet. Bland renditions of twenty-year-old jizz classics wafted from unseen emitters. For old times’ sake Han and Roa ordered flagons of ebla beer—a Bonadan export. Halfway
through their first, Han asked to know the purpose of Roa’s seeking him out.

“Fair enough,” Roa said, setting the flagon down on the table and patting his mouth dry. “Do you remember a smuggler from the old days named Reck Desh?”

Han thought for a moment and grinned. “Tall, sinewy guy. Fond of body markings, piercings, electrum jewelry. Chewbacca and I partnered with him on a small job for you, running R’alla mineral water into Rampa.” His grin broadened. “The
Falcon
was being worked on by Doc Vandangante, so you loaned us your ship—the
Wayfarer
. Reck claimed she was faster than the
Falcon
, and after the Rampa Rapids run, we raced for fifty cases of Gizer ale.”

“Which you and the Wook won, hands down.”

Han nodded. “Reck was a decent navigator, but he never impressed me as a pilot.”

Roa took a drink and licked his lips. “Sometimes you only know a soldier when he becomes an officer.”

“Meaning what?”

“Reck’s gone over.”

“Gone over to who?”

“To the enemy, Han,” Roa said, leaning forward. “Or at least to a group of mercenaries working for the Yuuzhan Vong.”

“That can’t be right. Reck wasn’t the traitor type. Besides, he and Chewie got along great. No way Reck would have anything to do with the Vong after what they did to Chewie.”

“Maybe he didn’t hear about Chewie. Or maybe the credits are too good.” Roa paused briefly. “The group Reck’s fallen in with call themselves the Peace Brigade.
Word is they’re stirring up anti-Jedi sentiment and scouting out worlds where the Yuuzhan Vong can repeat what they did at Sernpidal.”

Han’s eyes narrowed in irritation. “Why are you telling me this, Roa?”

Roa lowered his gaze. “Because Lwyll died on one of the worlds the Peace Brigade softened up for the kill.”

Han’s voice deserted him. He stared at his old friend.

“If we had left a day sooner,” Roa went on, without looking at Han. “But I had to take care of some business.” He laughed shortly and ruefully, then looked at Han, his eyes moist. “Always business. Lwyll died in the first Yuuzhan Vong wave. I was one of a handful who made it out alive.”

Han squeezed his eyes shut and struck the table with the edge of his hand. But when he raised his eyes to Roa, his anger was muted by realization. “So your coming here—this is as much between you and Reck as it is between you and me.”

Roa held Han’s polar gaze. “I don’t want anyone else to suffer because of what Reck and his cohorts are doing. The Yuuzhan Vong are masterful enough at causing tragedies without the Peace Brigade’s help. If I could deal with Reck on my own, I would, but I’m more frail than I look, Han.”

“Yeah, and who better to help you than me, huh? A guy who just lost his partner.”

“To put it bluntly: yes.”

Han snorted. “Never ignore a call for help, right, Roa?” He got to his feet and walked to the tall windows that overlooked the spaceport’s liftoff zones. There wasn’t a moment when some ship wasn’t leaving for
somewhere. When he returned to the table, he spun the chair around and straddled it.

“Where are Reck and his crew now?” he asked in a low voice.

“I don’t know, Han. But I know where we could go to find out. First stop would be—”

Han threw up his hands. “Don’t say anything. If I don’t know where we’re going, then I can’t tell anyone.”

“We’d have to leave while the scent is fresh,” Roa said.

Han tugged at his lower lip and thought for a moment. “Your ship’s here?”

Roa looked surprised. “Of course. But you want
me
to pilot
you
? Now that’s a switch.”

“Yes or no, Roa?”

Roa made a placating gesture. “Don’t get me wrong, son, I’m more than happy to oblige. I just naturally figured you’d want to take the
Falcon
.”

Han shook his head. “As an occasionally smart-mouthed droid I know once said, the
Falcon
’s better configured for running away than engagement. And besides, she’s become a ghost ship.”

“Aggressive postures are somewhat problematic when you haven’t the slightest notion of your enemy’s battle plan,” Colonel Ixidro Legorburu told the commanders of the New Republic Defense Force and a melange of high-ranking officers. “Only now, with the fall of thirty planetary systems, the destruction of Helska, Sernpidal, and Ithor, and the more recent loss of Obroa-skai, are we beginning to have some sense of the path the Yuuzhan Vong are intent on cutting through the galaxy.”

Legorburu’s upbringing on agrarian M’haeli belied a shrewd intellect and urbane wit. A former intelligence officer, he had served as a tactical aide during the Yevethan crisis and had since been promoted to director of the Home Fleet’s Battle Assessment Division.

“Let me emphasize, though, that the strategy underlying their incursion remains as much a mystery as their ultimate objective.”

Exigency had dictated that the briefing be held on Kuat rather than Coruscant, though several officers and specialists were participating via real-time hologram from the New Republic capital and a host of other worlds.

“What have we been able to conclude regarding their
origin?” Admiral Sien Sovv asked. Fulcrum of the Defense Force command staff, the Sullustan sat at a data console adapted to his smallish hands and capable of filtering background noise, which might otherwise have proved irritating to his keen hearing.

“As you know, the first world to fall to the Yuuzhan Vong—to be razed by them, I should say—was Belkadan, where the ExGal Society had a listening post.” Legorburu manipulated a parabolic holoprojector to fashion a 3-D view of the galaxy’s Tingel Arm. “However, despite talk of an extragalactic arrival, our initial supposition was that they were native to some unknown stellar system, here, in the central Tingel, midway between the Corporate Sector and Imperial Remnant space.”

“Does that hypothesis remain viable?” Brigadier General Etahn A’baht asked. Former commander of the Fifth Fleet, A’baht had also been involved in the Yevethan crisis. A Dornean, A’baht had tough aubergine skin and eyefolds that swelled and fanned out.

Legorburu looked to the representative from the Institute for Sentient Studies, headquartered on Baraboo. But before the Ithorian could respond, Sovv rose to his feet.