The Han Solo Adventures (33 page)

The room was furnished sparely but well. Robo-vassals and fine, if dated, conform-lounge furniture showed that the occupants enjoyed their luxuries. Waiting for the two was a woman some years younger than Fiolla.

She was dressed in a thickly embroidered gown trimmed in silvery thread and wore a shawl made of some wispy blue material. Her red-brown hair was held back by a single blue ribbon. She bore on her left cheek the discoloration of a recent injury; Han thought it the mark of a slap. She had a look of hope, and of misgiving.

“Won’t you come in, please, and sit down? I’m afraid they neglected to forward your names to me.”

They introduced themselves and found places in the comfortable furniture. Han wanted very much to hear her ask if he wanted something to drink, but she was so distracted that she ignored the subject altogether.

“I am Ido, sister to the Mor Glayyd,” she said quickly. “Our patrolman didn’t specify your business but I decided to see you, hoping it concerned this… current distress.”

“Meaning the death duel?” Fiolla asked straightforwardly.

The young woman nodded. “Not us,” Han said quickly, to keep the matter clear. Fiolla gave him a caustic look.

“Then I don’t think my brother will have time to speak to you,” Ido went on. “The duel has been twice postponed, though we hadn’t expected that, but no further delay will be allowed.”

Han was about to argue but Fiolla, more the diplomat than he, changed the course of conversation for the moment, asking what had prompted the challenge. Ido’s fingertips went to the mark on her face.

“This is the cause,” she said. “I fear this little mark is my brother’s death sentence. An offworlder appeared here several days ago and contrived to be introduced to me at a reception. We took a turn through the roof garden at his invitation. He became enraged at something I said, or so it seemed. He struck me. My brother had no choice but to make challenge. Since then we’ve learned that this fellow is a famous gunman who has killed many opponents. The whole thing seems a plot to kill my brother, but it’s too late to avoid the duel.”

“What’s his name, the offworlder?” Han asked, interested now.

“Gallandro, he is called,” she replied. Han didn’t recognize the name but, oddly enough, he saw from Fiolla’s face that she had.
She keeps track of some strange information
, he thought.

“I’d hoped you might have come to prevent the duel or intervene,” Ido said. “None of the other clans will, since they envy us and would like to see us in misfortune. And by the Code, no one else in our clan or its service can take my brother’s part. But another outsider may, for the sake of either our interests or his own. That is to say, if it’s a matter that directly concerns him.”

Han was thinking that if he were the Mor Glayyd he’d be shopping around for a fast starship with the family jewelry in his pocket. His musings were interrupted by Fiolla’s voice. “Ido, please let us talk to your brother; there may be something we can do.”

After Ido, overjoyed, had rushed away, Han, ignoring the possibility of listening devices, exploded. “What’s wrong with you? What can
you
do to help him?”

She stared back blithely. “I? Why, nothing. But you can take his place and save him.”

“
Me
?” he howled, coming to his feet so quickly that he nearly bowled over a robo-vassal. The mechanical skittered back with an electronic screech.

“I don’t even know what the fight’s about,” Han continued at high volume. “I’m here looking for someone who owes me ten thousand. I never heard of either of these people. Which reminds me, it looked like you knew about the gunfighter, what’s his name—”

“Gallandro, a name I’ve heard before. If it’s the same man, he’s the territorial manager’s most trusted operative; I’ve only heard his name once before. Odumin, the territorial manager, must be involved in all this; these must be the ‘measures’ Magg informed Zlarb about. If Gallandro kills the Mor Glayyd, it’ll end your tracing of Zlarb’s bosses and your chance to collect. But if you intercede for the Mor Glayyd, we might still get what we want.”

“What about minor details,” Han asked sarcastically, “such as if Gallandro kills me, for example?”

“I thought you were the Han Solo who said he could get more in this life with a blaster than with an open expense account. So this is your department. Besides, Gallandro will almost certainly withdraw when he finds out he’ll have no chance of killing the Mor Glayyd anyway. And who’d dare face the great Han Solo?”

“Nobody wants to and nobody’s going to!”

“Solo, Solo; you’ve eliminated Zlarb, seen Magg with the slavers, and heard what I’ve learned. Do you think they’ll ever stop coming after you? Your one chance is to save the Mor Glayyd and get that information from him so that I can prosecute everyone connected with the slavery ring. And let’s not forget the ten thousand they owe you.”

“Let’s not ever. What about it?”

“If you can’t get it out of them, maybe I can get you some sort of compensation. Reward to a citizen for a job well done, commendation from the Board of Directors, that sort of thing.”

“I want ten thousand, not a credit less,” Han stipulated. Fiolla was right about one thing: unchecked, the slavers would undoubtedly keep coming after him. “And no ceremonial dinners. I’ll leave through the back door, thanks.”

“Whatever. But none of that’s likely if you let Gallandro kill the Mor Glayyd.”

At that moment the door swished open, and Ido returned, her hand through her brother’s elbow. Han was surprised to see how young the Mor Glayyd was; he’d assumed that Ido was a kid sister. But the Mor Glayyd was even younger. He wore a fine outfit stiff with braid and decorations of one kind and another, and a gunbelt that somehow didn’t look right on him. He was slightly shorter than his sister, slim and rather pale. His hair, the same color as hers, was caught behind him in a tail.

Ido made introductions, but while she referred to her brother by his title, she called him by a more familiar name.

“Ewwen, Captain Solo wishes to intervene for you. Oh, please, please agree!”

The Mor Glayyd was unsure. “For what reason?”

Han massaged the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger. Fiolla offered no hints, confident that he could come up with some plausible reply.

“I have, uh, business with you, a deal you might be interested in. It’ll take some explaining—”

At that moment the comlink signaled for attention. The Mor Glayyd excused himself and crossed to the instrument. He must have activated a muting device as well; none of the others heard any part of the conversation. When he turned back, his face had become emotionless.

“It seems we lack time for your explanation, Captain Solo,” he said. “The outworlder Gallandro and his second have appeared at the gate and will await me in the armory.”

Steeling himself with
Think of cash!
, Han said, “Why don’t I meet him for you?” When he saw he was going to get an argument out of this proud boy, he rushed on. “Remember your sister and your duty to your clan. Forget the point of honor; this is real life.”

“Ewwen, please do,” Ido implored her brother. “I beg it as a boonfavor to me.”

The Mor Glayyd looked from one to another, almost spoke, held himself. “I couldn’t yield this obligation to any member of my clan,” he finally said to Han. “But my death would leave my sister and my kinsmen at the mercy of the other clans. Very well, I shall put myself in your debt. Let us repair to the armory.”

The private lift chute carried them down quickly. The armory was a series of cold, echoing, vaulted rooms crammed with racks of energy guns, projectile firearms, and muscle-powered weapons along with work benches and tools with which to service them. Their footsteps resounded on stone as they made their way to a shooting range.

At the far end of the range and along the walls holotargets hung in the air, waiting to unfreeze into attack-evasion sequences. But it wasn’t holotargets that were scheduled to be shot. At the nearer end of the range waited five people.

Han was fairly sure he could identify them—worlds with such an archaic and formal dueling code demanded about the same roster. The woman with the weary look on her face and the professional medipack slung from one shoulder would be the surgeon. In a gunfight at close quarters, Han doubted that her duties would extend beyond pronouncing the loser dead.

The older man in Glayyd household livery would be the Mor Glayyd’s second; he had a lean, scarred face and was probably an instructor in arms or some such to his clan leader. Another man, in what Han had come to recognize as Reesbon colors, would be the other second. There was a white-haired elderly man standing aside and trying to conceal his nervousness; he could only be the match’s judge.

The last member of the group was easiest of all to identify. Though Han had never seen him before, the sight of him set off internal alarms. He was slightly taller than Han but seemed smaller and more compact. Holding himself easily and gracefully, he wore a somber outfit of gray trousers and high-collared tunic with a short gray jacket over it. A trailing, supple white scarf, knotted at his throat, fell in graceful tails at his shoulder and back.

The man’s graying hair had been cropped quite short, but he had long mustachios hanging at the corners of his mouth, their ends gathered and weighted by tiny golden beads. He was just in the process of removing his jacket. An intricately tooled black gunbelt encircled his waist, holding a blaster high up on his right hip. He didn’t observe the common practice of studding his belt with a marker to indicate each opponent he’d beaten; he didn’t look as if he needed to.

But it was the man’s eyes that had set off most of Han’s alarms, making him absolutely certain of the man’s profession. The eyes were a deep, clear blue, unblinking, unwavering. They examined all the newcomers, remained for a moment on the Mor Glayyd and came to rest on Han, making a chilly estimate of him in a moment. The look the two exchanged left little to be said.

“As challenged party,” the Mor Glayyd’s second was saying, “Gallandro has chosen a face-off draw rather than the measured paceway. Your favorite weapons have been prepared, Mor Glayyd. All weapons have been examined by both seconds.”

Still meeting Gallandro’s eyes, Han took the final step. “I have a call on the Mor Glayyd’s time. It’s my right to intervene for him, I hear.”

There was a murmur among the seconds and judge. The surgeon merely shook her head tiredly. Han went to where the mentioned weapons had been set out and began checking them over. He had passed on a variety of fancy shoulder and forearm rigs and was debating between two gunbelts that resembled his own when he realized Gallandro was standing next to him.

“Why?” asked the gunfighter with a clinical curiosity.

“He doesn’t have to explain,” objected Ido, who was ignored.

“My dispute’s with the Mor Glayyd; I don’t even know you,” said Gallandro.

“But you know I’m faster than the kid,” Han said pleasantly, holding up a short-barreled needlebeamer for examination. Then he met Gallandro’s gaze, which was as placid as a pool’s surface at dawn. All the important information was exchanged then, though neither man’s expression altered and nothing more was said. Han had no doubt the duel would proceed.

Instead, Gallandro turned and intoned: “Mor Glayyd, I find myself compelled to apologize, and tender you my earnest plea for your forgiveness and that of your sister.” He stated his case indifferently, disposing of an unpleasant duty, and made little pretext of sincerity. “I trust that you’ll pardon me and that this entire unfortunate incident will be forgotten.”

For a second it looked as if the Mor Glayyd would refuse the apology; having escaped a sure death, the boy wouldn’t mind seeing Gallandro shot. Han was about to accept for him, not much inclined now toward a fast-draw contest, since it could be avoided.

But Ido spoke first. “We both accept your apology with the proviso that you leave our home and our homeworld as soon as possible.”

Gallandro looked from her to Han, who still held the needlebeamer. Gathering his jacket, the gunman inclined his head to Ido and prepared to go. But he paused to trade one last hard look with Han.

“Another time, perhaps,” Gallandro offered with a brittle smile.

“Whenever you can work yourself up to it.”

Gallandro nearly laughed. Suddenly, he had spun, dropped into a half-crouch, drawn his blaster, and put four bolts dead-center into each of four holotargets along the wall. He had straightened, his sidearm spinning twice around his finger and ending up in his holster, before most of the people in the room had grasped what he’d done.

“Another time, perhaps,” Gallandro repeated quietly. He sketched a shallow bow to the women, the surgeon included, gathered the Reesbon second in by eye, and strode away, his steps carrying back to them loudly.

“It worked,” sighed Fiolla. “But you shouldn’t have traded digs with him, Solo. He seemed sort of—dangerous.”

Han gazed at the four holotargets registering perfect hits, then back at the departing Gallandro. He ignored Fiolla’s vast understatement. Gallandro was far and away the most dangerous gunman Han had ever seen; faster, he was nearly certain, than Han himself.

The
Millennium Falcon
had found sanctuary by a small lake in a shallow valley high in the mountains beyond Ammuud’s spaceport. Coming down the ramp, Spray was pleased to discover the previous night’s windstorm had deposited no snow.

He found Chewbacca assembling an interesting collection of tools and equipment, including a metal tripod with telescoping legs, spools of light cable, supports, clamps, ground spikes, and a small sky-scan sensor unit. The skip-tracer inquired about the purpose of it all. With a few gestures, and growling in his own tongue by force of habit, Chewbacca made clear to Spray what he was about to do. In order to give them added protection, the Wookiee was going to mount the sky-scan sensor on the ridge line above them, where it would give a much wider area of surveillance than the
Falcon
’s equipment, surrounded by this little valley, could.

“B-but when will you be back?” Spray asked apprehensively. The
Falcon
’s first mate stopped himself from snorting derisively; the Tynnan had borne up well since the emergency landing and pulled his own weight, assisting in repairs and preparing meals. It wasn’t Spray’s fault if he wasn’t used to survival living and wilderness situations.

Chewbacca made a quick motion with the tripod, as if spreading it and digging it in, and slapped its mounting plate, as if setting the sensor unit in place. The meaning was obvious; he wouldn’t be gone long at all.

“But what about them?” Spray wanted to know, meaning the herd of grazers moving up the slopes from a lower valley into theirs. The shambling beasts went at their usual slow, imperturbable pace, feeding on scrub, rock lichen, and such spring grasses as were exposed, their antlered heads rising and dipping as they carried on their endless ruminations.

Several herds had passed through the area, neither showing any interest in the
Millennium Falcon
nor any hostility toward Spray or Chewbacca. The Wookiee spread his hands to show that the grazers presented no problem. Some of his equipment he tucked into the floppy carryall held against his right hip by his ammo bandolier; the rest he tucked into the loops of a tool roll, slipping it over his shoulder by its pack-straps, then took up his bowcaster. Checking his weapon’s action and magazine, he set off.

“And watch out for those things,” Spray called through cupped hands, pointing aloft. The Wookiee looked up. As often happened, there were some of the pterosaurs of Ammuud, huge, long-beaked reptilian soarers, circling in search of prey. But, though they were usually to be seen singly or in pairs, perhaps a dozen of them were now quartering the sky.

The Wookiee looked askance at the skip-tracer and shook his bowcaster, snarling significantly; it was the soarers who would be well advised to take care. He set out again, his big, shaggy feet carrying him over the rocky ground and occasional patches of snow. His burden bothered him not at all.

He made good time and was soon leaning into the ascent to a high point on the ridge line. Atop it was a wide, level area and beyond the ridge was another, broader valley ending in a narrow pass. When he topped the ridge, Chewbacca spread out his tools and sat himself on a flat rock to begin assembling the sensor unit’s tripod.

Once the mounting plate was locked into place on the tripod, he looked down to check on the starship. He couldn’t see Spray, but that was no surprise; the skip-tracer was on the opposite side of the ship from the main ramp. What made his features cloud was the closeness of the herd of grazers; their main flow plodded within twenty meters of the freighter, though they showed no inclination to investigate or molest her. Too, this herd seemed far larger than any of the others; its leaders were well on their way to the pass, yet its end wasn’t in sight. More and more grazers were making their way up from the lower slopes. But the calves were staying well to the center of the herd’s mainstream, with the bigger bulls tromping along in the lead and on the flanks, and the whole group appeared orderly and moving leisurely. Satisfied for the moment, Chewbacca returned to his work, running a check to ensure the unit was charged and functioning.

When a distant thunder reached his sharp ears, his head snapped up at once. The grazers, so quiescent and unthreatening a moment before, were now in stampede. So far, they were sweeping wide of the
Falcon
, but the herd began ranging out, the front of the stampede widening as Chewbacca watched, becoming a sea of shaggy backs and a forest of antlers. The soarers were making sweeping dives in along the leading edge of the stampede, emitting eerie wailing sounds.

The Wookiee wasted no time speculating on whether the flying things had started the stampede with air attacks to cut out weaker or slower grazers. Snatching up his equipment, he took in the surrounding terrain, searching for some shelter. More grazers were galloping up from the lower slopes and the stampede gained momentum every second. The animals were no longer lumbering, clumsy shufflers; in flight, they were six-legged powerhouses, the smallest adult among them weighing four times what the Wookiee did, traveling at high speed with the formidable impetus of fright.

But the narrow pass was already choked with struggling grazers, and as Chewbacca watched, the excess began to mill in a tossing of antlers and fill the lower valley. He put down his equipment and prepared to run, only to discover that he was already cut off. The grazers were flowing around the high point he had selected, avoiding its steep incline on their way to the lower valley.

A quick glance told him that the beasts were still avoiding the unfamiliar bulk of the
Millennium Falcon
, but if the backup from the pass reached that far, their reticence could change. The Wookiee hoped that Spray would have the sense to use the disabled starship’s weaponry to keep the animals from damaging her further. By that time, of course, the grazers would be all over the ridge; they would start forging up the steeper slopes as soon as the pressure of the bottled herd grew great enough.

He held his bowcaster and took stock of his situation as objectively as he could, observing the animals below and the terrain around him. At length he decided that to try to work his way through the herd or even run with them would be suicide; they were aroused and in panic now and would be quick to attack any outsider among them. On the other hand—

He broke off in midthought as a shadow passed over him and a wailing cry warned him. He hit the ground rolling, clutching his weapon to him. Broad wings hissed through the air over him and sharp claws closed on nothing. The soarer swept onward, leaving a carrion reek in the air, screaming its frustration. A second, behind it, tried a swoop of its own.

The Wookiee came up onto one knee and threw his bowcaster up to his shoulder, lacking time to focus through the weapon’s scope. There was the high twang of the bow, a simultaneous detonation as the explosive quarrel crumpled the soarer’s wingtip. The flier veered, crippled.

Chewbacca fell backward, jacking the foregrip of his bowcaster to recock it and strip another round off its magazine. He got two more shots into the predatory flier as it half-fell, half-flew past him, putting yawning wounds in its rib cage.

The creature tumbled, dead on the wing. It came down among the stampeding grazers and in a moment was gone from view, trampled into a shapeless mass by hundreds of hooves. Another soarer had glided in, sheered off when it heard the explosive quarrels and come around for another pass.

Chewbacca realized now why the soarers had come together in such numbers for the migration of grazers. The stampede through the wild mountain country would inevitably produce casualties, leave behind the weak or injured and, too, strand refugees like himself, ripe pickings for the airborne pack. The soarers’ primitive brains had recognized the chance for a feast.

The Wookiee brought up his bowcaster again and carefully sighted on the oncoming soarer. It stooped for him, claws open, long, narrow beak wide with its cry. He centered it precisely in his scope and fired directly into the gaping maw. The top of its boney skull disappeared and it nosed down at once, plowing into the ground. He had to jump back out of the way as the soarer’s corpse, seeming to collapse in on itself, slid to a stop where he had stood.

With two of their number down, the soarers were more cautious about approaching the ridge. They tilted membranous wings and put distance between themselves and whatever mysterious thing had killed their companions, searching all the while for more approachable prey. Chewbacca stole a look back down at the valley.

The press of grazers at the pass was backing up toward him quickly. Even now a few of the beasts were pausing to mill around the lower part of the ridge. The Wookiee fired several rounds into the ground there, blowing showers of soil and rock into the air and sending off the terrified, bellowing grazers. But the swirl of the backlogged stampede moved more animals in toward the ridge again; they were too scared and too stupid to notice the cause of the explosions of a moment before. He would never hold them back, even if he had unlimited ammunition.

A tremendous racket, rising over the cannonading hooves, came from the
Millennium Falcon
. It was the ship’s distress signals—hooters and klaxons combined with flashing lights, designed to attract the attention of searchers in case of crash or emergency landing. Apparently the grazers had begun to get too close to the ship, and Spray had resorted to this to save her. It was good thinking on the skip-tracer’s part, but Chewbacca knew he could look for little else in the way of help. He doubted if even the starship’s guns could clear a secure path through the massed herd.

A soarer’s cry sounded and he spied the creature rising from the cliff across the valley, bearing what looked like a stunned or injured grazer calf. The Wookiee growled an imprecation at the flier and wished for a second that he, too, had wings. Then he shook his fist in the air and bellowed wildly, for a mad inspiration worthy of Han Solo had just struck him.

As he worked out details, he slung his bowcaster and began rummaging through the equipment he had brought. First, the tripod. He clamped all three legs under his arm and got a firm grip on its mounting plate. Cords of muscle swelled in his arms and paws, and he gritted his fierce teeth in exertion. Slowly, he put the needed crease into the tough metal of the plate.

When he was satisfied, he put down the tripod and began to work furiously, casting occasional glances down to the growing turmoil in the valley as it surged toward his high ground. He had, he believed, the tools and materials he required; time was another question entirely.

He threw the downed soarer’s carcass over onto its back without trouble; its bones were hollow and it had, for all its size, evolved for minimum weight. He jammed the bent mounting plate up under its chin, ignoring the ruin of its gaping skull, and fixed it there with a retainer from his tool roll, turning its screw down as tightly as he could without crushing the bone.

He spread two of the tripod’s legs, extending them to maximum length, and lay them out along each wing. He curled the leading edge of the wings over the tripod legs and wrapped them two full turns at the tips, exerting his strength against the resistance of the wing cartilage. There was barely any fold at all near the wing joints, but it would have to serve. He had only eight clamps in his carryall pouch; four for each wing had better be enough. He tightened them down quickly to hold the tripod legs in place within the folds of the wing edges.

Stopping to check, he saw that the grazers were already thronging on the lower slopes of his high ground, packed tightly together, antlers swaying and flashing. He applied himself to his task with redoubled energy.

He drew the central tripod leg out along the soarer’s body as a longitudinal axis. The creature was an efficient glider, but its breast lacked the prominent keel to which flight muscles are attached in birds, and that made fastening a problem. He settled, after no more than a few seconds’ thought, on a row of ring-fasteners punched through the skin and passed around the creature’s slender sternum. Fortunately, it had no more than a vestigial tail. He swallowed and tried to ignore its nauseating odor as he worked.

Then came his worst problem, a kingpost. Taking one of the bracing members he had brought, he thrust it up directly through the soarer’s body next to the sternum, to stand a meter and a half out its back, and made it fast to the longitudinal axis. Then he fit the longest brace he had across the juncture, securing it to the other two tripod legs as a lateral axis. He didn’t fret over the various vile substances now leaking out of the soarer; that decreased the weight, which could only help.

He spent a frantic several minutes cutting and fitting cable, with no time to measure or experiment, connecting wingtips, tail, and beak to the tip of the kingpost.

He had to pause when a group of grazers breasted the ridge, wild-eyed and quick to swing their antlers in his direction. He jammed a new magazine into his bowcaster and emptied it into the ground, filling the air with explosions that could be heard over the countless hoof-falls in the valley, driving the animals back down for the time being. But the valley was now filled and there would be no room for them below, he knew; it was only a matter of moments before a major part of the stampede covered the high ground and engulfed the Wookiee.

The soarer’s grasping legs probably hadn’t given it very good locomotion, but they made a plausible control bar once Chewbacca had stiffened them with supports, wired the claws together, and braced the shoulders with ground spikes. Then they, too, were cabled to wingtips, nose, and vestigial tail. The Wookiee dashed around the soarer’s body, tightening down turnbuckles with no more than a hasty guess at the tension needed.

He heaved, thews bulging under his pelt, and lifted the animal framework, gazing down and hoping the stampede had receded and that he would be spared the necessity of testing his handiwork.

It hadn’t; grazers were literally being borne up toward him by the pressure of those below. Another barrage from the bowcaster only made them fall back for a moment; the tightly packed bodies came at him again.