Star Wars - Han Solo Trilogy II 02 - Hutt Gambit
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The Hutt Gambit
(Star Wars: The Han Solo Trilogy, Vol. 2)
by
A. C. Crispin
2 STAR WARS: The Han Solo Trilogy
Han Solo, former Imperial officer, sat despondently at a
sticky table in a dingy bar on Devaron, sipping an inferior
Alderaanian ‘ale and wishing he were ‘alone. 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 ‘aliens’ 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 understand half a
dozen nonhuman languages.
No, it wasn’t the aliens around him. It was the ‘alien beside
him. Han took a swig of his ‘ale, 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 only he’d go home! But the
Wookiee---Chew-something-utterly refused to go home to
Kashyyyk, despite Han’s repeated urging. The ú 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 ‘ale, 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-
The Hutt Gambit 3
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 ‘cause 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, ‘cause 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
4 STAR WARS: The Han Solo Trilogy
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
recrimination. 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
The Hutt Gambit 5
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, ‘all 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
6 STAR WARS: The Han Solo Trilogy
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 ‘all 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
The Hutt Gambit 7
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.
8 STAR WARS: The Han Solo Trilogy
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
The Hutt Gambit 9
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 ‘all 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-
10 STAR WARS: The Han Solo Trilogy
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.
At the moment the cards in Han’s hand had a numerical
value of positive four. The Queen of Air and Darkness had
a value of minus two. Han could throw that card into the
interference field, which would “freeze” its value, then
hope to get the Idiot and a card with the face value of three.
Since the Idiot had a value of zero, this would give him an
“Idiot’s Array,” which would beat even a pure sabacc . . .
that is, cards whose value added up to either positive or
negative twenty-three.
As Han hesitated, gazing at his Queen, the card-chips
rippled and altered. His Queen was now the Master of
sabers. The six of sabers had become the eight of flasks.
His total was . . . positive twenty-two. He waited while the
other players examined their card-chips. The Barabel, the
female Devaronian, and the dealer threw in their hands
disgustedly-they’d “bombed out” by exceeding twenty-
three.
The Sullustan raised the bet, which Han matched and
raised. “I call,” the little alien said, laying down his card-
chips with a flourish. “Twenty,” he announced.
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TheHuttGambit(StarWars:TheHanSoloTrilogy,Vol.2)byA.C.Crispin2STARWARS:TheHanSoloTrilogyHanSolo,formerImperialofficer,satdespondentlyatastickytableinadingybaronDevaron,sippinganinferiorAlderaanian‘aleandwishinghewere‘alone.NotthathemindedtheotherdenizensofthebarhornedDevishmalesandfurryDevishfemales,...
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