Star Wars - [Han Solo 01] - The Paradise Snare (by A C Crispin)

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THE HAN SOLO TRILOGY
By A. C. CRISPIN
The Paradise Snare
This book is dedicated to my friend, Thia Rose.
When we were twelve, we swore we'd always be best friends . . . . .
and, more years later than we like to count, we still are.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Writing in the Star Wars universe is like becoming a part of acommunity-or, even, a family. The writers
are encouraged to read eachother's books, and there are dozens of nonfiction and technical
booksdevoted to the characters, hardware, planets, and so forth. Writerstrade information and tips back
and forth, and generally help eachother out. Thus, many, many people helped me with this book. With
the caveat thatany mistakes readers may find are my own, I would like to thank thefollowing Kevin
Anderson, who gave me my first chance to write in the Star Warsuniverse. Kevin and Rebecca Moesta
also helped with information aboutthe Star Wars background and characters, as well as
hand-holding,encouragement, and sage advice. Michael Capobianco, fellow writer and significant other,
forbrainstorming, research help, intelligent advice, and fixing dinnerwhen I was too busy writing to even
realize I was hungry. Thanks,dear. Bill Smith and Peter Schweighofer of West End Games for helping
mefigure out answers to such odd and esoteric questions as, "What doesHan wear for underwear?" They
"unstuck" me from quandaries more timesthan I can count. Tom Dupree and Evelyn Cainto of Bantam
Books for assistance, advice,and encouragement. Sue Rostoni and Lucy Autrey Wilson of Lucasfilm for
the "true facts." Michael A. Stackpole, for help figuring out how to break a tractorbeam, and other
advice relating to ships and piloting. Steve Osmanski, for reading the manuscript and giving sage advice
on"techie" stuff. As always, Kathy O'Malley, friend and writing buddy, for hand-holdingand an
occasional, well-deserved kick in the pants. And, of course, George Lucas, who started it all. Star Wars
blew meaway the first time I saw it, and it's been an honor to contribute tothe saga in a small way.
Thanks again, and may the Force be with you all.
one
Trader's Luck
The ancient troopship, a relic of the Clone Wars, hung in orbit overthe planet Corellia, silent and
seemingly derelict. Looks weredeceiving, however. The old Liberator-class vessel, once calledGuardian
of the Republic, now had a new life as Trader's Luck. Theinterior had been gutted and refitted with a
motley assortment ofliving environments, and now contained nearly one hundred sentientbeings, many of
them humanoid. At the moment, however, only a few ofthem were awake, since it was the middle of the
sleep cycle.
There was a watch on the bridge, of course. Trader's Luck spent muchof its time in orbit, but it was still
capable of hyperspace travel,even though it was slow by modern standards. Garris Shrike, the leaderof
the loosely allied trading "clan" that lived aboard the Luck, was astrict taskmaster, who followed formal
ship's protocols. So there wasalways a watch on the bridge.
Shrike's orders aboard the Luck were always obeyed; he was not a man tocross without a good reason
and a fully charged blaster. He ruled theclan of traders as a less-than-benevolent despot. A slender man
ofmedium height, Garris was handsome in a hard-edged way. Streaks ofsilver-white above his temples
accentuated his black hair and iceblueeyes. His mouth was thin-lipped; he seldom smiled--and never with
goodhumor. Garris Shrike was an expert shot and had spent his early yearsas a professional bounty
hunter. He'd given it up, though, due to bad"luck"meaning that his lack of patience had caused him to lose
therichest
bounties reserved for live delivery. Dead bodies were frequentlyworth far less.
Shrike did possess a warped sense of humor, especially if the pain ofothers was involved. When he was
gambling and winning, he was subjectto bouts of manic gaiety, especially if he was also drunk.
As he was at the moment. Sitting around the table in the formerwardroom of the enlisted officers, Shrike
was playing sabacc anddrinking tankards of potent Alderaanian ale, his favorite beverage.
Shrike peered at his card-chips, mentally calculating. Should he holdpat and hope to complete a pure
sabacc? At any moment the dealer couldpush a button and the values of all the card-chips would shift.
Ifthat happened, he'd be busted, unless he took an additional two andtossed most of his hand into the
interference field in the center ofthe table.
One of his fellow players, a hulking Elomin suddenly turned his tuskedhead to glance behind him. A light
on one of the auxiliary "status"panels was blinking. The huge, shaggy-furred Elomin grunted, then saidin
guttural Basic, "Something funny about the lockout sensor on theweapons cache, Captain."
Shrike insisted on "proper" protocol and chain of command, especiallyas it applied to himself. Unless
engaged in some planetside caper, healways wore a military uniform while aboard the Luck--one he'd
designedhimself, patterned on the dress uniform of a high-ranking Moff. It washung about with "medals"
and "decorations" Shrike had picked up inpawnshops across the galaxy.
Now, hearing the Elomin's warning, he glanced up a little blearily,rubbed his eyes, then straightened up
and dropped his card-chips ontothe tabletop. "What is it, Brafid?"
The giant being wrinkled his tusked snout. "Not sure, Captain. It'sreading normal now, but something
flickered, as though the lock shortedout for a second. Probably just a momentary power flux."
Moving with such unusual grace and coordination that even the foppish"uniform" couldn't detract from his
presence, the captain rose andwalked around the table to study the readouts himself. All signs
ofintoxication had vanished.
"Not a power flux," he decided after a moment. "Something else."
Turning his head, he addressed the tall, heavyset human on his left.
"Larrad, look at this. Somebody shorted out the lock and is running asim to fool us into thinking it's just a
power flux. We've got a thiefaboard. Is everyone armed?"
The man addressed, who happened to be Shrike's brother, Larrad Shrike,nodded, patting the holster
that hung on the outside of his thigh.
Brafid the Elomin fingered his "tingler"--an electric prod that washis weapon of choice--though the hairy
alien was large enough to pickup most humanoids and break them over his knee.
The other person present, a female Sullustan who was the Luck'snavigator, stood up, patting the
scaled-down blaster she wore. "Readyfor action, Captain!" she squeaked. Despite her diminutive
height,flapping jowls, and large, appealing bright eyes, Nooni Dalvo appearedalmost as dangerous as the
hulking Elomin who was her closest shipboardfriend.
"Good," Shrike grunted. "Nooni, go post a guard over the weaponslocker, just in case he comes back.
Larrad, activate the biosensors,see if you can ID the thief and where he's heading."
Shrike's brother nodded and bent over the auxiliary control board.
"Corellian human," he announced after a moment. "Male. Young.
Height, 1.8 meters. Dark hair and eyes. Slender build. Thebioscanner says it recognizes him. He's
heading aft, toward thegalley."
Shrike's expression hardened until his eyes were as cold and blue asthe glaciers on Hoth. "The Solo kid,"
he said. "He's the only onecocky enough to try something like this." He flexed his fingers, thenhardened
them into a fist. The ring he wore, made from a single gem ofDevaronian blood-poison, flashed dull silver
in the bulkhead lights.
"Well, I've gone easy on him so far, 'cause he's a good swoop pilot,and I never lost when I bet on him,
but enough is enough. Tonight, I'mgoing to teach him to respect authority, and he's going to wish
he'dnever been born."
Shrike's teeth flashed, much brighter than the gem in his ring. "Orthat I'd never 'found' him seventeen
years ago and brought hissniveling, pants-wetting little behind home to the Luck. I'm apatient, tolerant
man . . ." he sighed theatrically, "as the galaxyknows, but even I have my limits."
He glanced over at his brother, who was looking rather uncomfortable.
Garris wondered if Larrad was remembering the Solo kid's lastpunishment session a year ago. The youth
hadn't been able to walk fortwo days.
Shrike's mouth tightened. He wouldn't tolerate any softness among hissubordinates. "Right, Larrad?" he
said too softly.
"Right, Captain!"
Han Solo gripped the stolen blaster as he tiptoed along the narrowmetal corridor. When he'd wired into
the sim and jimmied the lock intothe weapons cache, he'd only had a moment to reach in and grab thefirst
weapon that came to hand. There'd been no time to pick andchoose.
Nervously, he pushed strands of damp brown hair back from hisforehead, realizing he was sweating. The
blaster felt heavy andawkward in his hand as he examined it. Han had seldom held one before,and he
only knew how to check the charge from the reading he'd done.
He'd never actually fired a weapon. Garris Shrike didn't permit anyonebut his officers to walk around
armed, Squinting in the dim light, theyoung swoop pilot flipped open a small panel in the thickest part
ofthe barrel and peered down at the readouts. Good. Fully charged.
Shrike may be a bully and a fool, but he runs a taut ship.
Not even to himself would the youth admit how much he actually fearedand hated the captain of Trader's
Luck. He'd learned long ago thatshowing fear of any sort was a swift guarantee of a beating---orworse.
The only thing bullies and fools respected was courage--or, at least,bravado. So Han Solo had learned
never to allow fear to surface in hismind or heart.
There were times when he was dimly aware that it was there, deep down,buried under layers of street
toughness, but anytime he recognized itfor what it was, Han resolutely buried it even deeper.
Experimentally, he swun g the blaster up to eye level and awkwardlyclosed one brown eye as he sighted
along the barrel. The muzzle of theweapon wavered slightly, and Han cursed softly under his breath as
herealized his hand was trembling. Come on, he told himself, show somebackbone, Solo. Getting off this
ship and away from Shrike is worth alittle risk.
Reflexively, he glanced over his shoulder, then turned back just intime to duck under a low-hanging
power coupling. He'd chosen thisroute because it avoided all the living quarters and recreation areas,but
it was so narrow and low-ceilinged that he was beginning to feelclaustrophobic as he tiptoed forward,
resisting the urge to turn andlook back over his shoulder.
Ahead of him, the near tunnel widened out, and Han realized he wasalmost at his destination. Only a few
more minutes, he told himself,continuing to move with a stealthy grace that made his progress assoundless
as that of a wonat's furred toe-pads. He was skirting thehyperdrive modules now, and then a larger
corridor intersected. Hanturned right, relieved that he could now walk without stooping.
He crept up to the door of the big galley and hesitated outside, hisears and nose busy. Sounds . . . yes,
only the ones he'd beenexpecting to hear. The soft clatter of metal pans, the splooooch ofdough being
punched, and then the faint sounds of it being kneaded.
He could smell the dough, now. Wastril bread, his favorite. Han's
mouth tightened. With any luck, he wouldn't be here to eat any ofthis particular batch.
Sticking the blaster into his belt, he opened the door and stepped intothe galley. "Hey . . . Dewlanna . . ."
he said softly. "It's me.
I've come to say goodbye."
The tall, furred being who had been vigorously kneading the wastrildough swung around to face him with
a soft, inquiring growl.
Dewlanna's real name was Dewlannamapia, and she had been Han's closestfriend since she'd come to
live aboard Trader's Luck nearly ten yearsago, when Han had been about nine. (The young swoop pilot
had no ideaof when he'd been born, of course. Or who his parents had been. If ithadn't been for
Dewlanna, he wouldn't even have known that his lastname was "Solo.") Han couldn't speak
Wookiee--trying to reproduce thegrowls, barks, roars, and rumbling grunts made his throat sore, and
heknew he sounded ridiculous--but he understood it very well. For herpart, Dewlanna couldn't speak
Basic, but she understood it as well asshe did her own language. So communication between the human
youth andthe elderly Wookiee widow was fluent, but . . . different.
Han had gotten used to it years ago and never thought about itanymore.
He and Dewlanna just . . . talked. They understood each otherperfectly. Now he hefted the stolen
blaster, careful not to point itat his friend.
"Yes," he replied, in response to Dewlanna's comment, "tonight's thenight. I'm getting off Trader's Luck
and I'm never coming back."
Dewlanna rumbled at him worriedly as she automatically resumed kneadingher dough. Han shook his
head, giving her a lopsided grin. "You worrytoo much, Dewlanna. Of course I've got it all planned. I've
got aspacesuit stashed in a locker near the robot freighter docks, andthere's a ship docked there now
that will be departing as soon as it'sunloaded and refueled. A robot freighter, and it's headed where I
wantto go."
Dewlanna punched her dough, then growled a soft interrogatory. "I'mheading for Ylesia," Han told her.
"Remember I told you all aboutit?
It's a religious colony near Hutt space, and they offer pilgrimssanctuary from the outside universe. I'll be
safe from Shrike there.
And"--he held up a small holodisk where the Wookiee cook could seeit--"look at this! They're
advertising for a pilot! I already used upthe last of my payout credits from that job we pulled, to send
amessage, telling them I'm coming to interview for the job."
Dewlanna roared softly.
"Hey, I can't let you do that," Han protested, watching the cook setthe loaves into pans and slide them
into the thermal grid to bake.
"I'll be
okay. I'll lift some credits on my way to the robot ship. Don'tworry, Oewlanna."
The Wookiee ignored him as she shuffled quickly across the galley, herhairy, slightly stooped form
moving rapidly despite her advanced age.
Dewlanna was nearly six hundred years old, Han knew. Old even for aWookiee.
She disappeared into the door of her private living quarters, and then,a moment later, reappeared,
clutching a pouch woven of some silkymaterial that might even, from the look of it, be Wookiee fur.
She held it out to him with a soft, insistent whine.
Han shook his head again, and childishly put his hands behind hisback.
"No," he said firmly. "I'm not taking your savings, Dewlanna. You'llneed those credits to buy passage to
join me."
The Wookiee cocked her head and made a short, questioning sound. "Ofcourse you're going to join me!"
Han said. "You don't think I'm goingto leave you here to rot on this hulk, do you? Shrike gets
crazierevery year. Nobody's safe aboard the Luck. When I get to Ylesia andget settled in, I'm going to
send for you to join me. Ylesia's areligious retreat, and they offer their pilgrims sanctuary. Shrikewon't be
able to touch us there."
Dewlanna reached inside the pouch, her hairy fingers surprisinglydexterous as she sifted through the
credit vouchers inside. She handedseveral to her young friend. With a sigh, Han relented and tookthem.
"Well . . . okay. But this is just a loan, okay? I'm going to payyou back.
The salary the Ylesian priests are offering is a good one."
She growled her assent, then, without warning, reached out to rufflehis hair with her massive paw, leaving
it sticking out in wilddisarray.
"Hey!" Han yelped. Wookiee head rubs were not to be taken lightly.
"I just combed my hair!"
Dewlanna growled, amused, and Han drew himself up indignantly. "I donot look better scruffy. I keep
telling you, the term 'scruffy' ain'tcomplimentary among humans."
He stared at her, his indignation vanishing as he realized that thiswas the last time he'd see her beloved
furry face, her gentle blueeyes, for a long time. Dewlanna had been his closest--and
frequentlyonly--friend for so long now. Leaving her was hard, very hard.
Impulsively, the Corellian youth threw himself against her warm, solidbulk, hugging her fiercely, His head
reached only to the middle of herchest. Han could remember when he'd barely stood as tall as herwaist.
"I'm going to miss you," he said, his face muffled against her fur, hiseyes stinging. "You take care of
yourself, Dewlanna."
She roared softly, and her long, hairy arms came around him as shereturned the embrace.
"Well, ain't this a touching sight," said a cold, all-too-familiarvoice.
Han and Dewlanna both froze, then wheeled to face the man who'd enteredthrough the Wookiee's
quarters. Garris Shrike lounged in the doorway,his handsome features set in a smile that made Han's
blood coagulate inhis veins. Beside him, he could feel Dewlanna shudder, either withfear or loathing.
Two other crew members--Larrad Shrike and Brafid the Elomin--werevisible over Shrike's shoulder.
Han balled his fists withfrustration.
If it had only been Shrike, he might've chanced jumping the Luck'sCaptain. With Dewlanna to help him,
they might have been able tosubdue Garris, but with Larrad and the Elomin also present, they didn'thave
a chance.
Han was acutely conscious of the stolen blaster shoved into his belt.
For a moment he considered going for it, but he abandoned that idea.
Shrike was known for being fast on the draw. There was no way he couldbeat him, and that might get
both Dewlanna and himself killed. Shrikewas clearly in a rage.
Han licked dry lips. "Listen, Captain," he began. "I can explain--"Shrike drew himself up, his eyes
narrowing. "You can explain what, youcowardly little traitor? Stealing from your family? Betraying
thosewho trusted you? Stabbing your benefactor in the back, you snivelinglittle thief?"
"But--" "I've had it with you, Solo. I've been lenient with you sofar, because you're a blasted good
swoop pilot and all that prize moneycame in handy, but my patience is ended." Shrike ceremoniously
pushedup the sleeves of his bedizened uniform, then balled his hands intofists. The galley's artificial lighting
made the blood-jewel ringglitter dull silver. "Let's see what a few days of fighting offDevaronian
blood-poisoning does for your attitude--along with maybe afew broken bones. I'm doing this for your
own good, boy. Somedayyou'll thank me."
Han gulped with terror as Shrike started toward him. He'd lashed outat the trader captain once before,
two years ago, when he'd beenfeeling cocky after winning the gladitorial Free-For-All onJubilar--and had
been instantly sorry. The speed and strength ofGarris's returning blow had snapped his head back and
split both lipsso thoroughly that Dewlanna had had to feed him mush for a week untilthey healed.
With a snarl, Dewlanna stepped forward. Shrike's hand dropped to hisblaster. "You stay out of this, old
Wookiee," he snapped in a voicenearly as harsh as Dewlanna's. "Your cooking isn't that good."
Han had already grabbed his friend's furry arm and was forciblyholding her back. "Dewlanna, no!"
She shook off his hold as easily as she would have waved off anannoying insect and roared at Shrike.
The captain drew his blaster,and chaos erupted.
"Noooo!" Han screamed, and leaped forward, his foot lashing out in anold street-fighting technique. His
instep impacted solidly withShrike's breastbone. The captain's breath went out in a great whooshand he
went over backward. Han hit the deck and rolled. A tinglerbolt sizzled past his ear.
"Larrad!" wheezed the captain as Dewlanna started toward him.
Shrike's brother drew his blaster and pointed it at the Wookiee.
"S top, Dewlanna!"
His words had no more effect than Han's. Dewlanna's blood was up--shewas in full Wookiee battle rage.
With a roar that deafened thecombatants, she grabbed Larrad's wrist and yanked, spinning him
aroundand snapping him in a terrible parody of a child's "snap the whip"game. Han heard a crunch, mixed
with several pops as tendons andligaments gave way. Larrad Shrike shrieked, a high, shrill noise
thatcarried such pain that the Corellian youth's arm ached in sympathy.
Grabbing the blaster from his belt, Han snapped off a shot at theElomin who was leaping forward, tingler
ready and aimed at Dewlanna'smidsection.
Brafid howled and dropped to the floor. Han was amazed that he'dmanaged to hit him, but he didn't have
long to wonder about theaccuracy of his aim.
Shrike was staggering to his feet, blaster in hand, aimed squarely atHan's head. "Larrad?" he yelled at the
writhing heap of agony thatwas his brother. Larrad did not reply.
Shrike cocked the blaster and stepped even closer to Han. "Stop it,Dewlanna!" the captain snarled at the
Wookiee. "Or your buddy Solodies!"
Han dropped his blaster and put his hands up in a gesture ofsurrender.
Dewlanna stopped in her tracks, growling softly.
Shrike leveled the blaster, and his finger tightened on the trigger.
Pure malevolent hatred was etched upon his features, and then hesmiled, pale blue eyes glittering with
ruthless joy. "Forinsubordination and striking your captain," he announced, "I sentenceyou to death, Solo.
May you rot in all the hells there ever were."
As Han froze, expecting the bolt to fry him any moment, Dewlannaroared, shoved Han aside, and leaped
for Shrike. The blaster'senergy
beam caught her full in the chest, and she went down in a heap ofcharred fur and burned flesh.
"Dewlanna!" Han yelled in anguish. With a quickness he hadn't knownhe possessed, he dived at Shrike,
hitting the captain in a drivingtackle around his knees. Shrike went over backward again, and thistime his
head impacted solidly with the deck. He sagged, out cold.
Han crawled back to his friend, turning her over gently, seeing thegreat hole the blaster beam had bored
into her chest. He knewimmediately that the wound was mortal. No medical droid everconstructed could
heal this.
Dewlanna moaned, gasped, and fought with all her great Wookiee strengthto breathe. Han slid his arms
beneath her shoulders and tried to easeher struggle. Her blue eyes opened and, after a moment, fixed
onhis.
Lucidity returned, and she rumbled softly.
"No, I won't leave you!" Han replied, clutching her harder. Tearsblurred his vision, and she swam below
him in a sea of brown fur. "Idon't care if I get away! Oh, Dewlanna . . ."
Making a great effort, she raised a huge, furred paw-hand and graspedhis arm. Han had to struggle to
translate her speech. "I know," hechoked, talking aloud so she'd know he understood her. "I know
youcare about me .
. ." she rumbled again, "as much as you do your own children."
Han swallowed, his throat tight and aching. "I . . . I feel the sameway, Dewlanna. You're the closest thing
to a mother I'll ever have."
A long moan of anguish made her shudder. She rumbled at him again.
"No," Han insisted. "I'm not leaving you. I'll stay with you till .
. . till . .
." He couldn't finish the sentence.
Dewlanna grabbed his arm with a ghost of her old strength and growledat him urgently. "If I . . ." Han
was having trouble comprehendingher slurred speech, "if I die . . . nothing? Oh, you're saying thatif I
don't live, you'll have died for nothing?"
She nodded, her eyes in their nest of hair holding his with all theintensity she could muster. Han shook his
head stubbornly. How couldhe abandon her to die alone?
Dewlanna rumbled softly, faintly. "Yeah, I'm sure you'll be safe, onewith the life-power," Han said, trying
to sound sincere. He knew someWookiees believed in a unifying power that bound all of
existencetogether.
Personally, he thought this power--he'd never been able to translatethe term accurately, the Wookiee
word could have meant "strength," or"force," too--that Dewlanna believed in so steadfastly was
justsuperstition.
But if it comforted her to believe in it during her dying moments, Hanwasn't going to argue with her. He
remembered the words she'd said tohim several times. "Dewlanna, may the life-power be with you . . ."
For a moment he wished that he, too, could believe . . .
She moaned with pain. Han could see she was going fast. Then Dewlannarumbled feebly, and again he
automatically translated. "Your lastrequest . . ." He choked, barely able to get the words out, "You
wantme . . to go . . . to live. And to be . . . happy."
Han struggled not to break down. "Okay!" he agreed. "I'll go. Istill have time to get aboard that robot
ship before it takes off."
Dewlanna whined faintly.
"I promise," he agreed, his voice ragged. "I'll go now. And I swearI'll always remember you, Dewlanna."
She was beyond speech now, but he was sure she'd heard him. He laidher gently on the deck, then rose
and picked up the blaster. Then,after giving Dewlanna one final look, Han turned and raced out thedoor.
His running feet resounded through the corridors of Trader's Luck; thetime was past for stealth. He had
to reach the docking bay, and thatrobot Ylesian freighter! Han had no idea when it was due to blast
awayfrom the Luck, but the loading schedule posted for the space dockworkers had listed it as being
ready for blastoff as soon as the droidsfinished fueling. And when he'd swiped the spacesuit and hidden
it,they'd just started that process.
The Ylesian Dream might be leaving any moment!
Gasping, Han sprinted for the lock, his feet thudding along the decksthat had been his playground ever
since he was old enough toremember.
In the distance, he could hear sleepy voices, interspersed with shoutsand orders.
I can't let them catch me. Shrike will kill me. The certainty lentspeed to his flying feet.
He skidded around the final turn and grabbed the spacesuit he'd hiddenbehind some fueling equipment.
The helmet flopped over his arm,banging him in the midsection as he hastily keyed in the code he'dstolen
into the airlock door.
Seconds passed The sounds of pursuit were growing louder. But surelythey'd think he was headed for
the shuttle deck or even the lifepods.
Nobody would guess he'd be crazy enough to try stowing away on a robotfreighter--at least that's what
he was counting on . . .
The lock hissed open. Han leaped inside, closed the hatch, and beganyanking on the spacesuit. He
checked the air storage. Full. Good.
He'd originally planned to bring along some extra air paks, but hedidn't dare venture back out. The pak
on the suit was good for twodays. That should
be enough, unless the Dream was a really slow vessel. Since it was arobot drone, he had no way of
discovering what course it would befollowing, or how fast it was scheduled to go.
Han grimaced. Only a desperate man would use this method of escape.
He was desperate, all right. He just hoped he wouldn't arrive onYlesia dead because he'd run out of air.
Let's see . . . food pellets . . . full. Water tank . . . full.
Good. That was Captain Shrike again, insisting that all ship'sequipment be maintained in perfect working
order.
Han dragged the suit up over the arms of his ship's gray jumpsuit andclosed the seam running up the
front. He picked up the helmet, clumsybecause of the gloves, and settled it over his head. It was
mostlyglassine, and he could see every direction except directly behindhim.
A bank of bolos ran around the bottom rim of the helmet, giving him hisvitals, amount of air remaining,
and all the other information heneeded to survive. Han could "talk" to his suit in a limited fashionby
bumping his chin against the communications lever and giving thesuit instructions concerning his
temperature, air mix, and so forth.
Okay, this is it, the young man thought as he clumped over to theconnecting hatch and keyed in the final
sequence to equalize pressuresbetween the lock and the Ylesian Dream. He could faintly hear a hissas
the air was pumped out of the lock. The Dream, being a robot,didn't need air to operate. The ship would
be filled only withvacuum.
Finally, the hatch opened, and Han stepped inside.
It was crowded with equipment and cargo, and the corridors were verynarrow. The Dream wasn't
constructed to accommodate a living crew,only for routine maintenance, and Han had to turn sideways to
squeezein. The youth was fleetingly grateful that all standard engineeringwas designed to function in
gravity. Otherwise, he might've had tocontend with zero gee, and that would have been a real pain.
He'd been outside the Trader's Luck with the welding crew in spacesuitsseveral times since he'd been
considered old enough for hazardousship's duty, hanging in space, tethered to the ship only by a
seeminglyfragile umbilical. It had been kind of exciting the first couple oftimes, but Han didn't particularly
care for weightlessness, and he'dsoon learned never to look "down." Seeing nothing but space beneathhis
feet for light-years and light-years was enough to make his headswim.
摘要：

THEHANSOLOTRILOGYByA.C.CRISPINTheParadiseSnareThisbookisdedicatedtomyfriend,ThiaRose.Whenweweretwelve,wesworewe'dalwaysbebestfriends.....and,moreyearslaterthanweliketocount,westillare.ACKNOWLEDGMENTSWritingintheStarWarsuniverseislikebecomingapartofacommunity-or,even,afamily.Thewritersareencouragedto...

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分类：外语学习 价格：5.9玖币 属性：67 页 大小：152.91KB 格式：PDF 时间：2024-12-22

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