Star Wars_ Luke Skywalker and the Shadows of Mindor - Matthew Woodring Stover [49]
On the downside, the Lancer’s navicomputer now estimated that the stellar flares would begin in less than twelve hours. The upside, Han figured, was that the radiation would kill him before he actually starved to death.
“Leia?” he called again. “Anything?”
“I—I’m not sure,” she called back. “Maybe—no—I think …”
“Well, you better make up your mind, sister! If the Imps decide to fly atmo patrols, this might get a little hot. Hotter.”
Han was trusting mainly in the thick dust that swirled on the winds to keep the Falcon concealed from orbital scans; Rogue Squadron was off somewhere, trying to clear a route out through the maze of gravity wells that still sealed the system. He wished them all the luck in the galaxy—he was planning to need that hypothetical route as soon as they found Luke—but he also wished they were hanging around to fly cover for his uncomfortably exposed butt.
“I think—” Leia straightened, staring past the Falcon. “I think we should probably go that way.”
“Why that way?”
“So all those people with blasters coming out of the rocks over there,” she said, raising her hands, “don’t decide to shoot us.”
Han turned, very slowly, keeping his hand well clear of his blaster. The crater’s rim had suddenly sprouted a couple of dozen people wearing patchwork armor that looked like it might have been cobbled together from the local lava. Nearly all these Lava Gear types had shoulder arms of some variety, from Imperial DC-17s to one guy who actually had an antique Dubloviann flame rifle, and they were pointing these weapons in Han’s general direction as they came forward.
Chewie grumbled and started to rise, but Han said softly, barely moving his lips, “Stay low. When the shooting starts, roll off the hull. Once you’re inside, open up with the belly gun.”
“Garooargh.”
“Forget it. I can take cover behind the sensor-dish mount. You won’t fit.”
“Hermmmingarouf roog nerhowargh.”
Han squinted at them as they picked their way toward the ship. Chewie was right: they were military. Some kind of military—deserters, mercenaries, something. They came on in skirmish lines, covering each other. “We’ve handled pros before,” he muttered. “Get ready to move.”
He walked forward to the sensor dish and rested his right hand on its rim, angling his body to make himself look like he was leaning on it even though in fact he was perfectly balanced and that hand could go from the dish’s rim to the butt of his DL-44 faster than any of them could blink.
“Got anything to eat?” he asked the Lava Gears.
A red-haired woman stepped to the front of the bunch. She was the only Lava Gear type not holding a weapon, though Han’s practiced eye instantly noted that the grip of the KYD in her tie-down thigh holster had a worn-shiny look that signified a whole lot of regular use. “Who are you, and what’s your business here?” she demanded.
“Oh, sorry—are these your rocks? We’re just borrowing them to rest my ship on. I promise they’ll still be here when we go.”
“Hey, that was funny. Do a lot of people tell you you’re funny?”
“Only ones with a sense of humor.” He also noted that she carried her weight forward, evenly balanced over the balls of her feet, and that while her left hand was thumb-hooked to her belt buckle, her right hand dangled bonelessly alongside that well-used blaster: a gunfighter’s stance. Also, against his will, he found himself thinking that she was dangerously good-looking. No redheads, he reminded himself. He’d had enough of that kind of trouble to last him two or three lifetimes. Besides, my dance card’s full. For the rest of my life, if I’m lucky.
“Let’s try a riddle,” he said in a friendly way. “What does