• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

“Please remember, Fiolla, we expect to hear from you when you’ve rooted out our enemies,” the Mor Glayyd said. “If we can’t work our own vengeance we will at least witness yours.”

She promised soberly, “You will—and I know what a vow means to the Mor Glayyd. When I’ve gotten all this before an Authority Court I think I’ll be able to keep you from prosecution. But I’d advise you to scrutinize future clients more closely.”

The Mor Glayyd raised his hand in farewell. “We will not be used again, you may be confident.” Ido kissed both Han and Fiolla on the cheek. Then brother and sister stepped back, as did their kinsmen and kinswomen. Within seconds the lifeboat lifted from its resting place, drifted into a departure lane, and sped up toward the mountains above the spaceport, hurtling between them and rising for the higher peaks beyond.

“How are you going to find them, anyway?” Fiolla, again in the copilot’s seat, asked. “The sensors and detectors in this kettle aren’t made for a tight search, are they?” She moved aside a disruptor rifle given them by the Mor Glayyd, to give herself more room.

Han laughed, happy to be off the ground again. “This wreck? You’d be lucky to find your own back pocket with the gear she carries. Even if she had a whole scoutship package, there’d be all these peaks and valleys and the ground clutter. But we’ve got this,” he put a forefinger to his temple dramatically.

“If we haven’t got something a little more high-powered than that,” she said, mimicking his gesture perfectly, “I hope there are some drop-harnesses aboard, because I want out!”

Han brought the little craft over onto a prechosen course, satisfied that he’d dipped low enough behind the peaks to be off the spaceport’s detectors. “We know the course Chewie was on when he passed over the port and I know how he thinks, how he pilots. I am now Chewie, with a damaged Falcon under me, one I’ve got to keep above three thousand meters, with limited guidance response. I know his style well enough to duplicate it. For instance, he’d never bank right off those three high peaks up there. You can’t see enough of what’s beyond to be sure of finding a high enough landing place to set down without blowing the rest of the fluidics.

“The Falcon would have enough emergency thrust to take the other cliff, and the terrain layout says there’ll be more open space over there; you can see more of what you’d be getting into. That’s the way my cautious old Wookiee pal likes things. He’ll be looking for an out-of-the-way spot where he can set down, keep out of sight, try to do some repairs himself, and wait for me. I’ll find him, don’t worry.”

“You call this a plan?” she scoffed. “Why don’t we just buzz along yelling his name out the hatch?”

His tone sharpened. “I said I’d find him!”

Then Fiolla understood what desperate fears for Chewbacca’s safety Han had been suppressing. “I know you will, Han,” she added quietly.

* * *

Spray, the skip-tracer, wound his sinuous body through the chilly water, fully at home, indulging in aquabatics and playful zigzags for the sheer joy of it, his tapered tail and webbed paws driving and guiding him with grace and power, his nostrils clenched shut tightly. The clear water in this small mountaintop lake, fed by underground springs and runoff, was cold even by Spray’s standards, but his pelt kept him comfortable enough for short swims. As a youth, he had swum in much colder water, but he hadn’t had the leisure for much swimming in a long time.

At last the Tynnan saw what he was looking for, one of the multilegged crustaceans that made its home in the lake’s bottom. Spray was a bit short on air, having been frolicking when he should have been searching, he realized a little guiltily. He put on a burst of speed, hoping to catch the creature without a prolonged chase.

The crustacean didn’t sense Spray’s shadow or the pressure-wave he threw out before him until it was too late. It had barely begun to pick up speed when Spray seized it from behind—carefully,