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“Arrangements will be satisfactory,” Gallandro assured him calmly, “with adequate safeguards for both sides.” He set to work at the commo board.

Han cut his speed back, satisfied that there would be no fire from the Espos. He knuckled his copilot’s arm. “That was a cute move. What made you rig up the security case’s clip?”

The Wookiee answered with a string of the honks and grunts of his own language. Han turned his face back front, so his expression wouldn’t show. It was highly unlikely that Gallandro understood any Wookiee, and he wouldn’t know, unless he saw the pilot’s face, how Chewbacca’s reply had bewildered him.

Because Chewbacca hadn’t connected the security case’s clip. And that left only one other person who had known where the case was. Han half-stood, half-leaned forward to look down through the canopy at the gently swaying safety cage. Spray was huddled miserably in the lowest corner of the dangling cage, webbed fingers clutched at the guardrail and its meshwork. He was making a courageous effort, it seemed, not to become airsick as he pondered the sudden reversals of fate. Han figured that even with this turnabout, it had been a good day for the territorial manager; he resolved to trade grips with Spray before they again parted company.

Fiolla, unlike her superior, was braced more or less upright, clinging to the sling-arm and staring up at the cockpit. When she saw Han gazing down, a slow and secret smile crossed her face.

Knowing how well she could read the slightest kinetic movement, he mouthed. You are one very, very sharp future Senior Board Member. He saw a laugh escape her then and she made a small, mocking bow of the head.

He pulled back down into his seat. Gallandro had raised the destroyer and was remonstrating with her skipper.

“I might just have to hang onto one of my hostages a little longer,” Han interrupted. “To make sure you keep your end of the deal.” Gallandro swiveled his chair around in surprise. “And don’t get yourself in a lather, Gallandro; you’ll get her back if your word’s good.” He went back to flying, checking sensors for a suitable landing spot. One more thought occurred to him.

“By the way, Gallandro, find out how much cash the pursuer has in his vault.” He snickered at Chewbacca’s questioning bark. “What d’you mean, ‘what for?’ Somebody owes you and me ten thousand for services rendered. Or did you forget?”

Gallandro, teeth clenched, went back to his argument with the Espo captain. Chewbacca’s happy guffaws rang as the Wookiee pounded his armrest, the vibrations traveling through the deck. Han leaned forward again and blew Fiolla a heartfelt kiss.

HAN SOLO AND THE LOST LEGACY

A book for Linda Kuehl

and, with particular gratitude,

for John A. Kearney

I

HAN Solo nearly had the control-stem leads hooked up, a sweaty job that had him stuck under the low-slung airspeeder for almost an hour, when there was a kick at his foot. “What’s holding things up?”

The leads, now gathered together in precise order, sprang free of his fingers, going every which way. With a scalding Corellian malediction, Han shoved against the machine’s undercarriage, and his repulsor-lift mechanic’s creeper slid out from under the airspeeder.

Han leaped up instantly to confront Grigmin, his temporary employer, the color on his face changing from the red of frustration to a darker and more dangerous hue. Han was lean, of medium height, and appeared younger than his actual age. His eyes were guarded, intense.

Grigmin, tall, broad shouldered, handsomely blond, and some years younger than Han, either didn’t notice his pit-crewman’s anger or chose not to acknowledge it. “Well? What about it? That airspeeder’s an important part of my show.”

Han attempted not to lose his scant temper. Working as pit-crewman to Grigmin’s one-man airshow on a circuit of fifth-rate worlds had been the only job he and his partner, Chewbacca, had been able to get when they found they needed work, but Grigmin’s unrelenting arrogance made the task