Star Wars_ The Han Solo Adventures - Brian Daley [172]
The soldiers marched in badly fitting battle harness, far-too-loose helmets perched precariously on their heads, filigreed epaulets sagging forlornly from their narrow shoulders, embroidered dispatch cases flopping against their skinny posteriors. Their legs and feet were too narrow for combat boots, so the warriors of Brigia wore natty pink spats with glittering buttons over bare feet. Among what Han assumed to be their officer corps were an abundance of medals and citations, one or two ceremonial swords, and several drooping cummerbunds. A number of troopers with no detectable talent were blowing bugles.
In moments, the soldiers had taken the shocked college volunteers captive at bayonet point. Other units advanced on the starship.
Han had already grasped Hissal’s thin arm and was dragging him up the ramp. “But, this is an atrocity! We have done nothing wrong!”
Han released him and plunged through the main hatch. “You want to debate that with a bullet? Make up your mind; I’m sealing up.”
Hissal hurried up the ramp. The main hatch rolled down just as the troops reached the ramp’s foot; Han heard a salvo of bullets ricocheting off it.
In the cockpit, Chewbacca had already activated defensive shields and had begun warming up the engines. Hissal, trailing Han, was still protesting. Han couldn’t take the time to reply; he was completely absorbed in readying the ship for takeoff.
The volunteers were being dragged, pushed, and thrown into confinement in the waiting wagons. The few who protested were summarily struck down and towed off by their slender, strangely boned ankles. Han noticed that the Brigians’ war-bannered personnel carriers were, in fact, garbage trucks of an outdated model.
Chewbacca made a grating sound through clenched teeth. “I’m mad about our money, too,” Han replied. “How do we get the other half if we can’t get a delivery receipt?”
The troops were taking up firing positions in ranks around the starship. “They couldn’t have waited another ten minutes?” Han muttered. A Brigian stepped out in front of the firing lines. Because of the glare of the spotlights, Han had to shield his eyes with his hand to see that the Brigian held a loudhailer in one hand and an official-looking scroll in the other.
Han donned his headset and flipped on an external audio pickup in time to hear “—no harm will come to you, good friends from space! The peace-loving New Regime requires only that you surrender the fugitive now onboard your vessel. The Brigian government will trouble you no further.”
Han keyed his headset mike over to external-speaker mode. “What about our pay?” He avoided looking at Hissal, but kept one hand close to his side arm.
“Agreements can be reached, honored offworlder,” the Brigian below answered. “Allow me to come onboard and parley.”
Han keyed his mike again. “Pull the soldiers back and turn those spotlights off. Meet me at the ramp, no weapons, no stunts!”
The Brigian passed his loudhailer to a subordinate and motioned with the scroll. The ranks fell back and the spotlights flickered out; the martial garbage trucks withdrew. “Keep an eye on things,” Han instructed his first mate. “If anyone moves wrong, let me know.”
Hissal was outraged. “Is it your plan to treat with these hoodlums? Legally speaking, they haven’t got a receptacle to skloob in, I assure you. The courts—”
“—don’t concern us now,” Han interrupted, motioning him aside. “Go find a seat in the forward compartment and don’t worry; we won’t hand you over to them.”
With great dignity Hissal corrected him. “My concern is for my friends.”
Bollux, the labor ’droid, was waiting in the passageway, the crated duplicator components loaded on his handtruck. In his measured drawl the automaton asked, “What are your instructions, Captain?”
Han sighed. “I don’t know. Why is it I never get the easy jobs? Go