Star Wars_ The Han Solo Adventures - Brian Daley [210]
“He shut up, but about that time there was a rumpus in the passenger compartment. The other cadets were becoming nervous. So Han opened the intercom. ‘By order of the commandant, this is a full-dress emergency-landing drill. All procedures will be observed; you are being graded on your performance.’
“I told him he was playing fast and loose with what might be somebody’s last moments, and he told me to go ahead and tell them the truth if I wanted a panic in the hold. I let it ride. Han took control back.
“The U-33 isn’t designed for the things Han did to that bird. He took her through three inverted outside loops to free up the locking claws. Our vision began to go. How Han coaxed lift from those inverted wings, I’ll never know: but he was smirking, hanging there from his harness.
“He went into barrel rolls to build centrifugal force in the reservoir. I thought he was going to rip the wings off and I almost took control back, but just then I got a board light. He had forced the valve open.
“But gravity could’ve swung it shut again, so he had to fly upside-down while the landing gear cranked out. The ship had begun losing altitude and the commandant was sort of frothing at the mouth, babbling for Han to pull out. Han refused. ‘Wait for it, wait for it,’ he said. Then we heard this long grinding sound as the landing gear seated, and a clang as it locked.
“Han snap-rolled, hit full reverse thrusters, and hung out all the hardware. We uprooted two stop-nets and only lived because we landed into the wind. Jouncer landing, I tell you.
“They had to help the commandant off the ship. Then they deactivated that ship for good. Han locked down his board, just like the rule book says. ‘Slick enough for you?’ he asked. I said ‘Slick.’ That’s how the nickname started.”
It was fully dark now. The stars were luminous overhead, and both of Dellalt’s moons were in the sky. “Badure, if it happened today,” Hasti asked quietly, “would you tell those cadets they might die?”
He sounded tired. “Yes. Even though they might’ve panicked. They had a right to know.”
The logical next question, then, was, “Well, what’re our chances, the truth? Can we get the Falcon back, or even survive an attempt?” Skynx, and the automata, too, hung on his reply.
Badure remained silent. Through his mind passed the options: lying, telling the truth, or simply rolling over and going to sleep. But when he opened his mouth to answer, he was interrupted.
“Depends on what we run up against,” Han Solo said from the darkness, having returned so quietly that they hadn’t heard him. “If camp security’s loose, we could get away without losses. If it’s tight, we have to tackle them somehow, maybe draw them out. Anyway, it means risk. We’d probably have casualties and some of us might not make it.”
“Some? Admit it, Solo; you’re so concerned with getting that ship of yours back that you’re ignoring facts. J’uoch’s got more hired killers than—”
“J’uoch’s got portside brawlers and some small-time muscle,” Han corrected Hasti. “If they were quality, they wouldn’t be working for a two-credit outfit like hers. Handing some clod a gun doesn’t make him a gunman.”
He stepped closer and she could see his silhouette against the stars. “They have the numbers, but the only real gunman within light-years is standing right in front of you.”
The craft was trim, sleek, luxuriously customized, a scoutship off the military inventory. Her approach and landing were exacting, and she set down precisely where the Millennium Falcon had landed several days earlier. Her lone occupant emerged.
The man was limber, graceful, though his movements were at times abrupt. Although he was tall and lean, his form seemed compact. His clothes were expensive and impeccable, of the finest materials, but somber—gray trousers and a high-collared