Star Wars_ The Han Solo Trilogy 01_ The Paradise Snare - A. C. Crispin [3]
Experimentally, he swung the blaster up to eye level and awkwardly closed one brown eye as he sighted along the barrel. The muzzle of the weapon wavered slightly, and Han cursed softly under his breath as he realized his hand was trembling. Come on, he told himself, show some backbone, Solo. Getting off this ship and away from Shrike is worth a little risk.
Reflexively, he glanced over his shoulder, then turned back just in time to duck under a low-hanging power coupling. He’d chosen this route because it avoided all the living quarters and recreation areas, but it was so narrow and low-ceilinged that he was beginning to feel claustrophobic as he tiptoed forward, resisting the urge to turn and look back over his shoulder.
Ahead of him, the near tunnel widened out, and Han realized he was almost at his destination. Only a few more minutes, he told himself, continuing to move with a stealthy grace that made his progress as soundless as that of a wonat’s furred toe-pads. He was skirting the hyperdrive modules now, and then a larger corridor intersected. Han turned right, relieved that he could now walk without stooping.
He crept up to the door of the big galley and hesitated outside, his ears and nose busy. Sounds … yes, only the ones he’d been expecting to hear. The soft clatter of metal pans, the splooooch of dough being punched, and then the faint sounds of it being kneaded.
He could smell the dough, now. Wastril bread, his favorite. Han’s mouth tightened. With any luck, he wouldn’t be here to eat any of this particular batch.
Sticking the blaster into his belt, he opened the door and stepped into the galley. “Hey … Dewlanna …” he said softly. “It’s me. I’ve come to say good-bye.”
The tall, furred being who had been vigorously kneading the wastril dough swung around to face him with a soft, inquiring growl.
Dewlanna’s real name was Dewlannamapia, and she had been Han’s closest friend since she’d come to live aboard Trader’s Luck nearly ten years ago, when Han had been about nine. (The young swoop pilot had no idea of when he’d been born, of course. Or who his parents had been. If it hadn’t been for Dewlanna, he wouldn’t even have known that his last name was “Solo.”)
Han couldn’t speak Wookiee—trying to reproduce the growls, barks, roars, and rumbling grunts made his throat sore, and he knew he sounded ridiculous—but he understood it very well. For her part, Dewlanna couldn’t speak Basic, but she understood it as well as she did her own language. So communication between the human youth and the elderly Wookiee widow was fluent, but … different.
Han had gotten used to it years ago and never thought about it anymore. He and Dewlanna just … talked. They understood each other perfectly. Now he hefted the stolen blaster, careful not to point it at his friend. “Yes,” he repiled in responce to Dewlanna’s comment, “tonight’s the night. I’m getting off Trader’s Luck and I’m never coming back.”
Dewlanna rumbled at him worriedly as she automatically resumed kneading her dough. Han shook his head, giving her a lopsided grin. “You worry too much, Dewlanna. Of course I’ve got it all planned. I’ve got a spacesuit stashed in a locker near the robot freighter docks, and there’s a ship docked there now that will be departing as soon as it’s unloaded and refueled. A robot freighter, and it’s headed where I want to go.”
Dewlanna punched her dough, then growled a soft interrogatory.
“I’m heading for Ylesia,” Han told her. “Remember I told you all about it? It’s a religious colony near Hutt space, and they offer pilgrims sanctuary from the outside universe. I’ll be safe from Shrike there. And”—he held up a small holodisk where the Wookiee cook could see it—“look at this! They’re advertising for a pilot! I already used up the last of my payout credits from that job we pulled, to send a message, telling them I’m coming to interview for the job.”
Dewlanna