Star Wars_ The Han Solo Trilogy 02_ The Hutt Gambit - A. C. Crispin [2]
The Wookiee moaned quietly. Han’s scowl deepened. “Keep your opinions to yourself, hairball,” he snarled. “I’ll know when I’ve had enough. Th’ las’ thing I need is a Wookiee playin’ nursemaid for me.”
The Wookiee—Chewbacca, that was it—growled softly, his blue eyes shadowed with concern. Han’s lip curled. “I’m perfectly capable of lookin’ after myself, and don’t you forget it. Just ’cause I saved your furry butt from being vaporized doesn’t mean you owe me a thing. I tol’ you before—I owed a Wookiee, long ago. Owed her my life, coupla times over. So I saved you, ’cause I owed her.”
Chewbacca made a sound halfway between a moan and a snarl. Han shook his head. “No, that means you don’t owe me a thing, don’t you get it? I owed her, but I couldn’t repay her. So I helped you out, which makes us even … square. So will you please take those credits I gave you, and go back to Kashyyyk? You ain’t doin’ me any favors staying here, hairball. I need you like I need a blaster burn on my butt.”
Affronted, Chewbacca drew himself up to his full Wookiee height. He growled low in his throat.
“Yeah, I know I tossed away my career and my livin’ that day on Coruscant when I stopped Commander Nyklas from shootin’ you. I hate slavery, and watchin’ Nyklas use a force whip ain’t a particularly appetizing sight. I know Wookiees, you see. When I was growin’ up, a Wookiee was my best friend. I knew you were gonna turn on Nyklas before you did it—just like I knew Nyklas would go for his blaster. I couldn’t just stand there and watch him blast you. But don’t go tryin’ to make me out as some kinda hero, Chewie. I don’t need a partner, and I don’t want a friend. My name says it all, pal. Solo.”
Han jerked a thumb at his chest. “Solo. In my language, that means me, alone, by myself. Get it? That’s the way it is, and that’s the way I like it. So … no offense, Chewie, but why don’t you just scram. As in, go away. Permanently.”
Chewie stared at Han for a long moment, then he snorted disdainfully, turned, and strode out of the bar.
Han wondered disinterestedly if he’d actually managed to convince the big hairy oaf to leave for good. If he had, that was reason for celebration. For another drink …
As he glanced around the bar, he saw that over in the corner several patrons were gathering around a table. A sabacc game was forming. Han wondered whether he ought to try to get in on it. Mentally he reviewed the contents of his credit pouch, and decided that might not be a bad idea. He usually had very good luck at sabacc, and every credit counted, these days.
These days …
Han sighed. How long had it been since that fateful day when he’d been sent to assist Commander Nyklas with the crew of Wookiee laborers assigned to complete a new wing on the Imperial Hall of Heroes? He counted, grimacing as he realized that he’d lost days on end in there … days probably spent in a dark haze of ale and bitter recrimination. In two days it would be two months.
Han’s mouth tightened and he ran an unsteady hand through his unruly brown hair. For the past five years he’d kept it cut short in approved military fashion, but now it was growing out, getting almost shaggy. He had a sudden, sharp mental image of himself as he’d been then—immaculately groomed, insignia polished, boots shining—and glanced down at himself.
What a contrast between then and now. He was wearing a stained, grayish shirt that had once been white, a stained, gray neo-leather jacket he’d purchased secondhand, and dark blue military-style trousers with his Corellian bloodstripe running down the outside seam. Only the boots were the same. They were custom-fitted when each cadet was commissioned, so the Empire hadn’t wanted them back. Han had been commissioned just a little over eight months ago, and no junior lieutenant had ever been prouder of his rank—or of those shining boots.
The boots were scuffed now, and worn. Han’s lip curled as he regarded them. Scuffed and worn by