-Ailyn Habuur, aka Ailyn Vet, bounty hunter, to an intermediary for Thrackan Sal-Solo
MUNICIPAL PORT, LOWER CORONET, CORELLIA.
Han Solo had a smuggler’s fine-tuned sense for avoiding trouble. But he was a little out of practice after years of respectability, and there was definitely a different skill needed to evade detection in a city in peacetime. He made his way to the Millennium Falcon under cover of darkness to check on the hyperdrive. It still needed work.
The distance from the rented apartment to the municipal landing strip was two kilometers. The Falcon nestled among a motley array of vessels, making what should have been an easily recognizable ship just one dented, scraped crate among scores of freighters, modified fighters, speeders, taxis, landing craft, and any number of heavily modified, shabby, and unidentifiable craft. Corellians were eclectic in their choice of transport, so one more vintage ship in a dubious state of repair wasn’t going to draw much attention. In fact, the Falcon wasn’t even the only ship of her class parked on the apron. There were, as far as Han could see, at least three others.
He ambled around the starboard side, pressed the security pad in his pocket, and lowered the ramp to board her. Once in the cockpit, he switched her to tick-over and the array of status lights and readouts flickered into life. This was home. It had been for as long as he could remember. This was where he had spent some of the most important moments of his life, where he had spent time with friends like Chewbacca, where he had found out who he really was. Permacrete and mortar meant nothing to him. The Falcon was more than home: she was family, too, and all the people he had ever loved had passed through her sooner or later.
He patted the console bulkhead lovingly. “Hi, baby,” he said. “How you doing? Let’s make you all better.”
The hyperdrive was still off-balance. The coils and injectors needed a little more care spent on them to make sure that they released exactly the right amount of energy into the drive at the proper rate. Some of the repairs were simple mechanical stuff like finding the correct gauge of durasteel for the bolts on the housing and the shafts that created the fields. However advanced the propulsion system, it still came down to a point where huge forces created by energy had to be transferred to the good old-fashioned durasteel and alloy parts that held the drive and the hull together. Small vibrations became magnified; eventually, they smashed whole ships.
Han checked the automated system that sent sound waves through the hull to check for stress microfractures in the casing and airframe. There it was: stressing around the drive housing. He needed to replace brackets and bolts before he could risk taking the Falcon to full speed. He grabbed some tools and eased himself into the drive access space headfirst to see for himself. There was a certain comfort in getting his hands dirty and seeing problems as chunks of metal that could be fixed.
Okay, how do I fix Thrackan?
In theory, it was easy. Find out where he was at a given time and how to get to him, take a shot, and run.
But it wasn’t that simple in reality. That was why men like Fett made their fortunes doing it.
And if I fix Thrackan, will there be another of his minions to take his place? Are we always going to be running?
No, it was just Thrackan. It was personal, like it always had been, and nobody else could hate you quite as thoroughly and efficiently as your own kin. Han tested the torque on the housing bolts with a hydrospanner and noted the illuminated display on the handle. There was a little play in the bolts: not enough for flesh and blood to detect, but discernible by sensitive equipment. If he needed to make a run for it in the Falcon right now, it would be a much slower one if he didn’t want the airframe to shake itself apart.
“Aw, baby, I’ve neglected you ..
He set the spanner to extract the bolts one by one, let them fall into his hand, and padded them out with a makeshift pin of soft alloy before screwing them back in. That would cut down on the movement until he could find the right spares. “I promise I won’t let you get into this state ever again.”
“Touching,” said a voice above him, and he jerked into a ball instinctively, knees tight to his chest, as the flare of blasterfire hit the deck a hand span away from where he’d been lying.
He rolled under the housing and reached for his hold-out blaster. Another bolt sizzled on the bulkhead to one side of him; he smelled singed paint and ozone. He was right under the housing now, too far under for whoever it was to get a clear shot at him unless they got down flat on the deck and fired at floor level.
Well, it wasn’t Fett, that was for sure. He’d have been dead by now if it had been.
Han rolled over onto his belly with one elbow braced on the deck of the compartment to propel himself on the smooth surface and his blaster in his other hand. It was hard to see at this angle, but he spotted movement, and knew he was looking at boots.