THE HUTT GAMBI(119)

When they reached the cargo deck again, the Wookiee was hesitant about crawling into the Imperial lifepod, but Han insisted. “Don’t you get it, Chewie? The Bria is finished! This is our only chance! Now get inside and put on this respirator mask!”

Once Chewie was safely inside, Han hastily donned a spacesuit, then opened the cargo-bay doors wide.

WHUMP! WHUMP-WHUMP!

Give up, Han thought at the TIEs as he attached an antigrav unit to the lifepod, then floated it over to the cargo door. We’re doomed anyhow ˇ . .

Tapping on the viewport, he gestured out what he planned. Chewie, now wearing the respirator, nodded.

Then, in one smooth motion, Han slid the pod toward the opening, just as Chewie popped the hatch and yanked him inside.

The entire sequence took maybe six seconds. Not enough time for explosive decompression to rupture tough Wookiee hide. A second later the hatch was closed and dogged, and atmosphere was again filling the pod.

The pod had barely cleared the cargo-bay doors when the Bria blew up.

The concussion knocked the little lifepod spinning. Han braced himself, half expecting one of the TIEs to attack them, but as he’d hoped, their escape was covered by the explosion.

The lifepod was very, very cramped. Han managed to get his helmet off, then he and Chewie just crouched there, almost in each other’s arms, and stared at each other, then back at the flaming debris that had been their ship.

“Lando isn’t gonna like this,” Han said ruefully. The Bria had been a cranky, temperamental ship, but he’d kind of gotten used to her.

Chewie growled softly in Wookiee. Han looked at him and shrugged.

“What do we do now? Your guess is as good as mine, pal. This is an inhabited system, so the lifepod controls ought to soft-land us somewhere near where we can get a transport …”

Chewie whined. “Oh, you mean what will we do for a ship?” Han sighed.

“That’s a real good question, pal …”

He’s dead, Teroenza thought in disbelief, looking at the message from Nal Hutta. It worked. I can’t believe Aruk’s really gone!

For just a moment he felt a tiny prickle of guilt, but it was swiftly drowned in excitement. With Aruk out of the way, and Desilijic’s credits pouring in, nothing could stop him from taking over complete control of the entire Ylesian operation. Durga was back on Nal Hutta, with his hands full trying to control Besadii. Kibbick was, as everyone knew, an idiot.

Teroenza pictured his collection, and then pictured it as it would be soon.

He would build a separate building to house it!

And he would bring his mate here. No more lonely days and nights.

They would slosh in the mud wallows together, rich beyond their wildest dreams …

Teroenza spent several minutes putting on a suitably lugubrious expression, then the t’landa Til went off to find Kibbick, and inform him that his uncle was dead …

Moff Sam Shild sat alone in his palatial home on Teth, wondering just what had gone wrong. The attack on Nal Hutta had obviously been a huge mistake.

Greelanx–Greelanx had failed, and now the admiral was dead under suspicious circumstances.

Shild was alone in his house, save for the droids. All his living servants were gone, he knew not where. Bria … she was gone, too, had disappeared days ago.

She hadn’t even said good-bye …

Yesterday, the Emperor had summoned Shild back to Imperial Center, to face a board of inquiry about the ill-fated attack on the Y’Toub system.

Palpatine’s message had made it clear that the Emperor was most displeased.

Shild sat alone, struggling to comprehend it all. Scant days ago, he’d been on top of the galaxy. Now he couldn’t even remember why he’d done the things he’d done. It was almost as though he’d been possessed by an alien entity.

Shild stared down at his ornate desk. Before him lay a blaster, side by side with a vial of poison. Shild took a deep breath. He had no illusions anymore. Traveling to Imperial Center would only prolong the inevitable.

Anything would be better than facing Palpatine’s wrath. But which should he use, the blaster or the poison?

Shild considered for a while, but couldn’t make up his mind. Finally, in desperation, he fell back on a childhood memory. Moving his finger from one means of death (and escape) to the other, he began to chant aloud: “Wonga, winga, cingee wooze … which of these do I choose?”