THE HUTT GAMBI(18)

Coldly expressionless, the young lieutenant solemnly drew Han’s ceremonial officer’s saber and snapped it over his knee (the blade had already been weakened by a laser score, so it would break easily).

Then the lieutenant, still as blank-faced as a droid (though Tedris Bjalin had graduated a year ahead of Han and they’d been good friends), coldly slapped Han across the face, a stinging blow that was meant to express derision and scorn. Finally, as a last ritual gesture of ultimate contempt for one in disgrace, Tedris spat, and the glob of his spittle landed on Han’s boot. Han stared down at the shining surface, seeing the silver-white thread of saliva crawling toward his toes, marring the shining surface of his right boot …

At the time it had actually happened, Han had been vaguely grateful that Tedris hadn’t actually spat in his face, as was his right if he’d elected to do so. The Corellian had endured it all without expression, steeling himself to show no reaction, but this time, in his dream, he screamed a hot protest—”NO!” and lunged at Tedris–and awoke, sweating and shaking, in his bunk.

Sitting up, he ran unsteady hands through his hair, telling himself it was only a dream—that the humiliation was done, over, that he never had to go through that again.

Never again.

Han sighed. He’d worked so hard to get into the Academy, so hard to stay there. Despite the lacks in his pre-Academy education (and there had been many) Han Solo had worked to better himself, to be the very best cadet he could. And he’d succeeded. Han’s mouth tightened as he remembered commencement day. He’d graduated from the Academy with honors, and that had been one of the best days of his life.

Han shook his head. Doesn’t do any good to live in the past, Solo . .

. he reminded himself. All of those people—Tedris, Captain Meis, Admiral Ozzel (and what an old fool he was!)—all of his fellow officers were out of his life. Han Solo was a dead man to them, dead and gone. He’d never see Tedris again …

Han swallowed, and it hurt. When he’d entered the Academy he’d had such dreams, such hopes for a bright and shining future. He’d wanted to leave the old life of crime behind him, to become respectable. All his life he’d nurtured secret dreams of himself as an Imperial officer, esteemed and admired by all. Han knew he was smart, and he’d worked hard to make good grades, to fill in the gaps in his education. He’d had visions of himself one day in the uniform of an Imperial admiral, commanding a fleet, or, if he’d transferred to commanding a wing of TIE fighters, a general.

General Solo … Han sighed. It had a nice ring, but it was time to wake up and face facts. His chance at respectability was gone, ended when he’d refused to let Chewbacca be blasted in cold blood. He didn’t regret his choice, either. During his years in the Academy and in the Imperial forces, he’d seen close-up and firsthand the growing callousness, the cruelty of the Imperial officers and those who served under them.

Nonhumans were their favorite target, but the atrocities were spreading to include humans, these days. The Emperor seemed to be moving from being a relatively benign dictator to becoming a ruthless tyrant, determined to crush the worlds he ruled into complete subservience.

Han doubted he’d have lasted much longer in the Imperial Navy anyway.

At some point some officer would have ordered him to take part in one of the “demonstrations” designed to intimidate a dissenting world into submission, and Han would have told him what to do with himself. He knew that he could never have participated in some of the Imperial ordered massacres he’d heard about—like the one on Devaron. Seven hundred people dead, mowed down without mercy.

Han could kill, had done it coolly and without flinching, against armed opponents. But shooting unarmed prisoners? Han shook his head. No.

Never.

He was better off as a civilian, as a smuggler or thief.

He began dressing. First his dark blue military-style trousers, with the broken red Corellian bloodstripe running down the outside seams. When he’d been discharged from the service, Han had half expected them to deprive him of his bloodstripe, as they’d done with his other decorations and insignia, but they’d left it. Han guessed that was because the bloodstripe wasn’t an Imperial award. It was usually earned through military service, and was a mark of unusual heroism, but it was awarded by the Corellian government to a Corellian.

That had been a tough few days, all right, Han thought, remembering exactly how he’d earned the decoration. His right thumb rubbed the bloodstripe as he pulled his right boot on. The bloodstripe was designed so it could be removed and reaffixed to each new pair of trousers. Han had discovered that most non-Corellians had no idea what a mark of distinction it was—many just thought it was pure decoration.