THE HUTT GAMBI(22)

Chewbacca howled. Han looked across the ramp at his partner, who was crouched against the curve of the wall, safe for the moment. He made an urgent “stay still!” sign with his hand. Chewbacca glared at him, and hefted his bowcaster emphatically.

What’s he trying to tell me? Han wondered. Chewie roared, and to anyone who didn’t understand Wookiee, the sound he produced would have seemed nothing more than a howl of rage. But Han understood. He nodded at Chewie, then dived down-ramp, firing blindly as he went. Two shots sizzled into the wall, and chips of permacrete flew.

The stun beam screamed past him again, and Han took a deep breath, then yelled with anguish, doubling over and dropping his blaster.

He hit the permacrete and lay there, as if stunned. This had better work .

. .

Steps approached, quick and decisive–and then came the whang of the bowcaster being fired. A loud, explosive whump and a short, choked-off scream followed.

Han rolled over and leaped to his feet, just in time to see his assailant slump to his knees, anguish imprinted on every hairy feature.

A Bothan, sure enough. His hands were clutching a smoking hole in his chest.

A Bothan bounty hunter. Han recognized the type, if not the individual.

As he watched, the Bothan pitched over on his face. He thrashed, gurgled, gave one final twitch, then lay still.

Han looked over at his partner and nodded. “Good shooting, Chewie.

Thanks.”

Walking over to the dead Bothan, Han used the toe of his boot to turn him over onto his back. The hairy features had gone slack in death.

Han eyed the wound. “That doesn’t look anything like a blaster shot.

Can’t be all that many Wookiees here on Nar Shaddaa, so I think we need to disguise how this guy met his end.”

Drawing his blaster, Han aimed, turned his head, then discharged it full force into the Bothan’s chest. When he looked back, the Bothan barely had a chest, and all signs of Chewie’s distinctive weapon were erased.

Han searched the bounty hunter, finding a few credits in his pockets, and a worn flimsy giving a description of one “Han Solo” plus the information that the quarry was thought to be heading for Nar Shaddaa.

The bounty posted for Han was seventy-five hundred credits. Live capture only, no disintegrations.

Han scanned it, then stuffed it into his pocket. “Looks like things might get real exciting, Chewie,” he said. “We’d better stay sharp.”

“Urrrrrrnnnn …”

Han wondered what to do about the Bothan. Should they try to destroy the body? Should they just leave him here, as a warning? Or should they find someplace to dump him where it would take him a while to be discovered?

After some consideration, Han decided to just leave the Bothan. If the sight of one dead bounty hunter might deter another, so much the better.

He and chewbacca set off down the last part of the ramp together. Han half expected the bounty hunter to have a partner, but no one bothered them.

Minutes later they emerged onto a street in Nar Shaddaa. Han stepped onto a lurching glidewalk and let it carry him along, while he looked around.

Nar Shaddaa resembled a tri-dee maze puzzle constructed by a lunatic.

Spidery walkways and precipitous ramps joined building to building.

Architectural styles and designs from dozens of worlds jostled shoulder to shoulder. Domes, spires, arches, hulking squat rectangles, parabolas …

the jumble of shapes made his head spin. Durasteel and permacrete and glassine and other building materials Han couldn’t even begin to identify were encrusted with filth and graffiti. Some of the scrawled names and images were stories high.

Many of the larger structures had obviously been built decades ago, when Nar Shaddaa was a respectable spaceport, a pleasure moon where wealthy sentients came to play. Great buildings that had once been fine hotels were now gutted and reduced to multilevel hovels, housing the living detritus of a dozen or more worlds. The streets and alleys were subject to a constant bombardment of toxic and noxious wastes spewed down from higher up. The air was as bad as one of Nal Hutta’s bogs—or worse.

The scent of food from multiple worlds warred with the stench of leaking sewers, mingling with the sharp odors of intoxicating spices and other drugs. The sharp reek of ship exhaust was ever-present, as were the ships themselves, roaring and gliding and swooping overhead, landing and taking off in an endless bizarre ballet.

Some of the hotels and casinos were still in business—most likely those owned by the Hutt Lords, Han guessed. Sentients from dozens of worlds crowded the streets, avoiding eye contact, ever-alert, always poised to seek out and profit from another sentient’s mistake or moment of weakness. Nearly everyone Han saw went armed, with the exception of the droids.