THE HUTT GAMBI(3)
Once on Duro, Han drank up some of the profits from his mission, while waiting to be contacted for another piloting job. His patience was rewarded one day when a Sullustan approached him and offered him good pay to take a ship from Duro, avoiding any Imperial ports of call, a third of the way across the galaxy to Kothlis, a Bothan colony world.
Of course the sleek, swift little craft was “hot”—stolen from some wealthy owner’s landing pad. Han had to remind himself that he was no longer in the business of keeping the law—he was in the business of breaking it.
So he set his jaw and piloted the stolen vessel to her new home on Kothlis.
Then he went looking for another assignment, and eventually found one.
On the surface, this job seemed legit. Han was to ferry a large nalargon from Kothlis to Devaron.
Han had never heard of a nalargon before, which wasn’t surprising, as his exposure to music had been limited. A nalargon proved to be a very large instrument that was operated by a keyboard and foot pedals.
Pipes and subharmonic resonance generators produced sound on many wave bands. The instruments were in demand for the jizz craze that was sweeping the galaxy.
Accordingly, the huge instrument was brought aboard the ship Han had been assigned, bolted to the deck, then left sealed in the cargo compartment.
Han investigated the instrument once he and Chewie were safely in hyperspace. He tapped it, poked and nudged it, turned it on, then tried pressing the keys and pedals. No sound, except the sound he made trying to make it work.
But his tappings proved it wasn’t hollow. Han sat back on his heels, gazing at the huge instrument. The thing was obviously a dummy—a shell, with something inside. What?
Han knew from his stint in the Imperial Navy that Devaron was a world in turmoil. Not long ago a group of rebels had risen against the Imperial governor, demanding independence from the Empire. Han’s lip curled disdainfully. Stupid fools, thinking they had a chance against the Empire.
Seven hundred of the rebels had been captured when the ancient holy city of Montellian Serat had been overrun by Imperial troops a few months ago.
They’d been summarily executed without trial, killed without mercy.
The remaining rebels were still hiding out in the hills, holding out, attacking commando fashion, but Han knew it was only a matter of time before they, too, would be ground beneath Palpatine’s heel, their world rigidly controlled by the Empire, as so many other worlds had been.
Eyeing the nalargon, Han made some mental calculations based on the instrument being hollow. Yeah … a short-bore mobile laser cannon would just about fit inside that shell. The weapon could be mounted on the back of a landskimmer, and was capable of blowing small targets—a building, or a short-range Imperial fighter—into very small pieces.
It could also be blast rifles, of course. Ten or fifteen would fit inside there, if they were cleverly packed.
Whatever was inside the nalargon, Han had a bad feeling about the assignment he’d taken on. He resolved to land the ship, then walk away from it and not go back. He had fake landing codes, provided by the Bothans. He’d use them, and then get away as quickly as he could . .
.
He’d landed yesterday, and for all Han knew, the ship was still sitting on the field with the nalargon in her cargo hold. But he had a hunch that the rebels on Devaron hadn’t wasted any time …
Han shook his head a little blearily, half wishing he hadn’t had that last ale. The sour taste was still in his mouth, and his head buzzed.
Han looked from side to side, testingly, and the room stayed still.
Good. He wasn’t too drunk to play sabacc and win. Let’s get on with it, Solo. Every little credit helps …
The smuggler rose to his feet and strolled quite steadily across the room to the table. “Greetings, gentles,” he said, in Basic. “Got room for another player?”
The dealer, a Devaronian male, turned his head with its waxed, polished horns to regard Han questioningly. He must have decided that the newcomer looked okay, because he shrugged and gestured at the vacant seat.
“Welcome, Pilot. As long as your credits hold out, so does your welcome.” He grinned, showing sharp, feral teeth.
Han nodded, then slid into the seat.
He’d first learned to play sabacc when he was about fourteen. Han anted credits into the highstakes pot, the “sabacc pot,” then picked up the two cards he’d been dealt and scanned them, all the while covertly studying his opponents. When the bet for the “hand pot” came round to him, he tossed the requisite number of credit disks into that pot, too.
Han had the six of staves and the Queen of Air and Darkness, but at any moment the dealer could push a button, and all the card-values would change. Han eyed his opponents: a tiny Sullustan, a furry Devaronian female, the Devaronian male dealer, and a huge female Barabel, a reptiloid being from Barab One. This was the first time Han had seen a Barabel up close, and she was an impressive sight. Over two meters tall, covered with tough black scales that would repel even a stun blast, the Barabel had a mouthful of daggerlike teeth and a clublike tail that reportedly made them nasty customers in a fight. This one, who had introduced herself as Shallamar, seemed peaceful enough, though. She picked up the newest cardchip she’d been dealt and studied her hand intently through narrowed slit-pupiled eyes.