As Roa explained it, the Kessel Run took ships traveling in realspace from the Kessel sector past and around the Maw, then through a rough, uninhabited sector of space known as “the Pit.” The Pit wasn’t as hard to navigate as the Maw, but more ships had actually been lost there than near the Maw, because after successfully making it past the blackhole cluster, pilots tended to be tired, their reflexes slowed.
And just when they needed to rest, the Pit was waiting for them.
The Pit contained a scattered asteroid field that wasn’t nearly as concentrated as the one surrounding Smuggler’s Run, but it was encased inside a wispy arm of a nebula. The gas and dust from the nebula tended to make most ships’ sensors imprecise, and the pilot’s line-of-sight was seriously compromised. Zigging in and out of the gauzy tendrils of the nebula was a confusing, chancy business, and there was always the chance that when a pilot zigged to avoid one asteroid, he’d zag right into another.
Roa explained all of this to Han, then took him back to the Wayfarer and showed him a complete schematic of their course from the navicomputer. Han studied it all intently, then nodded. “Okay. I think I can handle it, Roa.”
The Wayfarer’s captain gave him a long, measuring glance, then nodded.
“Okay, son. Go ahead. Take us out.”
Han nodded, then his world narrowed into the viewscreen, his coordinates, his controls, and his hands and eyes. He felt almost like a bio droid, someone who could link his nervous system into the ship.
It was as though Han had become the ship—as though they were one entity.
Flying past the center of the Maw, Han was acutely conscious that the slightest mistake on his part could result in disaster for the Wayfarer. He felt sweat break out on his forehead as he manipulated the controls, avoiding gravitational eddies and anomalies. Beside him, in the copilot’s seat, he could sense Roa’s tension, though the stocky older man made no sound. Behind him, Chewbacca whined softly, a thin thread of sound in the otherwise silent control cabin.
The Maw was all around them now as they skirted the dangerous blackhole clusters. Han knew that it would be possible to make the Run by looping wide around this entire perilous sector, but the cost—in fuel, in time, and in the extra distance that had to be traveled—made negotiating the obstacle course of the Maw worthwhile.
Barely.
So far, Roa had not spoken as Han took the Wayfarer along the twisting, tricky course that was the shortest safe way through the Maw. Han figured that must mean he was doing all right. He tried to take a deep breath as they sped past a whorl of bluish gas and dust, but it was as though a durasteel band was tightening around his chest.
When Roa spoke softly in the silent cabin, the sound made Han jump.
“Past the halfway point. Good job, lad. Watch this one coming up.
It’s a bit tricky.”
Han nodded, and felt a greasy drop of sweat slide past his eyebrow. He flipped Wayfarer up on her side as they hurtled past the whirlpool of cosmic dust that had once been a star.
Nearly an hour later, when Han felt as though he hadn’t drawn a deep breath for the whole trip, they were out of the Maw and entering the Pit.
An asteroid whizzed by. Han throttled back a bit as he tried to watch every direction at once, wishing for eyes in the back of his head like a Moloskian.
Roa’s voice was sharp. “Hard to port!”
Han caught barely a glimpse of the onrushing asteroid, the size of a mountain. His sweaty hand found the control to implement Roa’s order—and slipped!
Panic erupted in Han’s chest as he damped slick fingers onto the controls, overcompensating and causing them to nearly skid into the path of yet another asteroid!
Chewbacca howled, and Roa cursed. Han managed to miss the chunk of rock by the skin of his teeth.
“Sorry,” he said tightly. “Fingers slipped.”
Without another word, Roa reached into a storage bin and pulled something out. “Here. My present for making it past the Maw. I’ll take over while you put ‘em on.”
Han grabbed the pair of pilot’s gloves with their nonslip finger pads and tugged them on, snapping them securely into place. He flexed his fingers.
“Thanks, Roa.”
“Don’t mention it,” the older smuggler said. “I always wear ‘em, and I suggest you do, too.”
Han nodded. “I will.”
Several hours later, when Han had finished his first Kessel Run, and they were relaxing in the relative safety of hyperspace, Roa leaned back in the copilot’s seat. “So,” he said, “I have to say, I’ve never seen anyone fly the Run any smoother on his first try, Han. You’re a natural, son.” Han grinned at his friend. “You’re a good coach.”