“Are you willing to help out these poor, benighted citizens, Padra?”
Eight-Gee-Enn asked, cocking its metal head inquiringly, its voice dripping artificial camaraderie.
“Sure am!” the boy cried. He gave Han and the other small children a triumphant glance. “No more baby begging for me!” he whispered excitedly.
Han, who was barely beginning to learn the skills necessary to pick pockets swiftly and undetectably, felt a stir of envy. Picking pockets was easy, once you learned how to do it well. It was far easier to meet Eight-Gee-Enn’s quota for a day’s “work” picking pockets than it was by begging. Begging required accosting at least three marks, roughly, in order to gain one donation.
But pickpocketing … now, that was the best way to earn big money!
If you chose the right mark; you could gain enough in one grab to give Eight Gee-Enn your quota before noon, and then you were free to play.
Han wondered whether Eight-Gee-Enn would give him some practice time if he hurried and begged his quota for the day before the others finished.
It was fun to practice with the spindly reddish droid, because Eight-Gee-Enn looked so funny in clothes! The droid would put on street clothes typical to the planet they were on, and then either stand still or stroll past his student. Han had learned to relieve the droid of the concealed chrono, credit vouchers, and even some kinds of jewelry without Eight-Gee-Enn detecting his fingers in the process.
But he couldn’t do it one hundred percent of the time. Han scowled a little as he trudged away. Eight-Gee-Enn demanded perfection from its little band, especially from the pickpockets. The droid wouldn’t let him start picking pockets until it was sure that Han could do so perfectly, every time.
Absently, he picked up a handful of dirt and rubbed it into his hands, then smeared his already sweating face. What planet was this, anyway?
He couldn’t recall hearing its name. The native people were greenish skinned, with small, swively ears and huge dark purple eyes. Han had only learned a few words in their language, but he was a quick study, and he knew that by the time Trader’s Luck moved on, he’d be able to understand it well, and speak it—at least the gutter argot—passably.
Wherever this was, it was hot. Hot and humid. Han glanced up at the pale, greenish-blue sky, in which blazed a pale orange sun. The prospect of spending several hours on his appointed street, whining, begging, and cajoling passersby for alms wasn’t an attractive one. I hate begging, Han thought sourly. When I get a little older, I’m going to make them let me steal, instead of beg. I’m sure I’ll be a good thief, and I’m not that good a beggar.
He knew his appearance was all right—he’d gotten taller in the past couple of years, but he was still underweight enough to be called skinny.
And he knew how to make his voice servile, his manner cringing and cowering, as though only desperation were driving him to plead for alms.
Maybe it was his eyes, Han thought. Maybe the secret resentment and shame he felt at having to beg showed in them and potential marks could see it.
Nobody respected a beggar, and Han, more than almost anything; had an undeclared desire to be respected.
Not just respected, he wanted to be respectable. He couldn’t recall much about his life before Garris Shrike had found him begging on Corellia, but Han somehow knew that once upon a time, things had been different.
Long ago, he’d been taught to believe that begging was shameful. And that stealing.., stealing was worse. Han bit his lip angrily. He knew that someone, perhaps the parents he couldn’t remember, had taught him these things. Once, long ago, he’d been taught different ways …
different values.
But now—what could he do? Aboard Trader’s Luck, there was one cardinal rule. If you didn’t work you begged or stole. If you refused to work beg, or steal, you didn’t eat. Han had no other skills to offer. He was too little to pilot, not strong enough to load smuggled cargo.
But I won’t always be! he reminded himself “I’m growing every day!
Soon I’m going to be big, in just five more years I’ll be ten, and then, maybe, I’ll be big enough to pilot!”
Han had discovered that when he made up his mind to accomplish something, he could do it. He was sure that piloting would be no exception.
And when I can pilot, that’ll be my way off Trader’s Luck, he thought, his mind slipping automatically into an old dream, one that he never told anyone about. Once he’d confided it to one of the other children, and the little vrelt blabbed it to everyone. Shrike and the others laughed at Han for weeks, calling him “Captain Han of the Imperial Navy, “until Han wanted to crawl away, hands over his ears. It took all his control to just shrug and pretend not to care…