Shrike would rent a wealthy estate on Corellia, and then set up a “family unit,” to provide a respectable backdrop to the scam. Han and the other children detailed to such a “family” would be sent to live on the estate.
He’d go to a rich-kids school, and one of his jobs during the scam was to make friends with the children of the wealthy and bring them home to play.
Several times, this had resulted in valuable contacts whose parents had been duped into “investing” in Garris Shrike’s current scam.
Just a few weeks past, Han had been attending such a school—a school so well known that it had merited a visit from the famous Senator Garm Bel Iblis. Han had raised his hand and asked the Senator two questions that had been insightful and intelligent enough to make the Senator really notice him. After class was over, Bel Iblis had stopped Han, shaken his hand, and asked him his name. Han had glanced around quickly, seeing that nobody else was within earshot, and proudly told the Senator his real name. It had felt great to be able to do that .
. .
Shrike recruited Han frequently for his scam operations, partly because of the boy’s easygoing charm and winning smile, and partly because Han’s clandestine studies made him fit into his grade level better than most of the other children. Han had also gained a small reputation as an up-and-coming swoop and speeder pilot—a rich man’s sport if there ever was one. He’d met lots of kids from wealthy families while swoop racing, and several times Shrike had managed to lure their parents into whatever scam he was currently running.
In a year, Han would be eligible to race in Corellia’s Junior Championship division. That would mean big prize money—if he won.
Han both liked and disliked these assignments. He liked them because he got to live in the lap of luxury for weeks, sometimes months. Swoop and speeder racing was life and breath to him, and he got to practice every day.
He disliked these con operations because he always wound up caring about some of the kids he was ordered to befriend, and all the while he knew they and their families would be irrevocably injured by Shrike’s scheme.
Mostly, Han managed to stifle any guilt feelings he felt. He was becoming good at putting himself first. Other people—with the sole exception of Dewlanna—had to come second or not at all. It was selfpreservation, and Han was very, very good at that.
I still am, Han thought as he got up from the deck of the Ylesian Dream and went to check on their course and speed. The young Corellian smiled and nodded as he read the instrument readings. Right in the groove, he thought. We’re going to make it.
He checked his air pak, seeing it was more than half-gone.
For a moment Han was tempted to explore the Dream further, but he resisted the impulse. Moving around would just cause him to use up his oxygen faster, and he was skirting the edge of safety as it was.
So he settled back down, and the memories came back. Aunt Tiion. Poor woman. And dear cousin Thrackan. As he remembered, Han’s lips pulled back from his teeth in a feral grin that was more like a canoid’s snarl …
Han swung down off the high stone wall and landed lightly on the balls of his feet. Through the trees he could see a large structure built of the same native stone as the wall, so he headed toward it, staying in the treeshadow whenever possible.
When he reached the house, he halted, staring at it in amazement. He’d seen a lot of rich mansions, even lived in more than a few, but he’d never seen anything like the SalSolo estate.
Towers festooned with creeping vines, four of them, stood at each corner of a large, squarish stone building. An ancient gardener droid moved about arthritically, pruning the bushes that grew down to the edge of a large trench filled with water. Han walked around to the side and saw, to his surprise, that the stretch of water completely surrounded the house. There was no way to enter the place, except to cross a narrow wooden bridge that spanned the water and led up to the front door.
Han had been interested in military tactics ever since he was small, and he’d read up on them. He studied the SalSolo mansion, realizing it was built to almost military fortress standards of impregnability.
Well, that sort of fit in with what he’d read about the Solo family.
They didn’t socialize, didn’t attend charity events or go to plays or concerts.
In all the times he’d posed as a rich kid, he’d never heard anyone mention the Solo family—and the way those rich people talked about each other, he’d have heard something if they ever mingled with their peers.
Han walked cautiously toward the house. He’d exchanged his ship’s gray jumpsuit for a “borrowed” pair of black pants and a pale gray tunic.