“Good,” Shrike grunted. “Nooni, go post a guard over the weapons locker, just in case he comes back. Larrad, activate the biosensors, see if you can ID the thief and where he’s heading.”
Shrike’s brother nodded and bent over the auxiliary control board.
“Corellian human,” he announced after a moment. “Male. Young.
Height, 1.8 meters. Dark hair and eyes. Slender build. The bioscanner says it recognizes him. He’s heading aft, toward the galley.”
Shrike’s expression hardened until his eyes were as cold and blue as the glaciers on Hoth. “The Solo kid,” he said. “He’s the only one cocky enough to try something like this.” He flexed his fingers, then hardened them into a fist. The ring he wore, made from a single gem of Devaronian bloodpoison, flashed dull silver in the bulkhead lights.
“Well, I’ve gone easy on him so far, ‘cause he’s a good swoop pilot, and I never lost when I bet on him, but enough is enough. Tonight, I’m going to teach him to respect authority, and he’s going to wish he’d never been born.”
Shrike’s teeth flashed, much brighter than the gem in his ring. “Or that I’d never ‘found’ him seventeen years ago and brought his sniveling, pants-wetting little behind home to the Luck. I’m a patient, tolerant man …” he sighed theatrically, “as the galaxy knows, but even I have my limits.”
He glanced over at his brother, who was looking rather uncomfortable.
Garris wondered if Larrad was remembering the Solo kid’s last punishment session a year ago. The youth hadn’t been able to walk for two days.
Shrike’s mouth tightened. He wouldn’t tolerate any softness among his subordinates. “Right, Larrad?” he said too softly.
“Right, Captain!”
Han Solo gripped the stolen blaster as he tiptoed along the narrow metal corridor. When he’d wired into the sim and jimmied the lock into the weapons cache, he’d only had a moment to reach in and grab the first weapon that came to hand. There’d been no time to pick and choose.
Nervously, he pushed strands of damp brown hair back from his forehead, realizing he was sweating. The blaster felt heavy and awkward in his hand as he examined it. Han had seldom held one before, and he only knew how to check the charge from the reading he’d done.
He’d never actually fired a weapon. Garris Shrike didn’t permit anyone but his officers to walk around armed, Squinting in the dim light, the young swoop pilot flipped open a small panel in the thickest part of the barrel and peered down at the readouts. Good. Fully charged.
Shrike may be a bully and a fool, but he runs a taut ship.
Not even to himself would the youth admit how much he actually feared and hated the captain of Trader’s Luck. He’d learned long ago that showing fear of any sort was a swift guarantee of a beating–or worse.
The only thing bullies and fools respected was courage—or, at least, bravado. So Han Solo had learned never to allow fear to surface in his mind or heart.
There were times when he was dimly aware that it was there, deep down, buried under layers of street toughness, but anytime he recognized it for what it was, Han resolutely buried it even deeper.
Experimentally, he swung the blaster up to eye level and awkwardly closed one brown eye as he sighted along the barrel. The muzzle of the weapon wavered slightly, and Han cursed softly under his breath as he realized his hand was trembling. Come on, he told himself, show some backbone, Solo. Getting off this ship and away from Shrike is worth a little risk.
Reflexively, he glanced over his shoulder, then turned back just in time to duck under a low-hanging power coupling. He’d chosen this route because it avoided all the living quarters and recreation areas, but it was so narrow and low-ceilinged that he was beginning to feel claustrophobic as he tiptoed forward, resisting the urge to turn and look back over his shoulder.
Ahead of him, the near tunnel widened out, and Han realized he was almost at his destination. Only a few more minutes, he told himself, continuing to move with a stealthy grace that made his progress as soundless as that of a wonat’s furred toe-pads. He was skirting the hyperdrive modules now, and then a larger corridor intersected. Han turned right, relieved that he could now walk without stooping.
He crept up to the door of the big galley and hesitated outside, his ears and nose busy. Sounds … yes, only the ones he’d been expecting to hear. The soft clatter of metal pans, the splooooch of dough being punched, and then the faint sounds of it being kneaded.
He could smell the dough, now. Wastril bread, his favorite. Han’s mouth tightened. With any luck, he wouldn’t be here to eat any of this particular batch.