THE PARADISE SNARE(6)

His running feet resounded through the corridors of Trader’s Luck; the time was past for stealth. He had to reach the docking bay, and that robot Ylesian freighter! Han had no idea when it was due to blast away from the Luck, but the loading schedule posted for the space dock workers had listed it as being ready for blastoff as soon as the droids finished fueling. And when he’d swiped the spacesuit and hidden it, they’d just started that process.

The Ylesian Dream might be leaving any moment!

Gasping, Han sprinted for the lock, his feet thudding along the decks that had been his playground ever since he was old enough to remember.

In the distance, he could hear sleepy voices, interspersed with shouts and orders.

I can’t let them catch me. Shrike will kill me. The certainty lent speed to his flying feet.

He skidded around the final turn and grabbed the spacesuit he’d hidden behind some fueling equipment. The helmet flopped over his arm, banging him in the midsection as he hastily keyed in the code he’d stolen into the airlock door.

Seconds passedˇ The sounds of pursuit were growing louder. But surely they’d think he was headed for the shuttle deck or even the lifepods.

Nobody would guess he’d be crazy enough to try stowing away on a robot freighter—at least that’s what he was counting on …

The lock hissed open. Han leaped inside, closed the hatch, and began yanking on the spacesuit. He checked the air storage. Full. Good.

He’d originally planned to bring along some extra air paks, but he didn’t dare venture back out. The pak on the suit was good for two days. That should be enough, unless the Dream was a really slow vessel. Since it was a robot drone, he had no way of discovering what course it would be following, or how fast it was scheduled to go.

Han grimaced. Only a desperate man would use this method of escape.

He was desperate, all right. He just hoped he wouldn’t arrive on Ylesia dead because he’d run out of air.

Let’s see … food pellets … full. Water tank … full.

Good. That was Captain Shrike again, insisting that all ship’s equipment be maintained in perfect working order.

Han dragged the suit up over the arms of his ship’s gray jumpsuit and closed the seam running up the front. He picked up the helmet, clumsy because of the gloves, and settled it over his head. It was mostly glassine, and he could see every direction except directly behind him.

A bank of bolos ran around the bottom rim of the helmet, giving him his vitals, amount of air remaining, and all the other information he needed to survive. Han could “talk” to his suit in a limited fashion by bumping his chin against the communications lever and giving the suit instructions concerning his temperature, air mix, and so forth.

Okay, this is it, the young man thought as he clumped over to the connecting hatch and keyed in the final sequence to equalize pressures between the lock and the Ylesian Dream. He could faintly hear a hiss as the air was pumped out of the lock. The Dream, being a robot, didn’t need air to operate. The ship would be filled only with vacuum.

Finally, the hatch opened, and Han stepped inside.

It was crowded with equipment and cargo, and the corridors were very narrow. The Dream wasn’t constructed to accommodate a living crew, only for routine maintenance, and Han had to turn sideways to squeeze in. The youth was fleetingly grateful that all standard engineering was designed to function in gravity. Otherwise, he might’ve had to contend with zero gee, and that would have been a real pain.

He’d been outside the Trader’s Luck with the welding crew in spacesuits several times since he’d been considered old enough for hazardous ship’s duty, hanging in space, tethered to the ship only by a seemingly fragile umbilical. It had been kind of exciting the first couple of times, but Han didn’t particularly care for weightlessness, and he’d soon learned never to look “down.” Seeing nothing but space beneath his feet for light-years and light-years was enough to make his head swim.

Han clumped toward the “bridge,” figuring that was where the maximum amount of room would be. He reached it in only moments—the Dream was a small ship. If her cargo list was correct, she’d brought in a shipment of top-grade glitterstim spice, and would be leaving with a cargo of high-quality Corellian electronic components that could be used in factory maintenance.

Han wondered for a moment whom Garris Shrike had paid off to be able to receive a shipment of spice. The substance was rigidly controlled by most planetary governments and also by the Imperial trade commission.

He turned sideways to enter the bridge—and froze.

What in the name of all the Sons of Barab is an astromech droid doing on the bridge? Everyone knew a droid couldn’t pilot a ship by itself, so it couldn’t be piloting. Han grimaced behind the glassine helmet.