Star Wars: The Han Solo Trilogy I: The Paradise Snare

They were now only a kilometer above the surface of the planet, coming in with a rush. Too fast! Han slowed them, using the brake thrusters roughly. G-forces seized him, and he felt as though something were squeezing his chest in a giant vise. He was gasping steadily now, and he dared to look down at his air pak.

Empty! The status indicator was solidly in the red zone.

Hold together, Han
, he counseled himself.
Just keep breathing. There’s got to be enough air in your suit to support you for a couple of minutes—at least
.

He shook his head, feeling light-headed and dizzy. His breath began to burn in his chest.

He braked again, lightly, and the ship bucked suddenly.

I’ve lost my forward stabilizer!

Writing in the Star Wars universe is like becoming a part of a community—or, even, a family. The writers are encouraged to read each other’s books, and there are dozens of nonfiction and technical books devoted to the characters, hardware, planets, and so forth. Writers trade information and tips back and forth, and generally help each other out.

Thus, many, many people helped me with this book. With the caveat that any mistakes readers may find are my own, I would like to thank the following:

Kevin Anderson, who gave me my first chance to write in the Star Wars universe. Kevin and Rebecca Moesta also helped with information about the Star Wars background and characters, as well as hand-holding, encouragement, and sage advice.

Michael Capobianco, fellow writer and significant other, for brainstorming, research help, intelligent advice, and fixing dinner when I was too busy writing to even realize I was hungry. Thanks, dear.

Bill Smith and Peter Schweighofer of West End Games for helping me figure out answers to such odd and esoteric questions as, “What does Han wear for underwear?” They “unstuck” me from quandaries more times than I can count.

Tom Dupree and Evelyn Cainto of Bantam Books for assistance, advice, and encouragement.

Sue Rostoni and Lucy Autrey Wilson of Lucasfilm for the “true facts.”

Michael A. Stackpole, for help figuring out how to break a tractor beam, and other advice relating to ships and piloting.

Steve Osmanski, for reading the manuscript and giving sage advice on “techie” stuff.

As always, Kathy O’Malley, friend and writing buddy, for hand-holding and an occasional, well-deserved kick in the pants.

And, of course, George Lucas, who started it all.
Star Wars
blew me away the first time I saw it, and it’s been an honor to contribute to the saga in a small way.

Thanks again, and may the Force be with you all.

T
he ancient troopship, a relic of the Clone Wars, hung in orbit over the planet Corellia, silent and seemingly derelict. Looks were deceiving, however. The old
Liberator
-class vessel, once called
Guardian of the Republic
, now had a new life as
Trader’s Luck
. The interior had been gutted and refitted with a motley assortment of living environments, and now contained nearly one hundred sentient beings, many of them humanoid. At the moment, however, only a few of them were awake, since it was the middle of the sleep cycle.

There was a watch on the bridge, of course.
Trader’s Luck
spent much of its time in orbit, but it was still capable of hyperspace travel, even though it was slow by modern standards. Garris Shrike, the leader of the loosely allied trading “clan” that lived aboard the
Luck
, was a strict task-master,
who followed formal ship’s protocols. So there was always a watch on the bridge.

Shrike’s orders aboard the
Luck
were always obeyed; he was not a man to cross without a good reason and a fully charged blaster. He ruled the clan of traders as a less-than-benevolent despot. A slender man of medium height, Garris was handsome in a hard-edged way. Streaks of silver-white above his temples accentuated his black hair and ice-blue eyes. His mouth was thin-lipped; he seldom smiled—and never with good humor. Garris Shrike was an expert shot and had spent his early years as a professional bounty hunter. He’d given it up, though, due to bad “luck”—meaning that his lack of patience had caused him to lose the richest bounties reserved for live delivery. Dead bodies were frequently worth far less.

Shrike
did
possess a warped sense of humor, especially if the pain of others was involved. When he was gambling and winning, he was subject to bouts of manic gaiety, especially if he was also drunk.

As he was at the moment. Sitting around the table in the former wardroom of the enlisted officers, Shrike was playing sabacc and drinking tankards of potent Alderaanian ale, his favorite beverage.

Shrike peered at his card-chips, mentally calculating. Should he hold pat and hope to complete a pure sabacc? At any moment the dealer could push a button and the values of all the card-chips would shift. If that happened, he’d be busted, unless he took an additional two and tossed most of his hand into the interference field in the center of the table.

One of his fellow players, a hulking Elomin suddenly turned his tusked head to glance behind him. A light on one of the auxiliary “status” panels was blinking. The huge, shaggy-furred Elomin grunted, then said in guttural Basic, “Something funny about the lockout sensor on the weapons cache, Captain.”

Shrike insisted on “proper” protocol and chain of command, especially as it applied to himself. Unless engaged in some planetside caper, he always wore a military uniform
while aboard the
Luck
—one he’d designed himself, patterned on the dress uniform of a high-ranking Moff. It was hung about with “medals” and “decorations” Shrike had picked up in pawnshops across the galaxy.

Now, hearing the Elomin’s warning, he glanced up a little blearily, rubbed his eyes, then straightened up and dropped his card-chips onto the tabletop. “What is it, Brafid?”

The giant being wrinkled his tusked snout. “Not sure, Captain. It’s reading normal now, but something flickered, as though the lock shorted out for a second. Probably just a momentary power flux.”

Moving with such unusual grace and coordination that even the foppish “uniform” couldn’t detract from his presence, the captain rose and walked around the table to study the readouts himself. All signs of intoxication had vanished.

“Not a power flux,” he decided after a moment. “Something else.”

Turning his head, he addressed the tall, heavyset human on his left. “Larrad, look at this. Somebody shorted out the lock and is running a sim to fool us into thinking it’s just a power flux. We’ve got a thief aboard. Is everyone armed?”

The man addressed, who happened to be Shrike’s brother, Larrad Shrike, nodded, patting the holster that hung on the outside of his thigh. Brafid the Elomin fingered his “tingler”—an electric prod that was his weapon of choice—though the hairy alien was large enough to pick up most humanoids and break them over his knee.

The other person present, a female Sullustan who was the
Luck
’s navigator, stood up, patting the scaled-down blaster she wore. “Ready for action, Captain!” she squeaked. Despite her diminutive height, flapping jowls, and large, appealing bright eyes, Nooni Dalvo appeared almost as dangerous as the hulking Elomin who was her closest shipboard friend.

“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 blood-poison, 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.”