hidden by his shaggy fur.
"Chewie!" he managed to croak. "Say something, okay?"
Han heard the thud of a small explosive charge on the primary hatch; then
someone from outside managed to hot-wire the ramp. The rest of the Falcon's
air spurted into Kessel's thin atmosphere. "Great," he mumbled. With the
shattering pain in his ribs, it had already been hard enough to breathe.
Heavy footsteps marched up the ramp. Han wanted to pull out his blaster or
at least knock a few enemies down in a fistfight. But he could barely raise
his eyes, expecting to see an orderly column of white-armored stormtroopers.
That would be an appropriate end to a day like this.
Instead, the intruders wore a hodgepodge of armor, some parts modified from
prison-guard uniforms, other plates adapted from stormtrooper equipment.
None of it made any sense to Han, but his mind had already maxed out with
things that should never have happened. A TIE fighter and an X-wing fighting
side by side? Against him?
The boarding party wore oxygen masks fitted over their faces to let them
breathe the thin atmosphere of Kessel. Their voices were muffled as they
shouted orders to each other.
One man, looking scarecrowish with impossibly long arms and neck, strode
into the Falcon's cockpit. Han felt recognition stir inside him, but he
couldn't pinpoint a name. The scarecrow wore armbands from an Imperial
prison, but at his side he carried a modified double-blaster that was
patently illegal on most planets. The scarecrow turned wide-set, flinty eyes
on Han.
"Han Solo," he said. Though the breath mask covered his lower face, Han
could tell the man was grinning widely. "You're going to wish you never
survived landing on Kessel."
With a flash of memory, the scarecrow's name came to Han. Skynxnex. That was
it! But Skynxnex had been locked up in the Imperial Correction Facility,
barely avoiding a death sentence. Questions had just begun forming in his
mouth when Skynxnex brought an armored fist down on Han's head, sending him
back into unconsciousness...
Kessel. Spice. His thoughts mixed into nightmares as he fought to come back
to himself. Han had always been proud to boast that the Falcon had made the
Kessel run in record time, but he rarely recounted the whole tale, that he
had actually been fleeing Kessel with a full load of spice in his secret
below-decks compartments, when Imperial tariff ships had tagged him.
Han got the shipment, as always, from Moruth Doole, the froglike man in
charge of skimming black-market spice from Imperial production quotas. Doole
was some sort of official in the gigantic Imperial prison complex, from
which came most of the spice-mine laborers. The Empire maintained strict
control over the spice output, but Doole managed to keep quite a little side
market of his own. Han Solo and Chewbacca had run spice for him, whisking it
past Imperial patrols and putting it into distribution channels run by
gangsters such as Jabba the Hutt.
But Moruth Doole had a habit of stringing along his helpers until he decided
he could gain bigger favor by turning them over to the authorities. Han had
never been able to prove it, but he suspected that Doole himself had tipped
off the tariff ships on the Falcon's flight away from Kessel, providing the
exact coordinates where Han planned to enter hyperspace.
Han had been forced to jettison his entire cargo of glitterstim spice, worth
a fortune, just before being boarded. When Han tried to circle back later
and retrieve the floating cargo, the Imperials had given pursuit. During the
chase he had desperately skimmed closer to the gravity influence of the
immense black hole cluster than the navcharts claimed was possible. One of
the tariff ships had been lost in the swirling maelstrom of hot gases
plunging into a bottomless singularity. But the Falcon had survived,
breaking into hyperspace and fleeing to safety.
Temporary safety. The lost cargo of spice alone had been worth 12,400
credits and Jabba the Hutt had already paid for it in full. Jabba had not
been pleased. ...
The thought of all those months frozen in carbonite, motionless, hanging on
Jabba's wall, made him shiver. The cold was black around him, and he
couldn't see. His teeth chattered together--
"Cease your thermal convulsions!" a raspy metallic voice snapped. It sounded
like a plasma saw cutting through rock. "The temperature in the medical
center has been lowered to minimize surgical shock to your metabolism."
Opening his eyes, Han stared up into the bullet-like face of a medical
droid. Most of the metal was a primary green, but a black hooded attachment
extended over its optical sensors. Segmented mechanical arms reached toward
him, displaying a wide variety of out-of-date medical implements, all of
them sharp. "I am the prison medical droid. I have not been programmed for
anesthetics or the niceties of making you comfortable. If you fail to
cooperate, your treatment will only be more unpleasant."
Han rolled his eyes back. This was a far cry from traditional medical droids
who were programmed specifically with the patient's comfort in mind. Han
tried to move. Around him the prison medical center was white and cold, with
gleaming medical appliances and empty bacta tanks mounted on the wall. Han
vaguely sensed several guards standing near the doors. When he turned his
head, the medical droid reached out with cold metal hands to clamp against
his temples. "You must remain motionless. This will hurt. A great deal. Now
relax--immediately!"
Out of sight on the other side of the room, Chewbacca let out a great roar
of pain. Han was relieved to know the Wookiee was still alive. Before
treatment, at least.
Han winced as the medical droid began to work on him.
Chewbacca shook him awake with a hairy, enthusiastic, and grateful hug. Han
groaned and blinked his eyes, but the room was so dim he had to stare for a
few minutes before anything came into focus. His entire body felt as if it
had been beaten instead of healed.
Chewbacca groaned and hugged him again. "Take it easy, Chewie! You'll send
me back to that medical droid!" Han said. Instantly, the Wookiee released
his grip. Han mentally assessed how he felt. He sat up, flexed his arms,
then got to his feet. Two, no three of his ribs, as well as his left leg,
tingled with the maddening bee stings that indicated where bone knitters had
repaired the fractures. Han remained weak, but replacement-nutrient
solutions had probably brought him back up to nominal levels.
Chewbacca also looked scruffy and haggard. Patches of fur had been shaved
from his body, and Han could discern lumpy scars where medical droids had
made quick patchwork with no finesse. After treatment the two of them had
been tossed into this dank place. Finally, Han took a deep whiff of the air
inside the chamber. "What died in here?" He suddenly realized that wasn't
just a joking comment.
Chewbacca answered by pointing to the hulking form that occupied a third of
the space in the cell. Han blinked again to be sur
e his vision was adjusting
properly.
The thing was huge and hideous--part crustacean, part arachnid, and judging
from the rows of dagger teeth, entirely carnivorous. Its claw hands were as
big as a human was tall, and its jointed body armor was covered with
scab-like bumps. The only good thing about it was that it was dead. The
carcass reeked.
The first time Han had been near a rancor, he had been blind from
hibernation sickness after being thawed in Jabba's palace. Jabba fed the
monster below his throne room with his enemies--or anyone else at random.
Han had seen many more rancors on the planet Dathomir during his courtship
of Princess Leia. One of the beasts had somehow died here in the Imperial
Correction Facility. The rancor had decayed as far as it was going to, and
then mummified the rest of the way.
The prison itself, from what Han knew of it, was a cross between a zoo and a
correctional facility, because the different life-forms had different
degrees of sentience. The only factor in common was that they were all
violent.
Their cell was gigantic, as far as cells went--large enough to hold the
rancor and give it room to maneuver. Brittle, moldy bones lay scattered
around the floor, many of which had been gnawed and pulverized, as if in a
desperate attempt by the starving rancor to find more food. Green and blue
smears of slime oozed down the walls. Tiny dripping sounds were the only
noises Han could hear.
"How long have we been here, Chewie? Do you know?"
Chewbacca didn't know.
Han ran it over again in his mind. They had come to Kessel, they had
identified themselves both by name and with a New Republic call sign. A
fleet of ships had come out to attack them--TIE fighters and X-wings and a
motley bunch of other ships. Obviously, the people in charge of Kessel were
up to something, and they didn't want the New Republic to know about it.
Then he remembered scarecrow-like Skynxnex, who had boarded the crashed
Falcon. Skynxnex had been a thief and an assassin, the primary point of
contact between Moruth Doole and the spice smugglers. Skynxnex had wrangled
a nominal post as a prison guard in the correction facility, but now he
seemed to have changed jobs ...
Han heard the click and hum of the deactivation field around the cell doors,
and then a grating whirr as hydraulic lifts hauled the huge door upward. As
the door raised, garish white light flooded into the room. Han clapped a
hand over his eyes. He hadn't realized the cell was so dim.
"Get ready, Chewie!" Han whispered. If there weren't too many guards, they
could rush them, slug their way out, and escape. But then he felt a twinge
of pain from his recently broken ribs, and dizziness washed over him.
Chewbacca leaned weakly against one of the damp walls of the rancor's cell
and groaned.
Well, maybe if there's only one guard, who has poor eyesight and is
recovering from weeks' worth of dysentery ...
"Never mind, Chewie. Let's see what they have to say."
The skeletal figure standing in the door was obviously Skynxnex. As Han's
eyes adjusted to the light, he could see four other guards behind Skynxnex,
wearing not-quite prison uniforms, patches of body armor to protect
sensitive areas but showing no rank or insignia.
"So, Han Solo, I trust you appreciate our ... hospitality?" Skynxnex asked.
Han smirked and looked behind him at the dank cell, the dead rancor. "Yeah,
you guys are really turning Kessel into a resort world. Just like the planet
Ithor."
Skynxnex followed his gaze to the mummified monster. "Ah yes, during the
turmoil when we took over the prison, someone forgot to feed the rancor. It
was a pity. Months passed before we remembered him. A double pity, too,
because by the time we thought of him, we had plenty of Imperial prisoners
we needed to dispose of. That would have been fun to watch. Instead, we had
to send them all into the spice mines."
Skynxnex smiled for just an instant; then his face took on its flat,
mechanical composure again. "I hope the medical droids helped you recover
from your crash injuries. It's important that you both are healthy enough to
withstand interrogation. We want to learn exactly why you came to spy on
Kessel."
It occurred to Han that for once he could actually tell the truth and be
completely open about his mission. "Ready when you are, Skynxnex." Somehow
he was afraid the truth wouldn't be good enough in this case.
The gangly man allowed another flash of a smile. "So you do remember me,
Solo? Good. Moruth Doole will want to talk to you immediately."
Han raised his eyebrows. That meant Doole was still alive, still running
things--but Han had no idea how the pieces fit together. "I'd love to talk
Skynxnex snickered at that, then stopped. The other guards behind him also
chuckled. "Yes," Skynxnex said, "I do believe I've heard him mention your
name. Several times."
The lift took them out of the main cell-block areas, along a tube to the
outer corners of the correctional facility. They rocketed skyward along the
angled metal tracks. Looking through the scratched transparent walls of the
elevator, Han could see that the prison itself was a massive tan-and-gray
edifice made of plasteel and synthetic rock. The flat front face sloped
backward at about a forty-five-degree angle; elevator turrets glided along
each of the corners. A glassed and mirrored substructure protruded from the
slanted face, housing the administrative offices and prison personnel.
In the racing elevator car Skynxnex watched both of them with flickers of
amusement, keeping his modified double-blaster trained on them. The two
guards, armed with more conventional weapons, also stood tense and ready.
Seeing this, Han felt ironically impressed. He didn't know what he had done
to instill such fear in these people.
Both Han and Chewbacca had been strapped into stun-cuffs, a restraining
fixture across the wrists that sent paralyzing jolts of electricity directly
into the nervous system, proportional in strength to the amount of struggle
a prisoner exerted. Han controlled himself well enough and received only an
unpleasant tingle along his forearms. As usual, Chewbacca could not keep his
temper in check and managed to stun himself into a stupor.
When the elevator doors opened, Skynxnex prodded the two prisoners forward.
Han complied and walked easily ahead, trying to put a self-confident spring
in his step. He'd had his troubles with Moruth Doole, and he did not trust
the man a bit--but as far as he knew, there was no powerful grudge between
them.
Skynxnex escorted them through administrative offices, many of which had
been ransacked or burned. They went past a broad anteroom to a huge office
faced by giant windows that looked out upon the barrens of Kessel. In the
distance Han could see the crumbled salt flats. Great jets from the
atmosphere factories sent gouts of oxygen, nitrogen, and carbon dioxide into
the pinkish sk
y, keeping the planet barely habitable. Powerful radiation
shields in orbit filtered out a large percentage of the deadly X-rays and
gamma rays pouring from the nearby Maw. If not for the precious spice, no
one would bother trying to live on Kessel.
The original sign on the desk-unit announced this to be the warden's
headquarters, but someone had crossed out the previous ID tag and mounted a
hand-lettered sign in Basic: Doole's Place. On the wall to the right of the
desk-unit hung a man captured in final throes of agony, frozen in carbonite.
Doole had taken a lesson from Jabba, displaying some old nemesis for all to
see. Han shivered just to look at the trophy. Next to the window a
barrel-shaped form stood silhouetted by the garish light. Han recognized
Moruth Doole immediately.
Doole was a Rybet, squat and soft-skinned. His bright-green coloring and tan
highlights looked like worm stripes up and down his cheeks, arms, and
shoulders. His skin was dry, but so smooth it looked slimy. As always Doole
dressed in the skins of less-fortunate reptiles. His waistcoat looked like
something from an ancient history vid. Doole sported a bright-yellow cravat,
which meant he was in mating readiness, though Han couldn't imagine where on
the planet Doole would ever find a willing female of his own species.
Doole turned around, displaying a much-changed face, jittered with nervous
tics and paranoia. His Rybet eyes were overlarge, lantern-like, with
vertical slits--but one of his eyes was now milky white, like a half-cooked
egg. He wore a mechanical focusing device over his other eye, strapped onto
his smooth head with brown leather straps.