"Ann Crispin "Han Solo. The Hutt Gambit"" - читать интересную книгу автора

He heard Chewbaeea make an anxious sound, glanced up, only to find that the encounter had drawn a crowd.
Abandoning the Twi'lek where he lay, Han stood up, blaster still ostentatiously held in his right hand. The crowd backed away, muttering. The Corellian moved sideways with a dancer's grace, never turning his back on the crowd, until he and Chewbacca were side by side. He knew some-one must've summoned planetary security, but he ‘also knew that since the Twi'lek was a bounty hunter, he was more or less outside planetary law. A bounty hunter was presumed able to take care of himself. If the intended prey fought back . . . well, tough luck.
Moving slowly, step by step, Hah and the Wookiee backed away from the crowd until they reached the closest alley. Then, moving like a single entity with one mind, they leaped sideways, and ran.
No one followed them.
Teroenza, High Priest and unofficial master of the steamy world of Ylesia, a world that produced drugs and slaves in impressive amounts, lounged in his sling-seat in his sumptuous apartments while his Zisian majordomo, Ganar Tos, massaged his massive shoulders.
The t'landa Til were enormous creatures, standing nearly as tall as a human male on their four tree-trnnklike legs. With their barrel-shaped bodies, tiny arms, and huge heads that somewhat resembled those of their distant cous-ins, the Hutts-except for the enormous horn protruding from the middle of their faces-the t'landa Til considered themselves the handsomest sentients in the galaxy. The vast majority of other sentients would not have agreed with their assessment.
Teroenza raised one of his small, ‘almost dainty forearms, and used his fingers to smooth a soothing oil into his leath-ery skin. He rubbed gently around his bulbous eyes. The sun on Ylesia was frequently sheathed in clouds, but it had enough strength to cause his skin to dry out unless he took care of it. Frequent mud baths helped, as did this expensive emollient. He began rubbing the oil into his horn, remem-bering the last time he'd been home, on Nal Hutta. He'd attracted a mate, Tilenrta, and they'd spent hours together, rubbing each other with oils . . .
The High Priest sighed. Doing his duty to his homeworld and the clan of Hutts his family served called for sacrifices. One of them was that only male priests were needed on Ylesia, to provide the Exultation, so no female t'landa Til were here. No mates, no potenti'd mates . . .
"Harder, Ganar Tos," Teroenza murmured, in his own language. "I have been working too hard these days. Too much work, too much stress. I must learn to slow down, relax more . . ."
Teroenza glanced longingly at the huge door in his apartments that led next door, to his treasure collection. The High Priest was an avid collector of the rare, the un-usual, the beautiful. He bought and "acquired" rarities and art objects from all over the galaxy. His collection was his one pleasure on this steamy, backwater world that was populated mostly by slaves and inferiors.
It had taken him nearly four years to restore the collec-tion after that vile, despicable excuse for a sentient, Vykk Draygo, had ransacked the place and stolen many of the rarest and most valuable pieces. Several days ago Teroenza had discovered that "Vykk Draygo" was still alive. A check of the Devaronian Port Authority records had shown that the Corellian scoundrel's real name was "Hah Solo."
Remembering the terrible night when his collection had been violated, Teroenza's small hands clenched involun-tarily into fists, and his head lowered with the longing to impale a victim on his horn. Ganar Tos's fingers dug into suddenly taut clumps of muscle, causing the t'landa Til to wince and curse in his own language. Solo had fired blasters in the treasure room, causing irreparable damage to some of Teroenza's finest pieces. The white jade fountain had been repaired by the best sculptor in the galaxy, but it would never be the same . . .
Teroenza was distracted from his memories when the front door to his apartments opened, and Kibbick the Hutt undulated in. The young Hutt was far from being old or corpulent enough to require an anti-gray sled-he got around fine under his own power, propelling himself for-ward in a series of glides by contracting his powerful lower body and tail muscles.
Teroenza knew he should rise from his lounge-sling, and greet his nominal master with deference, but he didn't. Kibbick was a young Hutt, barely past the age of full Hurt accountability, and he didn't want to be here on Ylesia. He was the nephew of the dead Zavval, Teroenza's former Hutt overseer. Zavval's sibling, the powerful Hutt clan leader, Lord Aruk, was his uncle.
The High Priest raised a hand and nodded politely enough, though. He certainly didn't want to alienate Kib-bick. "Greetings, Your Excellency. How are you today?"
The young Hutt glided up to the High Priest and then stopped. He was still young enough to be a uniform light tan in color, lacking the greenish pigmentation on the spine and down the tail that older, nonmobile Hutts frequently acquired. Since he was not fat, as Hutts went, Kibbick's eyes were not hidden in leathery folds of skin, but instead protruded slightly, giving him a rather pop-eyed, inquisitive air. Teroenza had good reason to know, however, that that wide-eyed, curious stare was misleading.
"The nala-tree frogs you promised me," Kibbick began in Huttese. Lacking the huge chest of older Hutts, his words were deep, but not particularly resonant. "The ship-ment hasn't arrived, Teroenza! I was particularly looking forward to a repast of nala-tree frogs tonight." He gave a theatrical sigh. "There is so little to look forward to on this benighted world! Can you see about it, Teroenza?"
The High Priest made soothing gestures with his tiny hands. "Of course, Your Excellency. You shall have your nala-tree frogs, never fear. I do not relish them myself, but I know that Zavval did. I shall order an expedition of guards to collect some today."
Kibbick relaxed visibly. "That's much better," he said. "Oh, and, Teroenza, I require a new bath slave. The old one hurt her back when she was lifting my tail to oil it, and I ordered her back to the factories. Her whimpering was getting on my nerves . . . and I have very delicate nerves, as you know."
"Yes, I'm aware of that," Teroenza said soothingly. In-wardly the High Priest gritted his bite-plates. I have to rennember that Kibbick, although a whining nuisance, al-lows me complete autonomy. If I must have a Hutt over-lord, he is the best choice . . . "I shall see to it right away."
Privately, Teroenza knew that he could run the Ylesian spice and slave operation with no Hutt involvement. In the year following Zavval's "untimely" death at the hands of Han Solo, this had become clear to the High Priest. But the Besadii criminal enterprise, the kajidic, was ruled by a pow-erful old Hutt named Aruk, who clung to tradition. If a Besadii undertaking was to prosper, a Hutt from their own kin, the Besadii clan, must be in charge.
Thus, Teroenza found himself saddled with Kibbick. He repressed a sigh. It would not be wise to let his impatience show. "Will there be anything else, Your Excellency?" he asked, forcing himself to assume a servile, ‘almost obsequi-ous demeanor.
Kibbick thought hard for a moment. "Yes, come to think of it. I spoke with Uncle Aruk this morning, and he was checking last week's accounts. He wanted to know what is this five-thousand-credit bounty you've placed on this hu-man, Hah Solo?"
Teroenza rubbed his small, delicate hands together. "In-form Lord Aruk that only a few days ago I discovered that Vykk Draygo, Zavval's murderer, whom we had presumed to be dead for the past five years, has resurfaced! His real name is Han Solo, and he was drummed out of the Impe-rial Navy just two months ago." Teroenza's protuberant eyes were suddenly moist and glittering with anticipation. "By offering a sizable bounty and specifying ‘no disintegra-tions,' that will ensure that they'll bring this Hutt-slaying monster back here to Ylesia, so he may pay for his crimes."
"I see," Kibbick said. "I shall explain that to Aruk, but I don't believe he'll go along with paying the extra credits for a ‘no disintegrations' bounty. That's not necessary, under the circumstances, really. Simple proof that it's indeed Solo's body-genetic material, for example-would suffice, wouldn't it?"
Teroenza lurched up out of his lounge-sling with an awk-ward, fierce movement. He began to pace his spacious, sumptuous apartment, his long, whippy tail slashing the air. "You fail to understand the nature of Solo's crime, Your Excellency! If only you had been here, to see what Solo did to your uncle! His death agonies were horrible! His moans! His spasms of agony! And all because of that wretched little human!"
The High Priest took a deep breath, realizing he was shaking with anger. "An example must be made, an exam-ple that will be remembered down through the ages by anyone of an inferior species who even contemplates harm-ing a Hutt! Solo must die, die in agony, die screaming for mercy!"
Teroenza halted in the middle of his room, panting with fury, little hands balled into fists. "Ask Ganar Tos!" he cried passionately, knowing he was making a spectacle of himself in front of Kibbick, but unable to stop. "Ask him about Solo's audacity, his arrogance! He deserves to die, doesn't he?"
The High Priest's voice sealed up toward hysteria. The old Zisian majordomo bowed humbly, but his eyes were also glittering in their rheumy sockets. "My master, you speak the truth. Hah Solo deserves only death, as painful and long-lasting a death as you can contrive. He has injured many sentients, including myself. He stole my mate, my bride, my beautiful Bria! I look forward to the day that a bounty hunter drags him into your presence, alive and awaiting your pleasure! I shall dance for joy while he screams!"
Kibbick was reared back, upright, staring at the vehe-mence his companions had displayed with some consterna-tion. "I . . . see . . ." he said, finally. "I shall do my best to convince Uncle Aruk."
Teroenza nodded, and for once, his gratitude was not feigned. "Convince him, please," he said, his voice low and harsh with feeling. "I have worked hard for the Besadii clan and their kajidic for ‘almost a decade now. You know, only too well, about the privations of living on this world, Your Excellency. I ask little . . . but Han Solo-Han Solo, I must have. He will die at my hands, for a long, long time."
Kibbick inclined his massive head. "I'll explain it to Aruk," he promised. "Hah Solo will be yours, High Priest . . ."
Before Han bought passage for himself and Chewbacca to Nar Shaddaa, he spent some time in a seamy section of the Nar Hekka spaceport, busily muddying their trail. A few judicious conversations in a couple of sleazy taverns gave him the name of the best ID forger on the planet.
The forger proved to be a Tsyklen from Tsyk, a round, hairless being with taut, pale skin. She was admirably suited for her chosen profession, having large eyes that provided exceptional vision, and seven fingers so slender and delicate that they resembled tentacles. With two opposing thumbs per hand, she could actually manipulate two holo-scribers .at once! Han watched in fascination as she produced an ID naming him as Garris Kyll, and Chewbacca as Arrikabukk. Han had no idea whether Teroenza knew anything about Chewie, but he was taking no chances.
With the forged IDs in their possession, and their store of credits considerably lighter, the two boarded the Stellar Princess for Nar Shaddaa.
The trip was an uneventful one, though Hah couldn't shake his hyper-alertness. Being a hunted man again was something he hadn't wanted to deal with this soon in his new career as a smuggler. The trip took a little more than a standard day, even though Nar Hekka lay barely beyond the edge of the Y'Toub system, because the trip had to be accomplished at sublight speeds. The Princess was an old vessel, and its antique navioomputer wasn't up to calculat-ing hyperspace jumps so close to the gravity wells produced by Y'Toub's star and six planets. Gravity wells, as any pilot knew, made plotting hyperspace jump calculations tricky.
That night, asleep in his narrow bunk aboard the trans-port, Hah dreamed he was a cadet again, back in the Acad-emy on Carida. In his dream, he was hurrying to finish polishing his boots, then he was assembling in formation on the parade ground, his uniform impeccable, every hair in place, boots shining until he could see his face in them.
He stood there, shoulder to shoulder with the other ca-dets, just as he had in real life, looking up at the nighttime sky, seeing the Academy's small mascot moon shining amid the stars. He was looking up at it, as he'd once done in reality, when suddenly, in eerie silence, it blew apart in a fireball that lit up the night sky. A great cry of amazement and consternation went up from the assembled ranks of cadets. Han stared into file yellow-white fireball, seeing an expanding donut ring of incandescent gas that was accom-panied by chunks of debris flung before it. The cataclysm looked like a miniature exploding star . . .
As Cadet Han stared into the fireball, with the sudden unpredictability of dreams, he was somewhere else facing a military tribunal of high-ranking Imperial officers. One of them, Admiral Ozzel, was reading aloud in flat, monoto-nous tones, while a young lieutenant methodically ripped every bit of military rank and insignia off Han's dress uni-form, leaving him standing in a tattered tunic that hung on him in rags. Coldly expressionless, the young lieutenant sol-emnly drew Han's ceremonial officer's saber and snapped it over his knee (the blade had already been weakened by a laser score, so it would break easily).
Then the lieutenant, still as blank-faced as a droid (though Tedris Bjalin had graduated a year ahead of Han and they'd been good friends), coldly slapped Han across the face, a stinging blow that was meant to express derision and scorn. Finally, as a last ritual gesture of ultimate con-tempt for one in disgrace, Tedris spat, and the glob of his spittle landed on Han's boot. Han stared down at the shin-ing surface, seeing the silver-white thread of saliva crawling toward his toes, marring the shining surface of his right boot . . .
At the time it had actually happened, Han had been vaguely grateful that Tedris hadn't actually spat in his face, as was his right if he'd elected to do so. The Corellian had endured it all without expression, steeling himself to show no reaction, but this time, in his dream, he screamed a hot protest "NO!" and lunged at Tedris-
and awoke, sweating and shaking, in his bunk.
Sitting up, he ran unsteady hands through his hair, tell-ing himself it was only a dream-that the humiliation was done, over, that he never had to go through that again. Never again.
Han sighed. He'd worked so hard to get into the Acad-emy, so hard to stay there. Despite the lacks in his pre-Academy education (and there had been many) Hah Solo had worked to better himself, to be the very best cadet he could. And he'd succeeded. Han's mouth tightened as he remembered commencement day. He'd graduated from the Academy with honors, and that had been one of the best days of his life.
Han shook his head. Doesn't do any good to'live in the past, Solo . . . he reminded himself. All of those people-
Tedris, Captain Meis, Admiral Ozzel (and what an old fool he was!)--all of his fellow officers were out of his life. Han Solo was a dead man to them, dead and gone. He'd never see Tedris again . . .
Han swallowed, and it hurt. When he'd entered the Academy he'd had such dreams, such hopes for a bright and shining future. He'd wanted to leave the old life of crime behind him, to become respectable. All his life he'd nurtured secret dreams of himself as an Imperial officer, esteemed and admired by ‘all. Han knew he was smart, and he'd worked hard to make good grades, to fill in the gaps in his education. He'd had visions of himself one day in the uniform of an Imperial admiral, commanding a fleet, or, if he'd transferred to commanding a wing of TIE fighters, a general.
General Solo . . .Han sighed. It had a nice ring, but it was time to wake up and face facts. His chance at respect-ability was gone, ended when he'd refused to let Chewbacca be blasted in cold blood. He didn't regret his choice, either. During his years in the Academy and in the Imperial forces, he'd seen close-up and firsthand the grow-ing calloushess, the cruelty of the Imperial officers and those who served under them.
Nonhumans were their favorite target, but the atrocities were spreading to include humans, these days. The Em-peror seemed to be moving from being a relatively benign dictator to becoming a ruthless tyrant, determined to crush the worlds he ruled into complete subservience.
Hah doubted he'd have lasted much longer in the Impe-rial Navy anyway. At some point some officer would have ordered him to take part in one of the "demonstrations" designed to intimidate a dissenting world into submission, and Han would have told him what to do with himself. He knew that he could never have participated in some of the Imperial-ordered massacres he'd heard about like the one on Devaron. Seven hundred people dead, mowed down without mercy.