Chewbacca began tugging and heaving at the protective cover over the controls. It was a durable industrial design and resisted him. Han and Rekkon watched as Chewbacca seated himself for better leverage, then applied all his strength in a tremendous effort. The cover popped loose, and the Wookiee threw it aside. He began working furiously, uncoupling hookups and moving components around in order to make room for Blue Max. There was no way he could hear Han's hoa.r.s.e shouts over the noise of the harvester, and the distance, and no way could the Wookiee see, from his position, the three Espos who had managed to catch hold of one of the maintenance ladders and clamber after him.

Han was too far away to shoot. The Espos swarmed quickly upward. The huge harvester gave a lurch, then went through a series of disturbed tremors as Blue Max usurped control of it and tried his touch. Just as the Espos, having worked their way to the top of the ladder, leveled their weapons at Chewbacca's spine, the harvester gave the most violent shudder of all.

One Espo nearly fell, and must have yelled, because the Wookiee's head snapped around just as the three crouched to keep from being dislodged. Chewbacca's bowcaster shot exploded against one man's chest, flinging him backward to roll off the harvester's side. But in turning and firing, Chewbacca had lost his own balance. The harvester went into a sharp turn, and the Wookiee had to make a desperate lunge to catch hold of a stanchion. He managed to do it but lost hold of his bowcaster.

"Chewie!" Han bawled, starting back, but Rekkon's big hand closed around his shoulder, holding him resolutely.

"You can't get to him now," the scholar shouted, and that seemed certain. More Espos were closing in around the slow-moving harvester.

Chewbacca, unarmed, got his feet back under him and threw himself at the two remaining Espos before they could recover. He gathered one in a lethal hug, kicking the second, before either man could raise his weapon. But the second man somehow managed to cling to the Wookiee's leg, and held on for his life.

Blue Max now had the harvester under control, that much was clear. He pivoted the machine, attempting to swallow an entire square of Espos. But, using the harvester's primitive guidance system, Max was unaware of the Wookiee's predicament. The pivot dislodged Chewbacca and the two Espos. They fell, limbs gyrating, and the Wookiee somehow managed to land on top. But it was still a long drop, and before the stunned humanoid could rise, he was buried under a pile of rifle-swinging Espos.

Han, struggling to get loose of Rekkon's grip, felt himself shaken until his teeth rattled. Rekkon implored, "There are dozens of them! You have no hope. Better to live, and stay free, to help the Wookiee later!"

Han spun, pulling his blaster. "Hands off. I mean it."

Rekkon saw by his eyes that he did indeed; Han would kill anyone who stood between himself and Chewbacca. The broad black hands fell away. Gun in hand, Han went off toward the ma.s.s of Espos.

He couldn't tell just how Rekkon hit him then. Han's whole spinal column seemed to light up, and a blinding paralysis descended on him. Perhaps it was a nerve-punch, or a blow to a spot selected for its hydrostatic shock value. In any case, Han dropped like a unstrung puppet.

The harvester, moving much more quickly now, circled back at the Espos. They fired on it, but the giant machine, an uncomplicated device, was difficult to stop with small-arms fire. Unimportant pieces of plating and cutter blade were shot away, but the harvester ground on. Several Espos, failing to move quickly enough in the thick grain, vanished into its cavernous mouth.

Max had finally seen Chewbacca's predicament and moved in to give the Wookiee an opportunity to jump back aboard. But Chewbacca, his arms and legs dangling limply, was now being rushed away by a squad of Espos. Max couldn't go after them for fear of injuring Chewbacca with the clumsy harvester. Moreover, the Espos' fire was becoming more concentrated. Blue Max wished desperately that Bollux were there to tell him what to do; the computer didn't feel that he'd been operative long enough to make decisions like this one. But with no other apparent option, Max recognized that he must go join the others. He headed the ponderous harvester around, cut out its speed governor, and gunned it for all it was worth.

Han only dimly felt Rekkon hoist him up on one shoulder; he could hardly focus his eyes. But as Max came past, Rekkon took a pair of wide steps, propelled himself into the air, and caught a foothold at the harvester's side. He pulled himself up a short ladder and deposited Han on a narrow catwalk. Somehow, Han managed to lift his head. He could make out, through the machine's rough ride and the distance, the knot of Espos bearing his friend away, a prisoner.

Han clawed at the metal under him, to throw himself off the machine, to go back. Rekkon was on him instantly, pinning his arms with a strength and an intensity that were frightening. "He's my friend!" Han grimaced, writhing.

Rekkon shook him once more, with more emphasis than violence. "Then help your friend!" urged the rich ba.s.so voice. "Face hard fact: you must save yourself to save him, and not throw both lives away!"

The giant, imprisoning strength retreated and Han was left enervated, knowing Rekkon was right. Holding the catwalk railing, he stopped staring at the indistinguishable specks of Chewbacca and the Espos.

"Ahh." He lowered his eyes disconsolately. "Chewie ..."

VII.

AS he overtook each of the escapees in turn, Max slowed the harvester just enough for them to board. First was Bollux, who had fallen behind the others despite his best efforts; he made a last bound with a deep sproing from his suspension, found a servo-grip hold, and drew himself aboard. Then came Torm, who, pacing the harvester, made an athletically skillful mount. Lastly, Atuarre and Pakka came aboard, the cub clinging to his mother's tail. Blue Max accelerated for the s.p.a.ceport perimeter.

Rekkon still held Han to the catwalk, but now it was to make sure he wouldn't fall. "Captain, you must accept that there's no more you can do here. Your chances of getting to Chewbacca here on Orron III are vanishing small. And, more to the point, it's doubtful he'll be here for long. Surely he'll be taken for interrogation, just like the others. Our mission is yours now; it's nearly certain the Wookiee will be put in with the rest of the Authority's special enemies."

Han wiped blood from his forehead, pulled himself upright, and began climbing a maintenance ladder.

"Where are you going?" Rekkon demanded.

"Someone has to tell Max where he's going," Han answered.

The s.p.a.ceport was guarded by a security fence of fine mesh, ten meters high, carrying a lethal charge maintained by transmitting posts along its length. An unprotected man, or even an armored one, would stand no chance of making it through, but the harvester offered, a special form of protection.

"Everybody get to a catwalk," Rekkon called. "Stand on the insulated strips!" His various companions, Han included, rushed for positions, bracing their feet on the thick runners of insulation on the mechanic's catwalks.

The harvester hit the field area as Max threw his cutter blades into motion again. Defensive energy spat and spattered all around the agrirobot, discharging across its bow in skittering strands. Then the fence was torn apart by the harvester's blades, a twenty-meter length of it ripped loose and engulfed. The defensive field faded along that part of the fence, its continuity broken. Whereupon the giant machine churned out onto the flat, press-bonded landing area.

Han hauled himself up and looked down at Max, nestled in the control niche. "Can you program this crate so it'll run without you?"

The computer probe's photoreceptor swiveled around, coming up to bear on him. "That's what it's built to do, but it'll remember only simple things, Captain. For a machine it's pretty dumb."

Han weighed his suspicions, presumptions, and a knowledge of security procedures. "They'll be rushing their men to the pa.s.senger-ship end of the port; they won't think the barges are any good to us. But they'll certainly be looking for this tub, Max. Set it up so it'll give us a few seconds to get clear, then head itself down toward the main port area." To the others, he called, "Checkout time! Everybody pound ground!"

From Blue Max came low buzzes, beeps, and wonks of his labors. Then he announced, "Done, Captain, but we better get off right now."

Han reached down as Max disengaged himself from the harvester's controls, pulled free the connector jacks Chewbacca had inserted, and lifted the computer out of the niche. There was a carrying strap in a recessed groove on Max's top. Han pulled it out and slung Max over his shoulder.

When he reached the ground, Rekkon and the others were already there. They all stepped back as the harvester ground into motion again, wheeled promptly, and tore off between rows of barges. From the harvester, Han had already spotted, not far away, the barge sh.e.l.l concealing the Millennium Falcon. He handed Blue Max back to Bollux and started for his ship at a dead run, with the rest keeping up as best they could.

The outer hatch, the makeshift one, wasn't dogged, of course. He pushed it aside, palmed the ramp and inner hatch open. Then he dashed to the c.o.c.kpit and began swiping at controls, bringing his ship back to life, yelling: "Rekkon, say the word the second everybody's...o...b..ard, and hang onto your heirlooms!" He pulled on his headset and deserted all caution, thinking, h.e.l.l with preflight. He brought the barge's engines up to full power all at once, and simply hoped they wouldn't blow or dummy out on liftoff.

His best hope lay in the nature of bureaucracy. Somewhere back in the fields, the Espo detachment commander was trying to explain to his superior what had happened. That man, in turn, would have to contact port security and give them the rundown. Given a creaky enough chain of command, the Falcon still stood a chance.

Han pulled on his flight gloves and ran through his preparations with a sharp feeling of incompleteness; he was used to dividing the tasks with Chewbacca, and each detail of the liftoff drove home the fact that his friend wasn't there.

He checked the barge's readouts-and swore several of his choicer curses. Bollux, stumping into the c.o.c.kpit to relay Rekkon's word that all was secure, added, "What's wrong, Captain?"

"The motherless barge is what's wrong! Some over-eager Authority expediter filled it up already!" The instruments proved it; several hundred thousand metric tons of grain were stowed in the barge's vast sh.e.l.l. There went Han's plan for rapid ascent.

"But, sir," Bollux asked in his unhurried speech pattern, "Can't you release the barge sh.e.l.l?"

"If the explosive-releases worked, and if I didn't damage the Falcon, I'd still have to get above the port's close-proximity defenses, and maybe a picket ship." He turned and yelled back down the pa.s.sageway, "Rekkon! Get somebody in those gun turrets; we may have to stand tall!" Han could operate the ship's top and belly turrets by means of servos from the c.o.c.kpit, but remote control was a poor subst.i.tute for sentient gunners. "And screw your navels in; we go in twenty seconds!" He fumed over the fact that the barge's engines took so much longer to heat up than the Falcon's.

Port control, having noticed that the barge was preparing to lift, began transmitting to what it still presumed to be a robotized ship orders to abort liftoff. Han hit the overrides and had the barge's computer answer by acknowledging clearance as if it had received permission to go. Port control repeated the command to hold, convinced it was dealing with a computer malfunction along with all its other problems.

Han brought the engines up. The barge wallowed up from its pit, bending aside the boarding gantry, ignoring all directions to do otherwise. As his radius of vision increased with alt.i.tude, Han spied the abandoned harvester. It was halfway to the other end of the giant port, surrounded by Espo hover-vans, skimmers, and self-propelled artillery. The harvester had been partially disabled, but still obeyed its present programming mindlessly, trying to grind forward.

As Han watched, a cannonade from all sides stopped the huge machine for good, gouging large chunks from it, turning most of the harvester's lower cha.s.sis into wreckage. Someone no longer cared whether prisoners were taken or not. The harvester's power plant went up in a fireball, and the harvester split in half with a force that rocked the Espo field pieces back.

As the barge rose higher, responding sluggishly under its burden of cargo, ignoring chatter from the port control, Han saw the place where Chewbacca had been captured. Other Espo vehicles were gathered near the wreck of the hovervan. Han couldn't tell whether his partner was there or had already been taken away, but the fields were crawling with Security Police, like a pestilence among the golden-red grain, searching for possible stragglers. Rekkon had been right; going back would've spelled certain disaster.

The barge gave a sudden, convulsive shudder, and the Falcon's pa.s.sengers felt as if someone had caught them by the collar and given a yank. With an ominous feeling, Han punched up the rear screens. Bollux, having nearly fallen, lowered himself into the navigator's chair, inquiring what was wrong. Han ignored him.

It had been a picket ship, in transpolar orbit, that he and Chewbacca had picked up just prior to landing. Even Rekkon hadn't realized how security-minded the Authority was about Orron III. Moving up hard astern the barge was a dread-naught, one of the military's old Invincible Cla.s.s capital ships-over two kilometers long, bristling with gun turrets, missile tubes, tractor-beam projectors, and deflector shields, armored like a protosteel mountain. The dreadnought hailed them with the demand that the barge halt, and at the same time identified herself: the Shannador's Revenge. She'd locked her tractors onto the barge, and compared with her raw power, the lighter's beam back on Duroon had been a mere beckoning finger.

"Church is out," Han observed, bringing his ordnance up to charge and preparing to angle deflector shields, for all the good it would do. The dreadnought had enough weaponry to hold and vaporize a score of ships like the Falcon. Han opened the intercom. "That shake-up was a tractor. Everybody stay cool-things could get rough." As if we have a prayer, he finished to himself. But he had no intention of being caught alive. Better to shorten a few Espo careers, and go out in style.

There were sounds of banging, tearing metal from the barge sh.e.l.l, of parting supports and struts. Some of the superstructural features, weakened or loosened by alterations to the hull, had been pulled free by the tractor beam and gone flying back toward the Shannador's Revenge.

Han took inspiration from it. He had at his side breadboarded computer overrides for the barge's every function. His fingers stabbed at them as he shouted, "Everybody brace! We're gonna-" and was slammed back in his seat. He'd hit the cargo release, opening the barge's rear dump-doors. Hundreds of thousands of tons of grain were poured into the dreadnaught's tractors, pulled toward the Shannador's Revenge by her own brute power, fanning out in a blinding contrail, as the barge surged ahead with a lightening load.

The dreadnought was engulfed, her sensors m.u.f.fled by the tidal wave of grain. Han, with one eye on his own sensors, saw that the warship was driving straight on through the hail of grain, closing quickly on the barge even though she was blinded. Her tractor beams were still clamped onto the barge's stern, and Han wondered how long it would be before her skipper gave the command to open fire.

There was only one other possibility. He hit the controls, cutting in the barge's retrothrusters, and with virtually the same motion, slapped the emergency releases. His other hand hovered over the main drive control of the Millennium Falcon.

The barge sh.e.l.l shook, losing much of its velocity, while the reports of exploding bolts sounded through both the freighter and the larger ship around it. Superstructural elements, added to secure the Falcon and disguise her lines, were blown clear. A split second later, the Falcon's engines howled to life, their blue fire tearing the smaller ship free of the breakaway supports holding her and severing her external control hookups.

Han took the Falcon on the same course he'd been holding, keeping the barge sh.e.l.l between himself and the Authority warship. The Shannador's Revenge, her sensors impaired, had failed to note the barge sh.e.l.l's drastic drop in speed. The dreadnought's captain was calling for a vector change just as the warship rammed the decelerating barge. The Shannador's Revenge's forward screens flared with impact, and her anticoncussion fields cut in instantly on collision, as she cut the floating hulk of the barge sh.e.l.l in half in a terrific impact and suffered structural damage of her own. The warship's forward sensor suite was disabled; she resounded with alarms and damage reports. Airtight doors began booming shut automatically, triggered by decompressive hull ruptures.

The Millennium Falcon was clawing for the upper atmosphere. The thought that he'd bloodied the nose of a battle-wagon, escaping against all odds, didn't lighten Han's mood, nor did the thought that hypers.p.a.ce and safety were only moments away. Occupying his mind was one simple, intolerable fact: his friend and partner was now in the merciless hands of the Corporate Sector Authority.

When the stars had parted before him and the ship was safely in hypers.p.a.ce, Han sat for long minutes thinking that he couldn't remember the last time he'd s.p.a.ced without the Wookiee beside him. Rekkon had been right in arguing for escape, but that didn't change Han's feeling that he'd let Chewbacca down.

But regrets were a waste of time. Han stripped off his headset and shoved himself out of his seat. Rekkon was his only hope now. He headed for the forward compartment, the ship's combination lounge-mess-rec area, and realized something was wrong while he was still in the pa.s.sageway. There was the pungent smell of ozone, the smell of blaster fire.

"Rekkon!"

Han ran to where the scholar slumped over the gameboard. He'd been shot from behind, by a blaster set on needle-beam at low power. The sound of it probably hadn't even carried across the compartment. On the gameboard, under Rekkon's body, was a portable readout. Next to it a clear puddle of molten liquid bubbled, the remains of the data plaque. Rekkon was dead, of course; he'd been shot at close range.

Han leaned on a bulkhead pad, rubbing his eyes and wondering what to do next. Rekkon had been his sole hope for rescuing Chewbacca and for getting himself out of this insane jam. With Rekkon dead, the hard-won information gone, and at least one traitor-murderer onboard, Han felt alone for one of the few times in his life. His blaster was in his hand, but there was no one else in the compartment or in the pa.s.sageway.

A clattering on the rungs of the main ladderwell. Han ran to it just as Torm came climbing up from the Falcon's belly turret. As he came up, Torm found himself staring into the muzzle of Han's gun.

"Just give over your pistol, Torm. Keep your right hand on the rung, and do it with your left, easy. Don't make a mistake; it'd be your one and only."

When he had the other man's weapon, Han let him ascend, then made him shuck his tool belt. Patting him down and finding no other weapons, Han motioned for him to move into the lounge, then called up the ladderwell for Atuarre to come down from the ship's top quad-mount.

He kept one eye on Torm, who was staring in shock at Rekkon's body. "Where's her cub?" he asked the man quietly.

The redhead shrugged. "Rekkon told Pakka to look around for a medi-pack. You weren't the only one who was injured along the way. The cub went off to rummage around. I guess when you yelled for everyone to stay put and hang on, he did." He looked back to Rekkon, as if he couldn't fathom the fact of the man's death. "Who did it, Solo? You?"

"No. And the list of possibilities is awfully short." He heard Atuarre's light tread on the rungs and covered her as she came down the ladderwell.

The Trianni's features became a mask of feline hatred. "You dare point a weapon at me?"

"Gag it. Toss your gun out here, careful, then step out and drop the tool belt. Somebody's killed Rekkon, and it could be you as easy as anyone. So don't push me. I'm not telling you twice."

Her eyes were wide now, the news of Rekkon's death appearing to shock her out of her fury. But how can I tell if it's real or an act? Han asked himself.

When he had them both in the forward compartment, he still found he couldn't pick up anything but shock and dismay. Theirs, at least, served to prod him out of his own.

A clanking on the deckplates marked Bollux's arrival from the c.o.c.kpit. Han didn't look around until he heard the urgency in the 'droid's voice.

"Captain!"

Han whirled, dropping to one knee, blaster up. Beyond the c.o.c.kpit offshoot from the pa.s.sageway crouched the cub, Pakka, his small pistol held in one paw-hand, a medi-pack swinging from the other. He seemed to be wavering indecisively.

"He thinks you're threatening me!" Atuarre rasped, moving toward her cub. Han swung his blaster to cover her and looked back to the cub. "Tell the kid to drop it and come to you, Atuarre. Do it!"

She did, and the cub, shifting his wide eyes between Han and his mother, obeyed.

Torm took the medi-pack from the cub and handed it to Han. Still covering his pa.s.sengers, Han moved to an acceleration chair and opened the pack with his free hand. He held the nozzle of an irrigation bulb against his forehead injury, then wiped at it with a disinfectant pad.

Putting the medi-pack down, he took up the three confiscated weapons, put them aside, and confronted Torm, Atuarre, and Pakka. His mind ran in circles. How to tell who had done it? They'd each had a weapon, and time. Either Pakka had doubled back from his search, or one of the others had left his turret long enough to murder. Han almost regretted not having exchanged fire with the Shannador's Revenge; at least he'd have known if either of the quad-mounts was untended.

Atuarre and Torm were trading suspicious looks now.

"Rekkon told me," Torm was saying, "that he took you and the cub on against his better judgment."

"Me?" she shrilled. "What about you?" She turned to Han. "Or, for that matter, you?"

That shook him. "Sister, I'm the one who got you out of there, remember? Besides, how could I lift off and shoot Rekkon at the same time? And anyway, Bollux was with me." Han rummaged again in the medi-pack, dug out a patch of synth-flesh, and pressed it over his injury, his mind in a turmoil.

"That all could've been done by computer, Solo, or you could have killed him just before I came down," Torm said. "And what good's a 'droid for a witness? You're the one pointing the blaster around, hotshot."

Han, pushing the medi-pack aside, replied, "I'll tell you what: you're all, all three of you, going to keep an eye on one another, and I'm going to be the only one with a gun. If anybody has the wrong look on his face, it's going to be all over for him. You're all fair game, understand?"

Atuarre moved to the gameboard. "I'll help you with Rekkon."

"Keep your hands off him," Torm shouted. "It was either you or that cub who killed him, maybe both." The big redhead's fists were balled. Both Atuarre and Pakka were showing their fangs.

Han cut them off with a wave of the blaster. "Everybody relax. I'll take care of Rekkon; Bollux can help. The three of you move down to that cargo hold off the main pa.s.sageway." He stifled their objections with a motion of the gun's muzzle. First Torm, then the two Trianii, began to move.

Han stood to one side as they filed into the empty hold. "If anybody sticks his face out of here without my say-so, I'll figure he's out to get me, and I'll fry him. And if anybody's hurt in here, I'll s.p.a.ce whoever is left, no questions asked." He closed the hatch and left them.

In the forward compartment, Bollux waited silently, with Blue Max on a console nearby. Han regarded the corpse. "Well, Rekkon, you did your best, but it didn't get you far, did it? And you dumped it into my lap. Now my partner's captured and your murderer's...o...b..ard with me. You weren't a bad old man, but I somehow wish I'd never heard of you."

Han picked up one heavy arm, dragging at the corpse. "Bollux, you get ready to take the other side; he was no lightweight."

Then he noticed the scrawl. Han pushed Rekkon's body back clumsily and bent to examine a stylus's scribble on the gameboard that the dead man's arm had hidden. The writing was difficult to read, dashed off in a pained, distorted hand, hastily and weakly. Han turned his head this way and that, puzzling the message out aloud: "Stars' End, Mytus VII." He knelt and quickly found Rekkon's bloodstained stylus on the floor by the gameboard base. With his last strength, after he'd been left for dead, Rekkon had managed to leave word of what the computer plaque had told him. Dying, he hadn't abandoned his campaign.

"Foolish," Han told himself. "Who was he trying to tell?"

"You, Captain Solo," Bollux answered automatically. Han turned on him in surprise.

"What?"

"Rekkon left the message for you, sir. The wound indicates that he was shot from behind, and therefore quite probably never saw his a.s.sailant. The only living ent.i.ty he could trust would be you, Captain, and it would be logical to a.s.sume you would be present when his body was moved. He made sure in this manner that the information would reach you."

Han stared down at the body for a long moment. "All right, you stubborn old man; you win." He reached over, smearing and eradicating the words with his hand. "Bollux, you never saw this, understand? Play dumb."

"Shall I erase that portion of my memory, sir?"

Han's answer was slow as if he was catching the habit from the 'droid. "No. You may be the one who'll have to pa.s.s it along if I don't hack it. Make sure Blue Max keeps zipped, too."