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IT’S a warship all right. Damn!”
Instrument panels in the Millennium Falcon’s cockpit were alive with trouble lights, warning flashers, and the beeps and hoots of the sensor package. Readout screens were feeding combat-information displays at high speed.
Han Solo, crouched forward in the pilot’s seat, coolly flicking his eyes from instrument to screen, hastily assessed his situation. His lean, youthful face creased in a frown of concern. Beyond the cockpit canopy, the surface of the planet Duroon drew steadily nearer. Somewhere below and astern, a heavily armed vessel had detected the Falcon’s presence and was now homing in to challenge her. That the warship had, in fact, picked up the Millennium Falcon first was a matter of no small worry to Han; the ability to come and go without attracting notice, especially official notice, was vital to a smuggler.
He began relaying fire-control data to the ship’s weapons systems. “Charge main batteries, Chewie,” he said, not taking his eyes from his part of the console, “and shields-all. We’re in prohibited space; can’t let ’em take us or identify the ship.” Particularly, he added to himself, with the cargo we’re hauling.
To his right, Chewbacca the Wookiee made a sound halfway between a grunt and a bark, his furry fingers darting to his controls with sure dexterity, his large, hairy form hunched in the oversized copilot’s seat. Wookiee-style, he showed his fierce fighting teeth as he rapidly surrounded the starship with layers of defensive energy. At the same time, he brought the Falcon’s offensive weaponry up to its maximum charge.
Bracing his ship for battle, Han berated himself for ever having taken on this job. He’d known full well it could take him into conflict with the Corporate Sector Authority, in the middle of a steer-clear area.
The Authority ship’s approach left Han and Chewbacca just seconds for a clutch decision: abort the mission and head for parts unknown, or try to pull off their delivery anyway. Han surveyed his console, hoping for a clue, or a hit off the Cosmic Deck.
The other ship wasn’t gaining. In fact, the Falcon was pulling away. Sensors gauged the mass, armaments, and thrust of their pursuer, and Han made his best guess. “Chewie, I don’t think that’s a ship of the line; looks more like a bulk job, with augmentative weapons. She must’ve just lifted off when she got wind of us. Hell, don’t those guys have anything better to do?” But it figured; the one major Authority installation on Duroon, the only one with a full-dress port layout, was on the far side of the globe, where the dawn line would just be lightening gray sky. Han had planned his landing for a spot as far away from the port as possible, in the middle of the night-side.
“We take her down,” he decided. If the Falcon could shake her follower, Han and Chewbacca could make their drop and, with the luck of the draw, escape.
The Wookiee gave a grumpy growl, black nostrils flaring, tongue curling. Han glared at him. “You got a better idea? It’s a little late to part company, isn’t it?” He took the converted freighter into a steep dive, throwing away altitude in return for increased velocity, heading deeper into Duroon’s umbra.
The Authority vessel, conversely, slowed even more, climbing through the planet’s atmosphere, trading speed for altitude in an attempt to keep the Millennium Falcon under sensor surveillance. Han ignored the Authority’s broadcast order to halt; telesponders that should have automatically given his starship’s identity in response to official inquiry had been disconnected long ago.
“Hold deflector shields at full capacity,” he ordered. “I’m taking her down to the deck; we don’t want our skins cooked off.” The Wookiee complied, to shed thermal energy generated by the Falcon’s rapid passage through the atmosphere. The starship’s controls trembled as she began to buck the denser air Han worked to put the planet between himself and the Authority vessel.
This he soon accomplished, as indicators registered increased heat from the friction of the freighter’s dive. Between watching sensors and looking through the canopy, Han quickly found his first landmark, a volcanically active crevasse that ran on an east-west axis, like a stupendous, burning scar on the flesh of Duroon. He brought the Falcon out of her swoop, her control systems rebelling against the immense strain. He leveled off only meters above the planet’s surface.
“Let’s see them track us now,” he said, self-satisfied. Chewbacca snorted. The meaning of the snort was clear—this was temporary cover only. There was little danger of being detected either optically or by instrument over this seam in Duroon’s surface, for the Falcon would be lost against a background of ferrous slag, infernal heat, and radioactive discord. But neither could she remain there for long.
In the vivid orange light of the fissure that illuminated the cockpit, Han conceded that fact. At best, he’d broken trail so the Authority ship would be unable to spot the Falcon should the pursuer gain enough altitude to bring her back into sensor range. He poured on as much airspeed as he dared in an effort to keep Duroon’s mass between himself and the vessel hunting him while he sought his landing site. He cursed the fact that there were no proper navigational beacons; this was seat-of-the-pants flying, and no chance of leaning out the cockpit and stopping a passerby for directions.
In minutes the ship had neared the western end of the fissure. Han was compelled to dump some velocity; it was time to look for road signs. He reviewed the instructions given him, instructions he’d committed to memory alone. Off to the south a gigantic mountain range loomed. He banked the Falcon sharply to port, slapped a pair of switches, and bore straight for the mountains.
The ship’s special Terrain Following Sensors came on. Han kept the freighter’s bow close above a surface of cooled lava and occasional active rifts, minor offspring of the great fissure. For whatever small edge it might give against detection, he trimmed the Falcon off at virtual landing altitude, screaming over eddied volcanic flatlands. “Anybody down there better duck,” he advised, keeping one eye pinned to the Terrain Following Sensors. They bleeped, having located the mountain pass for which he’d been searching. He adjusted course.
Funny. His information said the break in the mountains was plenty wide for the Falcon, but it looked mighty narrow on the TFS. For a second he debated going for altitude fast, hurdling the high peaks, but that just might put him back onto the Authority’s scopes. He was too close to his delivery point, and a payday, to risk having to cut and run. The moment of option passed. He shed more airspeed, committed now to taking the pass at low level.
Sweat collected on his forehead and dampened his shirt and vest. Chewbacca uttered his low rumble of utmost concentration as both partners synched to the running of the Millennium Falcon. The image of the pass on the TFS grew no more encouraging.
Han tightened his grip on the controls, feeling the press of his flying gloves against them. “Pass, nothing—that thing’s a slot! Hold your breath, Chewie; we’ll have to skin through.”
He threw himself into a grim battle with his ship. Chewbacca caterwauled his dislike for all unconventional maneuvers as he cut in braking thrusters, but even those would not be enough to avert disaster. The slot began to take on shape, a slightly lighter area of sky lit by bright stars and one of Duroon’s three moons, set off by the silhouette of the mountains. It was, just barely, too narrow.
The starship took some altitude, and her speed slackened. Those extra seconds gave Han time to pilot for his life, calling on razor-edge reflexes and instinctive skills that had seen him through scrapes all across the galaxy. He killed all shields, since they’d have struck rock and overloaded, and wrenched his controls, standing the Millennium Falcon on her port-side. Sheer crags closed in on either side, so that the roar of the freighter’s engines rebounded from the cliffs. He made minute corrections, staring at rock walls that seemed to be coming at him through the canopy, and rattled off a string of expletives having nothing whatsoever to do with piloting.
There was a slight jar, and the shriek of metal torn away as easily as paper. The long-range sensors winked out; the dish had been ripped off the upper hull by a protrusion of rock. Then the needle’s eye was threaded sideways, and the Falcon was through the mountains.
Perspiration beading his face, dampening his light brown hair, Han pounded Chewbacca. “What’d I tell you? Inspiration’s my specialty!”
The starship soared over the thick jungle that began beyond the mountains. Han leveled off, wiping a gloved hand across his brow. Chewbacca emitted a sustained growl. “I agree,” Han replied soberly in the wake of his elation. “That was a stupid place to put a mountain.” He took up scanning for the next landmark and spied it almost at once: a winding river. The Falcon skimmed in low over the watery coils as the Wookiee lowered the ship’s landing gear.
In seconds they’d reached the landing area near a spectacular waterfall that dropped two hundred meters to the river in a flume like a blue-white, ghostly scrim under stars and moonlight. Han, reading the TFS, found a clearing in the heavy cover of vegetation and settled the ship slowly. The broad disks of the landing gear sank a bit in soft humus; then the hydrolics sighed briefly as the Millennium Falcon made herself comfortable.
