Recovery by Troy Denning Read Free Book Online Page A

the
Falcon
around hard, and the starfighters angled to cut him off. Daggers of light began to slice the darkness to his right. Han brought the energy shields up, then felt a shudder as both sets of the
Falcon
’s powerful quad laser cannons began to fire.
    â€œLeia?” he gasped. “Threepio?”
    â€œWe’re still here, Captain Solo,” the droid replied. “In the first-aid bay as you instructed.”
    Han glanced over the fire-control computer to see if Izal had left the quad lasers on automatic. He hadn’t. “Then who’s on the guns?”
    â€œCaptain Solo, that’s what I was—”
    A rhythmic hissing sounded from the seat behind the pilot’s, and then all Han could hear was his own scream. Paying no attention as the first pirate shots blossomed against the energy shields, he leapt up and reached for his blaster.
    A clawed hand pushed him down. “Sit,” rasped a deep voice. “This one shall replace Jedi Waz.”
    The claw removed itself, and Han glanced over to see a huge scaled figure in a brown Jedi robe. The newcomer lifted Izal Waz out of the copilot’s seat with one hand, then tossed him to the rear of the flight deck and slipped into his place. A thick tail flopped over the arm of the chair, and beneath the robe’s cowl, Han glimpsed a reptilian face with slit-pupiled eyes and upward-jutting fangs. An adult Barabel.
    A sheet of crimson light flashed along the
Falcon
’s starboard side. Han’s attention remained fixed on the Barabel. With scales as black as space and a tail that forced him to perch on the edge of the seat, his jagged features made him look as dangerous as his robe did mysterious. Han only hoped the Jedi apparel was evidence of a more patient nature than most Barabels possessed.
    The Barabel pointed a claw at Han’s hand, still resting on his holstered weapon. “This one will let you blast him later. For now, perhapz you fly the ship.”
    â€œWhatever you want.” Aware that even without the Force, the Barabel could have taken the blaster—and probably the arm holding it—anytime he wanted, Han grabbed the yoke with both hands. “Where we going?”
    â€œYou are the pilot, Han Solo.” He waved a claw at the tactical display, which showed a flight of X-wings streaking in to cut them off. “Though this one thinkz we should turn burnerz and run.”
    â€œCan’t.” Han pointed to the fast-freight’s symbol, now giving chase in the upper left corner of the tactical display. “She’ll snag us with a tractor beam. Old pirate trap.”
    The
Falcon
’s cannons lashed out in rapid-fire sequence. The lead starfighter dissolved into static, mirrored in the darkness outside by a distant orange bloom. Han whistled, awed as much by the timing of the attack as by its accuracy. The other three X-wings swung into a front oblique attack. Again, the
Falcon
’s laser cannons flashed. Again, an X-wing burst into a ball of superheated gas.
    When the fireball died this time, it was replaced by a pair of white dots. They were a little larger than stars and a whole lot brighter.
    The white dots swelled to white disks.
    â€œConcussion missiles?” the Barabel asked.
    â€œNot that lucky,” Han didn’t even bother to check the tactical display for propellant trails. He had seen plenty of those expanding white dots—though usually from the bridge of a Super Star Destroyer. “Proton torpedoes.”
    The white disks swelled into white circles.
    Han nosed the
Falcon
down into a wild corkscrewing evasive pattern. Somehow, the mysterious gunners remained accurate, crippling two starfighters as the main body of the pirate fleet reached effective range. The first proton torpedo arced past so close that the canopy went white.
    The Barabel sissed. “Someone wantz you dead. Really wantz you dead.”
    Han blinked his vision clear and saw a Y-wing zip past