Chapter Seven

Two days later, Han was heading back to the record company, down to less than fifty credits to his new name. If these higher ups that reviewed his recordings had any brains, they would tell him to take a hike. By this point, Han sincerely hoped they didn't have a single brain cell between them.

If he were being objective, he actually didn't think the playbacks he heard after the lengthy session were all that bad. He'd ended up recording three songs in total, although each song took a minimum of six tries each, which seemed to annoy the Mustafar Lava Boys to no end even though a number of the flubbed takes were their fault and not his. Pruitt had insisted he try again and again, suggesting changes in tempo and instrumentation with each new recording. By the end of the session, Han actually was starting to hear the songs as Pruitt was hearing them, not just his own voice, but the band and the backup singers. One quality Solo seemed to own was an ability to pick up new things quickly, whether it was flying ships, blasters, billiards or sabacc. And, Han noted, somewhat smugly, Pruitt had even admitted at the end of the day that he really didn't need a voicorr. He seemed to be hitting the notes just fine without electronic assistance.

Han informed him of that fact, knowing he was sounding arrogant, "I told you so."

Pruitt had responded, "Don't get cocky, kid." That little exchange had set Han back on his heels and Pruitt, sensing his sudden mood change, looked at him oddly and said, "Go home and come back in two days, Evin."

Home. He had no home. He was staying in the lower levels of Coruscant in a flop house by this point. Idly, he itched his wrist, then stared down at the red marks. Chig bites. Swell.

The same secretary was sitting at her desk. She recognized Han immediately and didn't bother to ask if he had an appointment. "Have a seat, Evin, Mr. Pruitt will be with you shortly."

About fifteen minutes passed before the secretary escorted Han into the expansive office of Marvis Pruitt, turned discreetly and left the two men alone.

"Make yourself comfortable," Pruitt said waving at a chair while looking down at a flimsi on his desk.

Han sat and waited, while Pruitt seemed to take his sweet time finishing his lengthy tome. Finally, the older man looked up and grinned. "They liked you. A lot. And when I told them you recorded without voicorr, they suddenly loved you."

"Great. When can I get my five thousand?"

"I take it you would like to purchase a change of clothes?"

Han looked down at the same, dull brown clothing he'd been wearing since leaving Dr. Nik's apartment. He run them through the 'cycler only once since then, and by now they looked like something you'd scrub the floor with.

"Um, yeah, sure." Han decided if he ever came into real money, he'd never wear brown again.

Pruitt shoved the flimsi across his desk. "This is your contract. Sign it, and the five thousand is yours. You're going to find out that will be just a small drop in the proverbial bucket, young man. Once you sign, we can get to work immediately finding you the right song to record, and of course, we'll have to shoot a holo-vid to go along with the song."

"A holo-vid?"

"You've seen them, I'm sure. The singer placed in a location that matches the song and he dances while he's singing his hit song, usually with a bunch of pretty girls in the background."

"Dances?" Han squeaked out, feeling his face flush and his heart start to race. This was not part of the package he had been anticipating.

"All choreographed, of course." Pruitt frowned at Han. "Do you seriously know nothing about the music industry? No one just sells music anymore. It's got to have a holoshow along with the song."

"I can't... dance!" Unless I'm really drunk, he wanted to add, but didn't.

Pruitt gave a tired sigh. "Of course not. Why would I think you'd suddenly say anything besides that? Don't worry about it. You can learn to dance, I'm sure."

The Corellian carefully picked up the thick contract and tried reading the first line. It was obviously written by a lawyer with far too much time on his hands since every sentence started with a Whereas or Wherefore or some other legal nonsense. It was also seven pages long, single-spaced. Once again, Han felt those warning sirens going off in his head. "Did the person writing this get paid by the keystroke?"

Pruitt laughed. "Contracts are lengthy by necessity."

"I see," Han replied, not really seeing at all. "You don't mind if I take this with me and read it first? Maybe have my lawyer look at it for me?" Lawyer? What in the seven hells possessed me to say that?

"Your lawyer?" Pruitt repeated, obviously not believing Han for a single second.

"Well, yeah, cuz' ya know, I always heard it's a good idea to have a lawyer look over any contract before you sign it. I think I heard that somewhere, anyway." Probably from Leia.

Pruitt looked amused. "Of course, Evin. You go right ahead and have your... lawyer look it over, and this five thousand will be waiting for you when you get back."

Just sign the damn contract, take the five thousand and run like hell, Solo, Han told himself. They'll never find you. This was followed immediately by an image of Jabba the Hutt's minions chasing him endlessly throughout the galaxy. Maybe he shouldn't leap first and ask questions later - this time around. "Thank you. I think I'll do that."

Hapes

Luke hugged his sister tightly. "Are you sure you don't want me to hang around a little longer? Hunting for Force-sensitives can wait."

"No, everything is fine now," Leia lied, wondering if Luke could sense her deception. "I'm a happily married woman, and the new Queen of Hapes." An unloved wife, and a figurehead Queen. Nothing more than a puppet for Isolder and his mother.

"I'm sorry that Chewie and Lando declined your wedding invitation," Luke added sadly.

"They're angry at me, and I don't blame them."

"Leia..."

"Please stop, Luke," she interrupted, holding up a hand and stepping away from her twin. "I don't need you telling me it's not my fault. Han died because of what Darth Vader did to him. Our father. So, yes, it was my fault by association."

"Then it was mine, too," Luke replied. "He was tortured to lure me to Bespin and frozen in carbonite to test the device for Vader to use on me. If you think about it, it's more my fault than yours."

The Princess blinked back tears. "So it was both our faults. But you didn't love him and I did."

The young Jedi shook his head. "You're wrong, Leia. I did love Han. He was my older, annoying, funny brother in spirit if not by blood. His loss hurts me, too."

Leia turned and walked away from her brother, not wanting him to see her cry.

Coruscant

The funny thing about lawyers, Han mused, was that they charged a lot of credits per timepart. Hundreds of credits per timepart, and they expected payment up front.

His mind worked furiously over this dilemma. Lawyers were out of the question. But he needed someone that could understand this nonsense, wouldn't charge him too much, and it had to be someone he could trust.

Lando Calrissian. Han almost laughed aloud when that named popped into his mind. Trust? Lando, of all people? That was a joke. He looked down at the thick stack of flimsi he was holding. Still, he'd always been able to con Lando. Well, maybe not always, but sometimes. And desperate times called for desperate measures. As long as Lando could tell him he wasn't signing something that would get bounty hunters on his tail or tossed in a jail for breach of contract, that would be good enough.

A day later

"That's General Calrissian to you, young man," Lando admonished, leaning back in his cushy office chair. "Addressing me as 'Lando' like you already know me is downright rude. How did you get past my secretarial droid, anyway? Daysun, is it?"

"I, uh, turned it off," Han admitted, feeling his face flush at being chastised by Lando. Who in hell did he think he'd become, anyway? Sure, he had a fancy office in the New Republic Administration office building, and sure he still had the title of General, but at one time Han had both of those things, too, and a Princess to boot. At least until... He mentally shrugged off the still raw memory of his illness and death, as well as the loss of Leia to another man.

"And the security detail in the lobby?"

"It was a woman."

"So?"

"I smiled and asked her for a date," Han drawled, telling the truth for a change. This new face did seem to work magic on females, for some odd reason.

"She must be desperate," Lando deadpanned, his eyes sweeping over Han's attire. He sighed. "So, you must've really wanted to speak to me. Why?"

"I, err, have been offered to sign a contract, and I heard on the streets you were really smart. The smartest Corellian that ever lived, even," Han said, hoping lightning wouldn't suddenly appear out of the blue and strike him dead through the windowpane."So I thought maybe you'd read it for me."

"You can't read?"

Han tried to reign in his temper. It wasn't easy with Lando. "I can read. I just can't understand legal-ease shit. And I heard you'd be able to understand it."

The compliment pleased Lando. "What kind of contract?"

Han shoved the flimsi across the polished wood desk. "A recording contract. For music. Singing." And, apparently dancing, too, but Han shoved that image out of his mind. It was simply too terrible to think about attempting to dance in front of living, breathing beings.

"You can sing?"

"I'm not sure."

"So why would anyone offer you a contract for singing if you can't sing?"

Insanity? "Well, they say I might have some talent," Han mumbled. "But I don't want to sign a contract I don't really understand."

"I see. Shows you're a smart boy," Lando said thoughtfully, stroking his mustache and studying Han's face. "You are cute, so even if they have to use voicorr, I suppose you'd probably sell those music holo-cubes."

Crap. Now Lando was calling him cute? This really had to stop. "I ain't cute," Han snarled, leaning forward and trying to look threatening. "Don't... call... me... cute!"

Lando laughed. "So you're not cute and you can't sing but they want to hand you, Mr. Daysun..." he perused through the flimsi. "A five thousand credit advance?" He whistled. "Not bad for a no-talent ugly guy."

"Can you help me?"

"I might. But it'll cost you."

"What'll it cost me?" Han asked suspiciously. He knew coming in here that Lando would want something, and now it was time to learn exactly what price he'd have to pay.

"Twenty percent commission,"

"That's a thousand credits!"

"Good math." Lando smiled. "Good agents take at least ten percent, and I'll be a great agent, well worth twenty percent."

"Agent?" Han spluttered out. "I don't want an agent! I just want someone to read over this kriffin' contract before I sign it!"

Lando sighed. "Look, Evin, if you want something like a contract negotiated for you, it's going to cost you. Truthfully, I've been bored with this General business for a while and trying my hand at being a talent agent sounds like fun. Something interesting for a change." He gave a wide smile. "Plus, I like you, and you remind me of someone, just can't quite put my finger on who. But it'll come to me."

"I don't need an agent," Han repeated stubbornly. "I'll pay you five hundred credits for looking the damn thing over after they give me my advance." His lips tightened. "'Sides, how can you claim you'll be a great agent when you've never been an agent?"

Lando ignored Han's question. "Twenty percent, and I'm your agent. Take it or leave it."

Sith-spit and hell's fire, Han thought in disgust, but said, "Fine. Twenty percent, and you're my agent."

Lando stuck his hand forward, forcing Han to shake it. "A hand shake between Corellians is stronger than a signed contract, right Evin Daysun?"

Since when?" Han thought murderously.